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In the Flesh Part 7: Free Story in Progress. Enjoy!

psyche_et_lamour_327x567Happy Friday Everyone! And the plot thickens with part 7 of my dark paranormal story, In The Flesh. Angels and demons, gods and monsters, sex and terror; when the boundaries are not clear, the journey can be deadly. But can the price be worth the paying?

In the Flesh is a dark and sexy story that has had several incarnations in its shorter form, but never quite worked because it needed space to grow. I couldn’t think of a better place for it to grow than on my blog. In the Flesh is a blend of paranormal erotica and almost, but not quite … okay, quite possibly … horror. It’s had seven exciting weeks to unfold now, and it’s as much an adventure for me as I hope it is for my readers.  I know what’s happening only slightly before you do. Episode 7 is both the most chilling and the most sexy to date. That’s the writer’s humble opinion, of course. Read it for yourself and you decide! 

Happy Reading! 

 

 

To read the story in its entirety up to this point, follow these links to  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 & Part 4 Part 5Part 6

 

In The Flesh Part 7

“You’re an angel. The sculpture in the garden at Chapel House, it’s you, isn’t it?” The fact that the question sounded rose imagestotally insane seemed irrelevant considering the way the weekend had gone so far.

He shrugged and I watched as a blush climbed his throat spread across the tightening of his jaw and up his cheeks. “I’m retired,” he replied without looking at me. Then he added quickly, “The sculpture’s old. A friend of mine did it a long time ago, taking the piss really — especially by putting it there in that particular garden.” He ran a large hand through the fall of damp hair. “It’s her way of reminding me that I’m grounded now, tied to the earth just like every other mortal. No matter what I was, at the end of the day, I’m dust, and I’ll return to dust, if I’m lucky.”

“Wait a minute, angels can retire?’

He shot me a quick glance. “Well, it’s all a matter of semantics, isn’t it?”

“Then you’re not a builder?”

“Oh I’m a builder alright, and a damn good one,’ then he added as an afterthought, “Jesus was a carpenter, after all.”

I squinted hard in the fading light studying the lines of his face, the plane and slope of his strong upper body, the slow, deep rise and fall of his chest as he took in and released each breath. But I could find no distinction, nothing that would give away the fact that he was an angel and not an ordinary man. Oh he was nice to look at, he was interesting to look at, but he wasn’t beautiful, as I thought an angel would be. Obviously the nose had been broken since the sculpture was made, and he seemed thicker through the shoulders and chest. Perhaps that was all down to hard physical labor in lieu of playing a harp and mooching his way around the pearly gates. There were several white puckered scars just below his ribs. Two looked to be puncture wounds of some kind. The other was an angry gash that surely must have all but eviscerated him. Without thinking I reached out and traced the long pale arc of scar tissue that followed the shape of his lower left rib and disappeared in the shadow under his arm. He tensed beneath my touch and the skin along the path of my finger goose fleshed. “I had to force the issue of my retirement.” His words were barely more than a whisper, and his gaze was locked on the logs in the fireplace, laid, yet unlit.

“Christ,” I whispered. “Why? I mean why the hell would you give up immortality to be one of us?’

He covered my hand with his and held it against his side. At last he raised his gaze to meet mine. “I would have done anything to get away, and at that point, I didn’t care if I lived or died. It felt like it was all the same.”

“Are you a fallen angel then?”

This time he laughed out loud. “Stupid term, fallen angel. Truth be told, gods are bastards – all of them, any religion, any mythology, they’re all arrogant, megalomaniacal bastards. They want control, and when they don’t get it, well, they’re even worse bastards. The woman who made the sculpture, she knows that at least as well as I do.”

“Is she an angel too?”

He shook his head and looked away again, the smile slipping slightly from his face. “No angel, a pawn really. At least she started out that way.” His eyes flashed bright in the fading light and the smile returned. “But sometimes even the pawns thumb their noses at the gods and get away with it. It cost her. It cost her dearly, but no one controls her now.”

“So what, she was a sculptor, and the gods didn’t like her work, was that it?”Graveyard angel 1

He released my hand and knelt to light the fire. With the sun setting the chill of evening came on fast. “Oh she’s not actually a sculptor. That’s just a part of her cover. She’s a thief, stealing back things the gods have taken that don’t belong to them.”

Every question he answered raised a dozen more. That what we were discussing sounded totally nuts wasn’t lost on me either, and yet neither was the fact that it was all either very real or I was still asleep dreaming in my bed, a cherished possibility diminishing with each passing moment. We both watched as the logs caught fire from the kindling, and flame blossomed turning shadows of ordinary things into ghouls and ghosts that writhed and dance on the walls. Once he was sure of the fire, he stood to close the balcony doors. “I work for her sometimes. When she needs me. She uses me when what I do as a builder dovetails with whatever job she’s on at the moment.”

I shifted in my seat to look up at him as he returned to settle back on the chair arm. “So you’re trying to steal something from Chapel House? What is it, a flaming sword?”

He laughed. “Not anything that obvious. Chapel House and I have a long history, as you might have guessed from the sculpture.”

“Annie really did hire you to do the renovations at Chapel House?”

He nodded. “All a part of the plan.”

“It must have thrown a monkey wrench into your scheming when she fell in love with a demon, or whatever he is, and told you to bugger off.”

He shrugged, raising one well-muscled shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. I seldom let something like that stop me.” He pulled a shirt from a peg next to the door and slipped into it. “I’ve brought your things in, and I would imagine you’d like a shower. Then we’ll see what we can scrounge for dinner. If that’s alright.”

The shower was more of a wet room really, big and luxurious, clearly designed to fit the man who used it. I wondered if he’d built the house himself, planned it all exactly like he wanted it. The bed was big, the rooms I’d seen high ceilinged and spacious, all with views of the fells. The shower was built of large sandstone tiles that made me feel more like I was standing under a waterfall on a wild river in some hidden desert canyon. Ghosted fossils of fern leaves made lacy patterns on the rough dun slabs. He must have selected each slab of sandstone carefully. The shower, with its stoney artwork and it’s multiple heads, even its ledged seat that looked as though it were only a rocky outcropping in a cave, were all well thought out, beautifully designed by someone who loved and appreciated the out of doors. Yes, Jesus was a carpenter. Perhaps building and creating was a part of the psyche of divine beings. Was Michael still a divine being, or had it been necessary for him to learn his craft by practice and training, like ordinary mortals did? He’d said the sculpture of him in the garden was very old. Perhaps he’d had a long, long time to perfect his craft.

I shivered at the thought and reached for the soap. It was slightly rough like the sandstone surface and felt Bernini Hades and Persephone close uptumblr_lg4h59T3z31qe2nvuo1_500
good against my skin, reminding me of the gentle scritch, scritch of a lover’s fingernails over bare flesh. It had that same woody scent I woke up to in his bed, down between his sheets, though it lacked the base notes of clean perspiration and sleeping, dreaming male. I wondered if angels – retired angels, that is – did dream, and were those dreams ever the kind that brought the pungent earth and ozone scent of male lust to the forefront in that masculine olfactory cocktail. I breathed in the smell, fresh and woodsy, and moaned at the soft rough scritching against my naked skin, wondering if Michael’s hands would feel such. He was a builder after all, surely those calloused hands were rough enough to make delicious shivers up my spine, and any place else he touched me. I imagined the feel of Michael against my flesh, the feel of his large hands moving over me, cupping and exploring, the feel of his mouth tasting mine. That he had created such a sensual space, and I was now certain that he had, made my imagination wild with images of the two of us beneath the waterfall, and the smell of my own lust peaked.

At some point in my ruminations about Michael, my fertile imagination sent me seeking pleasure with my own hand, fingers moving of their own volition while I lathered my breasts with the rough scritch, scritch of the soap pebbling my nipples and making my tender heaviness tingle and ache. The realization of just how needy I was came as a surprise after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours, but then it shouldn’t have, should it? I’d practically lived the whole weekend in a state of arousal — at least when I wasn’t terrified out of my mind. And really, almost every horror film I’d ever seen coupled sex and terror, even orgasm and death, so closely that the two bled into each other. One always expected the couple’s sexy encounter in a horror film to end in gruesome bloodshed or worse. In the garden this afternoon, even as terrified as I was, I was just seconds away from orgasm. I shivered in spite of the cloud of steam rising around me. I had researched stories of the gods seducing mortals and taking them as lovers. That was certainly an archetype, but what I had failed to consider was that the monsters also sought out mortal lovers. Hadn’t Frankenstein’s monster wanted a bride? Didn’t King Kong steal away Faye Ray? Didn’t Dracula seek out his Mina? Beauty came to love the Beast. Even Psyche herself was taken to the domain of the monster she was told never to look upon for fear of certain death. The revelation that the monster was the god of love himself cost her dearly. But it was a price she was willing to pay.

At the end of the day, maybe there really wasn’t that much difference between the gods and the monsters. Even Graveyard angel 2da8f31cc622c5a47d15ff0c4f1e114abin the horror films more often than not, terror gave way to a different kind of lust, a much more deeply rooted lust, a lust as closely connected to death as it is to procreation and pleasure, a lust lost in time and well connected to monsters and demons and blood and the fear of childbirth, at the same time, all bound up with the desperate need to form the monster with two backs. Christ! The lust for the monster was as much a part of our psyche as was our terror of him! I wondered, would I have been able to hold off, would I have been able to resist the monster’s advances, if Annie hadn’t chosen that moment to use me for knife practice, if Michael hadn’t shown up when he did and whisked me away? And would I have cared if they hadn’t? Would I have been perfectly happy if I’d been left to rut against the paving stones with such a powerful being, who was maybe both monster and god? He had promised me the mind of god, the ultimate creative force that was the absolute Holy Grail for every writer. He knew exactly who I was, what I needed. I was reminded in a rush of heat that he could take me to places sexually I couldn’t even imagine. Monsters could do that, and their lovers were willing to pay any cost for the experience.

I rinsed off quickly and stepped out of the shower unsteady on my feet and still unsatisfied. As I picked up the towel to dry a wave of anguished lust clawed its way up from my center and spread like fire over my chest all the way to the crown of my head. In an instant it burned everything away but raw aching hunger, leaving an abyss that surly could never be filled. How the hell would I survive this? Surely Annie would not, could not, and I hated her for having him, even as he used her up and tossed her aside. I hated her for having what should be mine, what was mine. No one could appreciate what his affections could offer like I could; no one could translate his lust, his power like I could. He knew it, and I knew it. For a terrifying moment, I pictured myself with the butcher knife. I pictured myself sneaking into Chapel House while Annie was in a post coital stupor. It would be easy to do, and I knew he wouldn’t stop me. In fact, he would welcome me, help me do away with the body, help me escape the suspicions of the police and the investigations that would follow.

I caught my breath in a gasp, only just remembering my need for oxygen, and I relaxed the white-knuckled fist clenched painfully around the hilt of the knife I imagined using. I came back to myself standing in front of the mirror. The towel had fallen to the floor at my feet; water still pearled on my hot skin. My reflection was obscured by the steam. The image on the other side of that thin film of condensation could be anyone. I could be looking at his face, not mine, the face I’d never seen and yet, like Psyche, suddenly, desperately longed to see. I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have questioned when he wanted me. I should have taken his gift. I could have taken the knife from Annie, as weak as she was, and Michael had said himself he was just dust. The scars proved he bled just like anyone else. I could have finished it right there, and if I had, if I’d had the courage, it would be me in his arms now, me lying beneath him, letting him fill me with the wisdom of the ages, with the creative power I hungered for. I ached to know what it felt like. I longed to know who he was. I staggered, and nearly fell against the sink, and then I was myself again. With a curse that felt gut deep and a quick swipe of my hand, I cleared the mist from the mirror and yelped and nearly jumped out of my skin at the reflection of Michael standing behind me.

“You were crying,” he said, “I called out. I pounded on the door, but you didn’t answer.”

“I … I couldn’t hear you.’ The room tilted slightly, then righted itself. “Oh Christ, Michael, he was here, how canSt Teresa BerniniEl-extasis-de-Santa-Teresa4
he be here? I wanted to be with him. I wanted to do things, horrible things.”

“He wasn’t here.” He bent and picked up the towel, swaddled me in it and lifted me into his arms, which was just as well, I’d completely lost the will to move, or even to stand. With me clinging to his neck, sobbing against his shoulder, he carried me to the wing back chair, settling in it himself holding me on his lap like a child. “He wasn’t here, Susan. Trust me, he wasn’t.’ He pushed the damp tendrils of hair away from my cheek and wiped tears with a large, rough thumb. ‘But you were with him, he’s touched you, been inside your head. You’re now connected to him, and you feel the pull of his lust.’

I sat for a long time nestled against Michael’s broad chest listening to his heartbeat, like an anchor keeping me in my body, keeping me in my right mind. I wondered how an angel’s heart differed from my own. I wondered how his struggles and his desires differed from those I lived with. At last I found my voice “I feel … so empty.” I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks again, tears that I’d barely been aware of while I was in the bathroom, as though they were such a small representation of the way I felt His absence that they were barely worth my attention.

“I know. That’s exactly what he wants you to feel.”

“He said that he’d show me the mind of god, that he’d share all he knows, that he’d be my inspiration and help me write it all down.”

“He knows your deepest desire. That’s the first thing he ever finds out about those he seduces. He learns their darkest secrets, their most private longings, and their deepest fears. Anything he promised you, he’ll deliver, Susan, but what he doesn’t tell you is that once he’s has you, once you’ve been with him, everything that mattered to you before will be meaningless. You live for him, and you burn with emptiness when you’re not with him, as though you’ll die if you don’t have him.’

I wiped viciously at my eyes. “Oh god, Michael, what am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?”

“You’re going to fight him, that’s what you’re going to do, and I’m going to help you.” His lips brushed my ear as he spoke, and involuntarily I squirmed to get closer to him, realizing with a start, that I was still horny as hell. But I couldn’t take advantage this way. I couldn’t. It was lust of such magnitude as I’d never felt before, and it was dark and horrible and terrifying and, fucking hell, I wanted to be consumed by it. But that wasn’t Michael’s problem. To drag him into it was not an option. Besides, I barely knew the man.

“I … I should get dressed,” My voice sounded breathless and distant. I tried to push my way off his lap, but he held me there, hands gentle but firm. It was then that I felt him, hard pressed with his own lust. He sat very still. I held Psyche and Erosmy breath.

At last he spoke, still careful not to move, even his lips barely formed the words. “Susan, I know what you’re feeling right now. I understand it, believe me, I do.” His gaze met mine in the firelight. “I know what you need, and unless you’re completely daft, you have to know my response.” This time he shifted slightly and I caught my breath in a tight little gasp and with it inhaled the scent of his lust, lightning and ozone, dark damp earth. He slid the flat of his palm down to rest on the small of my back and the towel fell away. “If you let me,’ his breath came heavy and quick against my cheek, ‘I can make it easier for you.’ He moved a splayed calloused hand up over my ribs, and we both groaned. ‘If you let me, I can help.’

Brit Babes Do Billionaire Bargain!

99P Sale11350653_714618715332107_1633863813666099295_n
The Brit Babes Do Billionaires! Sexy Just Got Rich, but you don’t have to BE rich to afford a sizzling summer read. For a limited time only The Brit Babe’s collection, Sexy Just Got Rich, is a bargain at 99 pence in the UK and 99 cents in the US, with similar discounts in Canada and Australia too! It’s a fab way to enjoy filthy rich without breaking the bank!

Sexy Just Got Rich Blurb:

Billionaires have it all but that doesn’t mean they don’t have to work hard to get what their hearts desire. In this brand
new anthology of erotic BDSM stories the Brit Babes offer heroes and heroines who aren’t shy about taking what they want. From farmyards to luxury penthouses, wealth is all about sating needs, connecting souls and taking pleasure to new highs. Whether you’re looking for a coffee break read or something longer to curl up in bed with, you’ll find something to suit your needs in Sexy Just Got Rich.

 

Here’s a bit of a teaser from my story, Buying the Farm.

Sexy Just Got Rich‘Buying the Farm’

Cassie Fielding is at her wits end trying to save the family farm from bankruptcy after her father’s illness. But when Cassie returns from university, she finds that, in spite of their financial situation, her father has hired the mysterious Simon Dennis to help run the place. As Cassie and the new hired hand experience an unprecedented heat wave of lust, Cassie comes to suspect that her father and Simon may be in cahoots with their own plan to save the farm, and the whole scheme depends on her.

Excerpt

When Simon came to her, she was standing with her back to the open sliding door, arms braced against the stalls they had renovated. He wanted to breed horses – not on a grand scale, but mostly as an experiment in the beginning, a part of their plan to diversify. The planning was still in the early stages, but it was filled, like most of their plans for Fielding Farm, with exciting possibilities.           

‘I’m sorry, Cassie.’ For a long time he stood silhouetted in the door, his shadow stretching out before him, merging with the gloom of the barn. Then he moved to stand behind her, slipping his arms carefully around her waist, as though he feared she might turn on him. In truth, she wasn’t sure his fears weren’t justified.

At last, she relaxed and leaned her head back against his shoulders, feeling his sigh of relief, warm and humid on the soft flesh of her neck. ‘Is any of what he said true?’

‘Some of it, yes. I wanted to buy Fielding Farm. I made your father a very generous offer, one I didn’t think he could refuse.’

‘But he did.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

‘Well, not exactly.’ He kissed her ear and tightened his hold just slightly, not sure what her response would be. ‘He told me he wouldn’t consider any offer until I’d worked as his hired hand for six months.’

Cassie laughed in spite of herself. ‘And then he threw in the farmer’s daughter to sweeten the deal?’

He nuzzled her neck and kissed her just below her ear, sending shivers down her spine, and she pressed back against him. ‘I think he knew all along what would happen. I think he knew that when I got to know the farmer’s daughter, I’d want it all, lock stock and barrel, and buying the farm was gonna cost me way more than I expected to pay.’ One hand moved up to cup her breast and for a long second, he seemed to have lost himself in the soft flesh of her nape and along the top of her shoulder. ‘But Christ,’ he breathed against her throat, ‘it’s worth the price.’

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The 2015 ETO A Writer’s History

I’d like to begin this post by offering huge, gigantic congratulations to my dear friend and author extraordinaire, Kay Jaybee, who won the ETO 2015 Best Erotic Author Award. In spite of insurmountable obstacles and a way less than pleasant day Kay Jaybee rocked it!

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I’m just home from my third ETO show and awards banquet. Kay Jaybee’s much-deserved win of ETO’s Best Erotic Author Award for 2015 has got me reflecting on the past three years of coming together for the awards banquet and the celebration of all things erotic. It was three years ago that ETO added a Best Erotic Author category to its annual awards banquet. Kay Jaybee and I were lucky enough to have been nominated for that first ETO Best Erotic Author Award back in 2013. It was a beginning in so many ways. The Brit Babes had just been conceived. The eight of us were becoming fast friends and steadfast supporters of each other’s efforts to get our stories out to a wider audience, and to remind readers that there are WAY more than fifty shades of erotica.

I remember that first show being such a whirlwind event. It all happened so fast. Raymond and I drove down from S6304891Scarborough that Sunday morning after having participated in and thoroughly enjoyed the first ever Smut By the Sea event organized by Brit Babe, Victoria Blisse and her totally amazing husband, Kev. Once in Birmingham, we met Kay Jaybee and Mr. Jaybee in the lounge of the Crown Plaza Hotel with just enough time for a quick drink before we put on our glad rags and made our way to the Champaign reception – me teetering on shiny killer heels that were a danger to myself and everyone around me. (This is a chick who lives in walking shoes and trainers when I’m not barefoot.)

IMG_1051Though the ETO Show had been going on for awhile, this was the first year the award for Best Erotic Author was offered. I remember, Kay Jaybee and I were round-eyed with excitement and over the moon to even be considered, as we headed downstairs to the reception and the banquet room of the Crown Plaza. We cheered for Sh! Women’s Store, who took away the Best Innovative Shop Award. We cheered Xcite Books for Best Erotic Publisher, We cheered for Cara Sutra, who took away the Best Erotic Journalist Award. We cheered for Love Honey and Sex Toys UK and for so many of the lovely folks our writing had brought us in contact with, and then the moment came … And went … It was the middle of the 50SoG craze, first wave, so we were up against some lady named E L James – don’t know if you’re familiar with her ??? She won the award to no one’s surprise. Kay and I looked around to see if we could catch a glimpse of her, but she was nowhere to be found. So, we shrugged, went upstairs to the bar at the Crown Plaza and partied with all our friends – old and new. The way we both figured it, we were winners anyway to have been considered at all, and to have been in such grand company for the evening.
ETO-NEC-e1403600582477-225x3002014’s ETO was a totally different animal. There were three, count ‘em THREE Brit Babes nominated for Best Erotic Author 2014. Lucy Felthouse joined Kay Jaybee and me among the nominees, and we Babes were well-supported by Lexie Bay, Tabitha Rayne and Victoria Blisse, all there to party and celebrate with us. We had a wander around the ETO exhibition hall eating ice cream with flavoured lube, fondling leather floggers and nipple clamps, and admiring outrageous lingerie but mostly just chatting and catching up with all the gossip, and of course working on our ever-expanding plan for world domination.

In 2014 the banquet was moved into the main exhibition hall with more room to
breathe and most importantly, more room to dance. We hopped on a bus at the Crown
Plaza and headed off to the banquet, taking time for a photo op in front of the hotel.

I don’t remember the food. I do remember the conversation was good. I remember P1020066cheering on Cara Sutra on to another Best Erotic Journalist Award. I remember cheering on Renee Denyer from Sh! who won the best shop manager award. And then I remember walking onto the stage dazed and in shock when my name was called. I didn’t expect it, which made it all the sweeter. I remember that long after the band stopped playing and we stopped dancing, long after we’d taken the bus back to the Crown Plaza, we sat in the lobby talking writing and dreaming and scheming, me periodically fondling the award just to make sure it was real.

Vic-and-TAb-e1403601521826-225x300Then 2015 rolled around and the day donned with an ominous portent. Both Kay Jaybee and I were nominated again, and just as Hubby and I were leaving the house for Birmingham, I got a text from Kay saying that she was in the A&E in Worcester with serious leg pain. All through the trip down, we texted back and forth, with her finally on pain killers and on her way to the Crown Plaza, which was closer than home for her, since she and Mr. Jaybee had been having a weekend away for his birthday.

Raymond and I arrived and checked in at our hotel then were off to the exhibition hall where we had a little, but not nearly enough, time with Victoria and Kev Blisse at the Blog Spot booth with Melissa McFarlane. The Blisses were there for ETO, but sadly couldn’t’ stay for the banquet. It’s always a pleasure to see them no matter how brief. Then we were joined by this year’s Brit Babe contingent, Tabitha Rayne and Lexie Bay, who brought along a wonderful surprise. Lily Harlem had been able to join the fun at the last minute.P1020093

After meeting up with Ruby Kiddell, watching the lingerie and fetish fashion show, admiring the f@ck machine and talking to a woman who made nipple jewelry among our general explorations, we discovered the free bar, where we ended up drinking wine, talking writing and making more plans for world domination, all the while checking in with Kay via text. Unfortunately, while Kay had arrived at the hotel, she was in no condition to attend the banquet, so we all returned to get ready for the evening saddened that she wouldn’t be there with us. So close, but so far away.

2015-06-28 14.41.28All through the evening, we texted Kay and sent her updates an piccies of what was happening at the banquet. When the meal was over, Dale Bradford, editor of ETO magazine and Lee Schofield, publisher, took the stage to mc the awards. The People Awards, which include Best Erotic Author, are always toward the end of what Lee and Dale have honed and polished to a very tight very pacey event. We all cheered as Sh! won Best Innovative Shop, and we cheered even louder as our wonderful Renee Denyer won Best Shop Manager.

And then it happened, always faster than I’m ready for. It seems I always almost miss 2015-06-28 14.50.37it, and have to do a really quick, really subtle instant replay in my mind before I get it. They made the announcement and this year, the winner of the ETO Best Erotic Author Award is the Brit Babes own and totally fabulous Kay Jaybee!

We had already decided if our Kay won, we Brit Babes would collect her award together with loud cheers and cat whistles, which we did, all of us running to the stage, all of us mobbing poor Lee to within an inch of his life, and then our brave Lily Harlem stepped up to the microphone to thank everyone on Kay’s behalf. A quick photo op and we were back to the table, sending photos and texting Kay the great news with trembling fingers.

2015-06-28 19.12.30Sadly, I couldn’t dance this year because the knees are still recovering, but that meant that Raymond and I got the totally pleasurable job of taking Kay’s award and bottle of fizz back to our winner, who met us down in the lobby looking bleary-eyed but happy and leaning very heavily on Mr Jaybee for support.

We had to leave early this morning so Raymond could get back for meetings, 2015-06-28 23.48.48texting our good-byes and good wishes to the lovely winner and the rest of the Brit Babes en route on the M40. Since then I’ve been thinking how much it feels like we’ve come full circle in the past three years. We were both winners even when E.L. James won that first year. We were both winners when I won, and we were both winners this year. In fact, we were all winners, celebrating with Kay the accomplishments of all the Brit Babes, and the support and camaraderie we get from each other and from our lovely Street Team. We’re writers, that’s our calling, our passion, and that we can do it and share in the journey with others who do, is definitely a win-win.

 

Congratulations to all the 2015 ETO Award Winners, and a special round of sloppy hugs and kisses to our own Kay Jaybee, 2015 ETO Best Erotic Writer!

Lily Harlem Talks About Her New Summer Romance, TOY BOY

toyboy_800I love the change to have my Brit Babe sisters over for a chat to catch up on all the news and gossip, and it’s totally my pleasure to have my dear friend, fab writer and partner in naughtiness, Lily Harlem, with me today. Welcome, Lily!

 

Hi Kd, thank you so much for inviting me to your blog today. Normally we’d clink glasses of Pimms this time of year and dine on strawberries and cream, but I’m going to switch that to a shot of ouzo and a spread of meze. Yes, that’s right, we’re off to Greece! Pack your sandals and sun cream, your bikini and lip balm and be sure to bring your camera…

Greece is the setting of my new summer romance Toy Boy. I adore Greece, Mr H and I travelled there several years ago and I can’t wait to go back. It’s the colours that stayed with me the longest. I’ve never seen such blue blue, green green or white white. Which might sound crazy but really and truly that’s what it’s like.

Here’s a picture of some cats I took when we’d finished lunch one day in a small harbour we’d sailed into, even a stray catscat picture is full of colour!

I say sailed into because we were lucky enough to go sailing around some of the islands in the Ionian Sea which is what Sullivan and Kay do in Toy Boy. But unlike Sullivan, Mr H isn’t an expert sailor! However, we did have some instruction and we’re part of a flotilla so by the end of the week we were learning the ropes (pun intended) and actually getting pretty confident. Here’s a couple of pictures taken on our travels.

Fiscardo
Fiscardo

We stayed in a different port every night but started and ended our holiday in the small fishing village of Fiscardo. I’ve used this location in Toy Boy as it was one of the prettiest places I have ever been to. The harbour, the small restaurants, the people it all took my breath away. The flora and fauna was beautiful too and as I sit here writing this I can remember the feel of the sun on my shoulders and the breeze in my hair.

I’ll leave you with this lovely picture of the sun setting over the island of Ithaca. Thanks for reading and I hope you’ll check out Toy Boy and have a trip to Greece in your imagination.Cliff

Lily x

 

Toy Boy Blurb:

Getting something unexpected can be a shock, but it can also be a wonderful treat, if you allow yourself to indulge, that is.

boatKay is bubbling with excitement. She’s booked a sailing holiday of a lifetime in Greece with a man she’s fallen for hook, line and sinker. They met on the Internet. She’s from Oxford, he’s from Washington State. She’s a business lecturer, he runs his own successful business.

They’re perfect for each other, and she can’t wait to meet him and spend time in and out of his bed, allowing him to seduce her for real and not just with softly spoken words over the telephone.

But when she arrives in the idyllic port of Fiscardo, she’s in for a shock. There’s a reason Sullivan’s photographs were grainy, and it’s not because he’s sporting a potbelly or balding as she’d suspected. It’s because he’s fiscardoover a decade younger than her and could rival any Greek god in the looks department. What’s more, his sex appeal and lust for her is off the scale.

Should Kay take what she can with her ‘toy boy’ and have some fun in the sun or hop on the first plane back to England? It’s a tricky decision for a woman who believed she couldn’t be surprised by life anymore.

 

 

Buy from Totally Bound and all other good ebook retailers. Links here.

 

GetAttachment-6.aspxToy Boy Excerpt:

“It’s all organized. Booked.”

I’d heard the words Sullivan had spoken but could hardly believe them. Not that they hadn’t been expected, just that finally, after a year of long-distance communication, we were going to meet face to face.

In Greece!

“Really?” I managed. “I’m so excited. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I told you. It’s a date. Our first date.”

His voice was lusciously low and sexy. We’d started out chatting online, so when I’d first heard it for real, over the ouzophone, I’d been seduced all over again. Not only could he write words that turned me into a heap of mush on the sofa, he also spoke in a way that made me want to rip off my clothes and rub myself all over him.

“Thank you,” I said, twirling my wedding ring around my finger. “But are you sure? It sounds so expensive.”

“It’s not, and if I’m skippering, that makes it a fraction of the cost.” He paused. “Kay, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for so long, please, let me have this.”

I hesitated and stared at my reflection in the window. Twilight was stealing the day, and light from the lone candle flickering on the sill bounced off the glass.

A fluttering in my stomach sent excited sensations up to my chest and down to my pelvis. It had been so long since another man had made me giddy with anticipation. I’d lost Thomas five years ago. He’d been the love of my life, my soul mate. Then one day, he was gone.

Darkness.

Killed in a car crash—head-on collision.

“Hey, you still there?”

“Yes, sorry, Sullivan. I am. It’s just…”

“You haven’t been treated for a while. I get that, and before you say it, I know you can afford it, but I want to do this.”

I tipped my chin and took a deep breath. “In that case, thank you. I’ll organize my flight. And I can’t wait to see you in Cephalonia. It’s going to be…awesome.” I tried out one of the new words I’d picked up from his vocabulary.

“Yeah, awesome.” He’d put an extra strong American twang to his accent. “And don’t worry about a thing. I can manage a thirty-two-footer, no problem, and this will be the fourth time I’ve navigated around the Ionian Islands.”

“So you keep telling me.” I smiled. He’d been talking about us taking a sailing holiday for a while. He was a keen sailor, whereas I was a novice and a bit nervous, if I was honest. But I guessed he was looking forward to flexing his muscles in front of me and showing me just how in control of the wind and the ocean he was—the Neanderthal in him was trying to get out, or so I suspected.

meze“The wind picks up in the afternoons,” he went on, “so we can have late nights, lazy mornings and hit the waves after lunch.”

“If that’s the best time to hoist the sails.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll be the best time.” He chuckled. “Listen, I have to run. A meeting with my finance director is calling.”

“Oh, of course.” When we got chatting, I often forgot about the five-hour time difference between Oxford and New York. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow and see you next week.” I bit on my bottom lip. Sullivan was really going to be in front of me—next week—to touch, kiss, join in bed. Late nights, he’d said. Late nights, just the two of us, naked, letting our desire spill out and doing the things we’d talked about when our conversations had gotten frisky. Which they often did, much to my delight.

“Sure thing, baby. Catch you tomorrow.”

cliff1I set down my phone and flopped onto the sofa. I had a small round table set next to it that held my glass of wine and the one photograph Sullivan had emailed me. It had been taken in Central Park several Christmases ago, so he’d said. It was evening, and shadows sliced over his body and face, the night embracing his image. He wore a hat against the cold and a scarf muffled up to his chin. His collar stood tall, just stroking his ears, and a puff of cold air hung before him.

I wished it were a clearer photograph. I’d asked him for another one, and he’d said he would but had never gotten around to it. The one I’d sent him, of me in the garden by my rose bed, was perfectly clear. I’d been wearing a sun hat and holding my secateurs, and the shot was natural and bright. I thought it best to let him see me for how I was, rather than trying to dress to the nines then Photoshop away the wrinkles. Not that I was old or didn’t scrub up okay—I did. I just wanted to look like myself.

fishSullivan had gone for moody and atmospheric with his shot. I couldn’t even make out his hair color because of his winter beanie, or the exact shape of his mouth because of his scarf. But his eyes were gorgeous—sparkling and sexy and staring straight at the camera, straight at me.

I couldn’t wait to see him for real. He was always so kind and gentle with me. I’d told him all about Thomas and how broken I’d been after his death. He’d listened on the phone for hours and sent me long, sensitive emails when I’d told him it was an anniversary or birthday. He understood grief. He got how much of a deal this was for me—to be entering a relationship with someone else when I’d believed there would only ever be Thomas in my life.

 

First reviews

 

“Kick off your shoes, shed your clothes along with your inhibitions and indulge yourself in a sensual adventure.”

 

“Wow! What a story!”sunset

 

“What can I say but off the charts HOT!”

 

“Another fantastic book by Lily Harlem, she does such a great job on describing the characters and the place I could smell the sea and felt like I was on an island in Greece.”

 

Fiscardo
Fiscardo

“A new romance book by Lily Harlem – no other words are needed, you just know it’s going to be fabulous.”

 

“Simply a beautiful, sexy, smile-inducing story that you will want to read over and over.”

 

“An absolutely perfect book to read whilst pool side or lounging on a sun deck.”

 

Oh the sun, the sea, the sex! Lily has a way of writing that puts you in the book. Her descriptions of Greek Islands had me day-dreaming I was on a boat, feel the wind and sun on my face, could smell the charcoal fires from the harbour side café’s and taste the olives and wine.

 

lily-harlem 

About Lily Harlem

Lily Harlem lives in the UK and is an award-winning, multi-published author of contemporary erotic romance. She writes for publishers on both sides of the Atlantic including HarperCollins, Totally Bound, Xcite, Ellora’s Cave and Sweetmeats Press. Her Hot Ice series regularly receives high praise and industry nominations.

Before turning her hand to writing Lily Harlem worked as a trauma nurse and her latest HarperCollins release, Confessions of a Naughty Night Nurse, draws on her many experiences while nursing in London. Lily also self-publishes and The Silk Tie, The Glass Knot, In Expert Hands and Scored have been blessed with many 5* reviews since their release.

Lily writes MF, MM and ménage a trois, her books regularly hit the #1 spot on Amazon Best Seller lists and Breathe You In was named a USA Today Reviewer’s Recommended Read of 2014. Her latest MM novel is Dark Warrior.

Lily also co-authors with Natalie Dae and publishes under the name Harlem Dae – check out the Sexy as Hell Box Set available exclusively on Amazon – The Novice, The Player and The Vixen – and That Filthy Book which has been hailed as a novel ‘every woman should read’.

One thing you can be sure of, whatever book you pick up by Ms Harlem, is it will be wildly romantic and down-and-dirty sexy. Enjoy!

 

Lily Harlem Links

Website http://www.lilyharlem.com/

Blog http://www.lilyharlem.blogspot.com/

Twitter https://twitter.com/lily_harlem

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/lily.harlem

Facebook author page https://www.facebook.com/LilyHarlemAuthor

Pinterest http://pinterest.com/lilyharlem/

Raw Talent http://rawtalentseries.co.uk

BritBabes http://thebritbabes.blogspot.co.uk

Hockey Romance http://www.hockeyromance.com

Newsletter Subscription http://www.lilyharlem.com/newsletter-subscription.html

Hot Ice https://www.facebook.com/hoticeseries

Google+ https://plus.google.com/u/0/106837751333678531161/posts

Harlem Dae http://www.harlemdae.com

Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4070110.Lily_Harlem

 

 

The Last Amanuensis by Lisabet Sarai

TheLastAmanuensis400x600Blurb

Poetry is like bloodyou cant hold it back.

The Emperor has decreed that Reason will rule in his lands. Art and literature are banned in favor of  military technology. The fearsome Preceptors prowl the capitol, arresting anyone who dares, even secretly, to engage  in forbidden activities.

A former teacher and frustrated writer, Adele is grateful for her job as secretary to the enigmatic Professor. During the day, she transcribes his learned  treatises on a vast range of topics. Then  he calls her to his room one night, to give her a more difficult and intimate assignment, one that risks both their lives.

Buy Links

Amazon US

Amazon UK

All Romance Ebooks

B&N

Kobo

Fireborn Publishing

 

Excerpt

I saw relatively little of the professor during the week. He spent his days in his basement laboratory, which was strictly forbidden to me, or shut away in his study, presumably filling new notebooks with observations and innovations that I would eventually be required to type. I’d leave my neat stacks of typewritten pages on the table outside his door so as not to disturb him. I worked in the small parlor across the hall and took my meals in the kitchen with the taciturn cook.

On Sundays, however, he and I dined together. After a glass of sherry, his chilly manner thawed a bit. He’d quiz me about the information I’d been transcribing, initially to see if I understood what I’d read, but later to solicit my opinions.

He asked me other questions, too, questions that bordered on improper.

“Who is your favorite novelist, Adele?”

My heart executed a sudden somersault. Was he trying to entrap me? “Ah—I’m not sure, sir. Of course I haven’t read any fiction since His Excellency rose to glory and urged us to abandon such frivolous pursuits.” I scanned his face. The deepening creases at the corners of his eyes belied his serious tone.

“But you did read, when you were in your teens, did you not? Before the Ascension? A mind as nimble as yours must have devoured everything you encountered.”

My fear ebbed, though I remained wary. Meanwhile, his compliment kindled a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. “Yes. I did read a lot—before.” His lips twitched and his icy gaze softened, inviting my confidence. I basked in his rare, concerted attention. His interest, the sense that he viewed me as worthy, urged me to recklessness. “I used to write, too. Crazy, fantastic stories about impossible quests and eternal love.”

The smile I’d heard in his voice finally bloomed. “I’m not surprised in the least. Nor am I shocked, Adele. Be reassured of that.” To my astonishment, he covered my hand for a moment with his own. His cool, dry palm whispered over the backs of my fingers before withdrawing. Blood heated my cheeks, as if I were still the young girl we were discussing, and a disturbing heaviness grew between my thighs.

“They—ah—were silly things,” I stammered. “Trash. A waste of mental energy, as the Emperor has said.”

“But you poured yourself into those tales, I’m sure. They were part of you.” Those crystal-blue eyes of his gleamed, luminous behind his glasses.

A new wave of panic swept me. What was going on? I pushed my chair back from the table, eager to excuse myself and end this disturbing conversation. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll retire now. I’ve something of a headache.”

For an instant I thought he’d stop me. Then his smile fled and his body collapsed into itself, his advanced age suddenly obvious. “Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow. But tell me—what happened to those fantastic stories of yours?”

My throat constricted around an impending sob. I could scarcely get the words out.

“I destroyed them, of course.”

My employer regarded me gravely. “Right. Of course.”

 

About Lisabet

From my elementary school years, when I devoured everything I could find by Asimov, Heinlein and Bradbury, I’ve been drawn to speculative fiction. Now that I’m an author myself, I create my own futurescapes. My visions are sometimes bleak —but always illumined by desire.

Links:
Website:  http:/www.lisabetsarai.com
Blog: http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83387.Lisabet_Sarai
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/lisabetsarai
Yahoo group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lisabets_list