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Rough Weather by Lisabet Sarai

Rough WeatherDestiny hides in the tempest’s heart

Ondine has always felt at home in the sea. Orphaned at birth and raised by her grandmother on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, she has never really questioned her extraordinary affinity for the watery world. She concentrates on her work as a marine biologist, spends her weekends relaxing among the waves and worries about human threats to her beloved ocean environment. Fears of a deadly pregnancy like her mother’s make her cautious about sex.

When she encounters an attractive but arrogant engineer on her private beach, surveying the site for a prospective off-shore wind farm, anger is her first reaction. A casual touch, however, transforms that emotion to incomprehensible, irresistible, terrifying lust.

Ebony-skinned Marut has his own talents—aside from his uncanny ability to swamp Ondine with desire. He can control the winds and summon storms. He informs Ondine that they share a supernatural heritage and claims she is his destined mate. She responds with scepticism and tries to resist the charismatic Haitian, but ultimately her scientist’s training won’t permit her to deny the evidence of her senses—and her heart. As a brutal northeaster batters the island and Marut’s life hangs in the balance, Ondine learns that true power lies in surrender to her elemental nature.

Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of light bondage.

*****

Excerpt:

“I want to bind you.” Marut brandished a pale coil of rope Ondine had never seen before. He had stripped her of her clothes, settled her on her back on top of the quilt and told her to remain still. Simultaneously pliant and eager, she awaited his next move.

Standing naked at the foot of the bed, he reminded her of some Nubian Hercules. Candlelight painted flickering patterns on the sculpted ebony of his chest and danced along the length of his massively erect cock. The luscious sight temporarily distracted Ondine from his words. Saliva flooded her mouth as she remembered his hot seed spilling through her fingers. How she wanted to taste him!

“Do I have your permission, pitit?” He trailed one end of the cord between her breasts and down her belly, making her shiver with delight. She struggled to remain still as he had instructed. “It will strengthen the connection between us, if you trust me enough to render you helpless.”

How could the bond be any stronger? Already her awareness was attuned to his, registering both his excitement and hisdoubts. One part of her was more than willing to accede to his request. Another cringed, near-panicked at the notion of so completely relinquishing control of her body.

He dangled the rope end between her spread thighs and drew it upward to lightly brush her pubic curls. Electric pleasure arced down to her core. Her pussy clamped down on empty space. “Do it,” she gasped, as he flipped the rope back and forth across her mound, grazing her clit. The panic fled, drowned in sensation. “Oh, please, Marut!”

He chuckled, but in delight, not mockery, then seized her wrists with strong fingers and drew them over her head. Lust surged whenever, wherever he touched her. Faint echoes of fear returned with the first loop of rope around her crossed hands, but the purse of his firm lips upon her nipple banished her last reservations.

A gentle tug on her shoulders told her he’d fastened the rope to the brass curlicues of the headboard.

“Too tight?” he asked, sweeping the tangles off her brow and smoothing them across the pillow.

Incoherent with lust, she could do no more than shake her head.

“Try to get free.”

She discovered that, aside from a bit of side-to-side wriggling, her upper body was quite thoroughly immobilised.

“Lovely. Now your legs.”

When he lashed her ankles to the corners of the footboard, spreading her thighs wide to display her drenched and swollen sex, she thought she’d pass out from the arousal. Once more, she felt the tangible pressure of his gaze as he drank in the sight of her, bound and helpless. The ripe smell of the ocean drifted up from her brazenly exposed folds. She’d die if he didn’t touch her again, soon.

“You’re so incredibly beautiful,” he murmured. “Beyond my wildest dreams.”

Lashed to the bed, she couldn’t see him any longer, though she felt the shift as he mounted the far end of mattress. A rush of warm breath invaded her sensitised pussy. She jerked against her bonds.

“Oh, God. Please, Marut!” A breeze tickled the inside of her right thigh, then fluttered down to her bare flesh to her toes. “Oh!” She squirmed as the stream of air traced the same path down her left leg. “What are you doing? Ah…!”

He was visible now, a dark form kneeling between her pale thighs as he bent to blow into her navel, then swept the air stream across her rigid nipples. She arched, straining for actual skin-to-skin contact. Marut just grinned and blew into her armpit.

“Don’t tease me. I can’t stand it!” The tantalizing gusts trailed down across her belly, back towards her sex. Her clit pulsed hard and hungry at the apex of her soaked folds, the centre of her need. He loosed a stream of hot air aimed directly at the aching bud and she screamed at the unbearable intensity of the sensation.

“Ondine…?” Alarmed by her outburst, he backed away. As soon as he did, she wanted him back.

“Marut, I can’t bear any more…”

“Do you think you’re ready?” There was that hint of laughter again in his rich, deep voice.

She wanted to kill him for making her wait. No, that wasn’t right. All she wanted was to fuck him. That was her single all-consuming desire.

*****

Buy Links
Totally Bound
All Romance Ebooks
Amazon US
Amazon UK

*****

Contest!

Win a copy of Rough Weather plus a copy of its sequel,  Hot Spell, the book in which Ondine and Marut first made their appearance. To enter, send an email to contest [at] lisabetsarai [dot] com with the subject line “Rough Weather Giveaway”. Contest closes on March 31, 2014.

*****

Bio

Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – more than fifty single author titles, plus dozens of short stories in various erotic anthologies, including the Lambda winner Where the Girls Are and the IPPIE Best Erotic Book of 2011, Carnal Machines. Her gay scifi erotic romance Quarantine won a Rainbow Awards 2012 Honorable Mention.

Lisabet has more degrees than anyone would ever need, from prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed by her chosen genre.  She has traveled widely and currently lives in Southeast Asia with her indulgent husband and two exceptional felines, where she pursues an alternative career that is completely unrelated to her creative writing.

For more information about Lisabet and her writing, visit her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com) or her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com). She also hangs out at the group blog Oh Get a Grip (http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com), writes monthly reviews for Erotica Revealed (http://www.eroticarevealed.com) and contributes to the ERWA blog (http://erotica-readers.blogspot.com).

 

Writing Compost

composter dalek 2-1234In spite of having to do the backstroke to get through the rain-saturated streets of our neighbourhood and, in spite of the sponge of clay that is our back garden, the season is fast approaching when I’ll be thinking seed trays and compost and getting my hands dirty. I might have mentioned once or twice that I’m an avid veg gardener. I might have even mentioned the sexy stories I’ve written which take place in veg gardens. The truth is that gardening is one of the topics I’m almost as enthusiastic about as I am writing.  That’s not terribly surprising since the two are so philosophically compatible.

My husband and I inherited our first composter from the people who owned our house before us. We were suspicious of it at first and more than a little intimidated by it, and with good reason. It looked like a Rubbermaid Dalek casting a long menacing shadow across our back lawn. (Germinate! Germinate!) We’d heard that if we put egg shells and fruit and veg peels, cardboard and tea and coffee grounds in the top that in a few months, we could open the little door at the bottom and the myriad resident worms and micro beasts would have magically transformed all that garbage into rich luscious soil. Then all we’d have to do was shovel that organic loveliness out into our garden.

At first we had our doubts. Then one day we took the plunge, slid open the door and there it was, all dark and rich and soft and warm, and smelling vaguely of citrus. We filled a couple of planters. We were planning to put in geraniums, but never got around to it. Several weeks later I noticed there were tomato plants coming up in the compost we had excavated. My mother used to call plants that came up where they weren’t planted volunteer and, sure enough, we had eight volunteer tomato plants, the result of seed not broken down in our strange compost-making dalek.

Forgetting all about the planned geraniums, we nurtured our eight seedlings along and, at the end of the summer, they yielded up their yummy fruit. The next year we actually dug a bed and planted corn and beans and squash.  After that there was no looking back. Our one lone composter has long since been joined by two others, and twice a year we open the doors at the bottom and marvel at what an army of invertebrates can make from our kitchen waste.

Harvest 25 AugIMG00569-20130825-1722Each time we shovel bucket after bucketful of rich, loamy soil from our composters and spread it in anticipation of the veg we’ll be planting in May, I think about how much writing is like composting. There are times when my efforts truly seem inspired. Those are the fabulously heady times all writers live for and hope for; when every word shines the moment we write it down.

I would love it if everything I wrote would come forth fully formed and beautiful like Venus on the Half Shell, but more often than not my words are more like used teabags on an egg shell. More often than not, what I write is kitchen rubbish, the remnants of experiences already spent, the detritus of half-formed ideas and fantasies that aren’t quite what I planned when they appeared so perfectly shaped in my imagination. Somehow they’ve turned to apple cores and coffee grounds by the time I manage to get them into words.

My husband takes his lunch to the office, and he brings home his fruit peels and apple cores because he knows what they’ll become. He even convinced the lady who works at the office canteen to save the coffee grounds for him because he knows what the worms will magic them into in a few months’ time. It’s true, what we dig out of our composters is just soil. Oh, but it’s so rich, so fertile, so completely loaded with potential. We can almost taste the wonderfully succulent corn and tomatoes and runner beans we’ll grow in that rich compost in a few months’ time

Writing is no different. On the written page, the coffee grounds and apple cores of my everyday existence, the remnants of half formed thoughts, the grandiose ideas that didn’t quite have the magic on paper that they did in my minds’ eye will become compost, no matter how much they may seem like rubbish. I know nothing can happen until I write those words down, no fermentation, no agitation, no digestion, no chemistry.

But once the ideas are words on the written page, the real process begins. I turn them and twist them and break them down and reform them until they become the rich luscious medium of story, until they are just the right consistency to grow organically what my imagination couldn’t quite birth into the world in one shining Eureka moment. It takes longer than Venus on the Half Writing imageShell, and it involves some hard work and some getting my hands dirty, and a whole lot of patience.  But the end result is succulent and full bodied, organic and living.  And my fingerprints, my dirty mucky fingerprints are all over it. It’s intimately and deeply my own, seeded in the compost of what I put down in a hurry, raised up in the richness of what I then cultivate with sustained, deliberate, sometimes desperate, effort and a little inspiration. The result is achingly slow magic that lives and breathes in ways I could have never conceived in a less messy, less composty sort of way.

 

 

 

Ellen March Gets Asked THE Question

Ellen MarshWhy is it when you mention you write erotic romance that a certain light flares? It’s as if because you write about sexual tensions and situations you actually experience it on a daily basis.

I wish.

The interest I notice appears to be exclusively from males. Women simply give me that knowing, yeah I fake that as well look.

A few of my stories have some extreme elements about killers and stalkers incorporated in the plot. Yet nothing is mentioned about them.  Not one question about how I delve inside the mind of a deranged madman. Where do I research drowning, broken ribs, bullet wounds? Nothing on that. Nope, instead the usual query arises.

Invariably, where I’ve gained my sexual knowledge from. Is it from personal experience? And mention research to a guy and you’ve got an instant offer of assistance. Not quite one my husband would agree with LOL. But I won’t give you my answer. Wicked I know.

Hell if I tried to do and get up to half of my heroines activities I’d be in traction.

So I would like to know why this genre is expected to be lived. Yet realize I’ll never have the answer. Or if I do, think it’s going to be of a naughty but interesting reply.

Excerpt from Promises:

She’d taken this job for two reasons. One was her love of books, hot erotic romance to be exact, and here she could indulge her craving to the hilt. The second was to escape her nagging mother. Yet even moving hadn’t been enough.

She’d been in Brindley Bay six months and it felt like six years. How could other people lead such varied and exciting lives whilst hers was lived through the pages of a book? Well almost, she thought, taking care moving on up the rungs. An armful of dusty tomes cradled in one arm, her free hand gripped the rail. She wobbled her way precariously to the top and with a studied caution placed the books back into their gaps, evident by the dusty marks left behind.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” warned a deep voice, breaking through the silence and into her thoughts.

“Shit!” she yelled, and turned too fast. With a strangled scream, felt herself falling and landed in a pair of steely arms that held her tight.

“Lucky I was here.” Solomon’s fingers subtly probed her thighs, feeling for her suspenders. They rolled briefly over the slight bumps.

“If you hadn’t snuck up on me I wouldn’t have fallen,” she snapped, realizing he still held her. “You can put me down now.” She couldn’t help noticing how his muscles flexed. The glorious masculine scent rolled over her, twisting lusty thoughts.

He dropped her with infinite slowness to the ground, still keeping an arm around her waist. Pulling her close, he dipped his head and the tip of his tongue tracked a path along the contours of her lips, retracing every route he’d travelled.

Alex relished his taste, fresh and so sweetly intoxicating. She sucked in a breath, then exhaled a soft, ragged wisp of a sigh. Her hand stole up with the fevered intensity of a Christmas shopper. Urgent fingers rubbed the base of his neck in a sexy circling dance of wanton need. Shivers splintered down her spine and she could feel him growing hard. She craved him with a power that was burning out of control.

“Hello,” shouted a disembodied voice. “Alex, where the heck are you?” The words broke the spell.

Solomon’s gaze sparked down at her, his eyes dark with passion. “I’ll see you later. I think we’ve got some unfinished business.” The words swept out in a hush, his voice full of unspoken promises.

Alex couldn’t speak. She struggled to nod her head, trying to calm her body’s traitorous reaction to him. She wished she could remain detached, then realized she could. It was her fanny that was causing the problem, experiencing a dull throbbing ache that wasn’t going away. Her kickers were already damp.

Tania stood by the desk and her eyebrows rose when she saw the tall, dark-haired man. It had to be Solomon. Instantly she patted at her hair, pulled out her compact and, with a brief glance in the mirror, glossed her lips. She adjusted her top, tugging it down so her boob job and cleavage showed. Then she smoothed her short skirt, skimming it so it fell just beneath her rounded ass.

Tania homed in on him, watching him leave. His slim hips rolled in a loose, easy sexy-assed action. Her eyes steamed hot on his tight butt, the pale denim of his jeans straining across muscled legs. Then she turned her attention to Alex who looked as if she’d just been fucked senseless.

“That’s Solomon,” Alex breathed, wearing a silly grin on her face and a creased frown on her forehead.

“I guessed that, but what I want to know is what did he do to you?” Tania’s eyes narrowed with a shard of pure jealously. She nibbled on her lip, her gaze still locked on the stud of a man walking away.

“He caught me when I fell off the ladder. And Tan, if you hadn’t come in, I honestly think I’d be having it off with him between Sense and Sensibility and The Bridges of Madison County!” She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know what it is about that man, but he’s only got to touch me and I’m like liquid gold.”

“After what I saw I’m not surprised,” agreed Tania, sucking in a sigh of jealous frustration.

Buy Promise Here:

Print:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

eBook:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Find Ellen Here:

twitter: https://twitter.com/Ms_ellen_march

facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ellenmarchauthor

website: http://ellenmarch.jimdo.com/

 

 

 

The Basics of Martian Seduction with @eva_lefoy #scifi #romance

WMS_blogtourThe Martians are coming. But there’s a catch. They’re not coming in flying saucers. They’re invading your pants.

Yes, your pants!

It’s kind of hard to concentrate with Martians coming in your pants!

The problem isn’t an easy one to fix, either. See, with Martians in flying saucers, you at least get to shoot them. Or try. Think of all the great alien vs. mankind movies where they’ve done just this. How about Independence Day with Will Smith? Remember that one? The aliens are big and mean and scary and there are plenty of spaceships to shoot at. In the end, mankind prevails.

But when the Martians aren’t massing an exterior attack but an inside one, who’s to help you? No, you can’t shoot yourself to get rid of the alien attacker. For one, that’s bad manners and two, you won’t like the ending. This kind of inside-your-head sneak attack is quiet, painless and can have a whole host of other endings.

  1. You can be made to attack the Mars Base. That’s what happens to Captain California Sykes, who falls under the influence.
  2. You can be turned into a Martian. Cal’s girlfriend – ex girlfriend at the start of the story – has a bit of a rough time with this. Every girl knows red hair and green skin don’t go together unless it’s Christmastime!
  3. You can be turned into a Martian mating machine! Yep! I said it. A Martian DNA magic wand of lovin’. That’s Fennik’s fate at the end of this book, and his story is coming – pun intended! – in book II.

And if you don’t think that’s bad enough, consider that Martians are dead. Long dead. We know NASA is checking over the planet quite thoroughly looking for any evidence there was once a civilization there. But why? What will they do with the evidence once they find it? If I were them, I’d stock up on condoms!

I think Martians just make everybody a little paranoid and really, who’s to blame them? They’ve got a super-powered viral DNA and a libido with more oomph than Dallas City Light. Yeah. A million watt libido really gets a guy – or girl – noticed. Sometimes, not in a good way.

 

TheTroubleWithMemoriesHere’s the blurb for The Trouble with Memories, Cal and Lucy’s story:

Helium toads!

Lieutenant Lucy Borasco has her phase pistol ready and her ex-boyfriend in her sights. She has every intention of making him pay for choosing his career over her. But she hadn’t factored in a Martian sneak invasion, Cal’s incessant need to save the universe, or the risk of permanent damage to her complexion. Getting Cal back will cost her more than she thinks, leaving her changed forever.

Captain California Sykes’ memories are gone, his career is in ruins, and his ex-girlfriend nearly kills him with a kiss. Can he overcome the Martian invasion, save the rest of the team and win Lucy back again in the process? Or will his seat-of-the-pants plans and the canned fish rations cost him everything he holds dear, including his sanity?

 

And here’s a super-smexy secret excerpt. Shhh! Don’t tell the big green dudes!

imageShe laughed and leaned back. Little by little she undid the zipper on her suit and watched Cal’s eyes for a reaction. To be honest, she hadn’t had time to explore the changes in her own body yet. She’d have to rely on Cal’s assessment to form her initial opinion.

His eyes went wide, his nostrils flaring. He arched his hips up, pressing his manhood harder against her damp sheath. Fragg, she wanted him in there, to be a part of her once more. “Holy shit, you’re beautiful.”

She looked down at her breasts. She hadn’t bothered to wear a bra. The greenish firm globes now boasted Naobi melon-pink nipples. The contrast made them especially stand out, like succulent Ozon Prime berries. Excited, she bounced them, then pinched them between her fingers. “You like them?”

Cal groaned and sat up, capturing one with his mouth as he rolled her onto her back.

She squealed in delight, but as he sucked harder her desire fanned hotter. About to burn up, she ripped off the rest of her suit. He sat up, and she tore his off, too. “Get back here.” Hands behind his head, she pulled him down.

With his full length on top of her, their warm skin at last meeting, she still wasn’t satisfied. She bucked her hips up. “Inside me, now.”

He took himself in hand, preparing to enter her. She couldn’t wait. She took the initiative, wrapping her legs around his tailbone and pressing her hips up, snugging her entrance around his tip. With a loud cry she grasped his shoulders and lifted her pelvis, impaling herself so he slipped inside her. Her body tingled. Every sensation was new, different.

He grasped her ass and braced them both with his other arm. “Lucy,” he murmured into her neck, “you’re on fire.”

 

I hope you look forward to more Martians in your day. They’re quite charming, and they are rather fond of tea. But don’t take them home to your mother….

Eva

 

Buy Links:

Decadent  l  Amazon  l  Amazon.UK  l  AReCafe  l

 

Bio:

Eva Lefoy writes and reads all kinds of romance, and is a certified Trekkie. She’s also terribly addicted to chocolate, tea, and hiking. One of these days, she’ll figure out the meaning of life, quit her job, and go travel the galaxy. Until then, she’s writing down all her dirty thoughts for the sake of future explorers.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Eva-Lefoy/344907072265234

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Eva_Lefoy

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/elefoy/

Blog: http://writery.wordpress.com/

 

Sex as Ritual

Bernini Hades and Persephone close uptumblr_lg4h59T3z31qe2nvuo1_500I’m very excited to be on a panel about Sexuality and Spirituality with Victoria Blisse at Eroticon this year. Those of you who follow my blog and read my books know that I’m fascinated by the connection between sex and spirituality. I’m not a mystic. I’m a bit of a skeptic these days, but I’d be the first to say that there’s definitely something spiritual, something magical about sex, and not the least of it is the ritual involved.

I think about the ritual of sex a lot lately as I revisit the Elemental Coven from the Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy in my serialisation of Demon Interrupted on my blog. I’ve always loved ritual. I made rituals up when I was a child. Later, I was involved in everything from conservative Christianity to practicing in a Wiccan coven — drawn in by the ritual. I spent three years training to be a spiritual director. I did it for the ritual. Contemplative prayer, meditating upon passages of scripture, the use of movement, dance, chant, are all tools of ritual. During my time spent in the Wiccan coven, the year itself was lived out in ritual — full moon, new moon, the changing of the seasons, the celebration of spring and harvest. During that time my husband and I even underwent the ritual of hand fasting in the stone circle at Avebury.

Ritual is a set of actions performed mainly for their symbolic value. But that’s only the beginning. The real power of ritual is that it’s the gateway to something beyond itself, it’s the gateway to a deeper understanding of what it represents.

That ritual infuses my erotica is not surprising. Sex is steeped in ritual, and often the rituals we psyche_et_lamour_327x567practice before sex are strikingly similar to religious rituals. We often wear special clothing for the occasion, just as priests and acolytes do. We may share a romantic dinner together before hand, with special foods, just as the priest serves the Eucharist. Flowers and gifts may be offered. And all this we do in hopes of experiencing and celebrating le petit mort, the sexual version of death and resurrection.

When life was a lot more tenuous than it is now, fucking the world into existence was an act of high magic, sympathetic magic. One hoped that by having sex in a field or a cave or possibly a stone circle, the birds and the bees would see what was happening, and take a hint. Pollination would take place in the plant kingdom, plants would grow. Procreation would take place in the animal kingdom, animals would give birth. There would be food to eat, and the next generation would be guaranteed. Our ancestors got it — that there was something in the act, something in the lust driving the mating rituals of all living creatures that brought about new life. New life was in itself magic.

Today sex is more about recreation than procreation. The urgency is no longer there, nor is the belief that our efforts will encourage the cattle in farmer Jones’s field to breed. The urgency may be gone, but the ritual is still there. Strangely and wonderfully, so is the magic, albeit a different kind of magic.

220px-Grus_canadensisThe beauty of sex as ritual is that we don’t have to be members of a religious group; we don’t have to undergo years of training to practice the rituals of sex. Whether it’s BDSM, kink, vanilla or masturbation, sex contains the built-in default rituals of all humanity, just like it does for our animal cousins. Yes, I get that it’s biology. But when cranes dance and grebes do synchronised swimming and apes groom each other, it certainly seems like more is happening than just the old in and out.

Giving and receiving pleasure is the ultimate ritual of human connection, even if it’s just some much-needed connecting with ourselves. There are as many versions of the ritual as there are people to practice it. No organised religion can offer a ritual that is more personal nor more universally compelling. Perhaps that’s why so much effort has been made through the centuries to regulate it, to control it, to limit it.

Back in the dawn of humanity when sex was both ritual and religion, our ancestors got it right. Though the science wasn’t yet available to back up that intuitive connection, that visceral urgency of fucking the world into existence, even back then, our ancestors already knew that the ultimate ritual, the ultimate magic takes place in the arms another.

If you’re in the Bristol area next Saturday the 7th, I hope you’ll get your ticket and come join us at Eroticon.

 

 

 
© 2018 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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