Category Archives: Blog

Wolfsong Lullaby: A Sneak Peek at H D March’s New Release

June 23, 2014Guest Blogger, New ReleasesEllen March, erotic romance, erotica, guest blogger, H D March, new release, paranormal eroticaK D Grace

Thank you again K D for this opportunity to blog on your site. Only this time as H D March the alter ego of Ellen March. I’m still writing erotic romance, only this time in the paranormal. And I love it. The first of my vampire trilogy signed up with Passion in Print is available on release 21^st June. Wolfsong Lullaby will be followed by Requiem and Soul. I adore my vampire bad boys, along with the sexy Werelion Chaya. He’s such a wicked cat, and awesome, a real pain in the ass to Quest the hero of Lullaby.

When wild child Lyric arrives on Coral Island to write her thesis on sex, she soon discovers a world she never knew existed. Lyric is torn between the hot vampire Quest and the mischievous Werelion Chaya. But there is something that intends spoiling her fun. Fuelling a long delayed destiny. One that is entwined with a curse. Because Lyric’s presence has awakened an evil entity. Its target, her soul. Only Quest stands in the way but will his strength be enough to save her.

The tale takes you through love, revenge, courage and betrayal as each of the three Declare brothers discover their own nemesis. They fight for their loved ones and are forced to consider what they’d always abhorred now needs to be understood. Yet only one emotion will free them, that’s’ love, but is it enough to unchain them from years of hatred by another. If your wish is to curl up into a wicked fantasy. Delve into the lives of hot sexy heroes, and flawed heroines. To melt beneath the intense love scenes, weep for them, and laugh with them then Wolfsong delivers.

I love the freedom that writing paranormal gives me, leaving my imagination fly. The research has to be my favourite part and in particular studying mythology and putting my own slant on things. It also gave me a nudge in another direction and recently I’ve had Song of the Dragon accepted by Passion in Print, a humorous tale of Dragon shifters, with a crazy kleptomaniac fairy Elspeth who’s crude and swears like a trooper along with her not so sexy angel boyfriend Troy. Greylan is my awesome Dragon King who takes a shine to heroine Raven, until he discovers who she is. And does what any self-respecting Dragon would do, kidnaps her.

I have so much fun writing hot paranormal the ideas come fast and furious and currently I’ve just completed another vampire story Rune and already have rumbles of its sister book.

EXCERPT:

Lyric checked the time, and at exactly seven, a knock sounded from the door. She moved to answer it; a swell of nerves swirled in her belly. Opening it, she snatched in a gasp at the sight of Quest dressed all in black.

He looked all male, hot and totally fuckable. A testosterone delight that she would take great pleasure in unwrapping and licking. A truly alpha male experience.

His gaze, she noticed, dropped to the plunging neckline of her dress.

It clung to each curve; a creation made to invoke a man’s sexual thoughts and dreams. Her calling card. She didn’t miss his gaze liquefy as it dusted over her.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Quest waited. A lot of things the vampires had outsmarted; learnt to live with. But the request for entry remained in force.

It was called good manners.

A slither of a wicked grin played around her lips, and she stood back. “Please, come on in.”

Quest gave the briefest of acknowledgements and entered.

Lyric tried to swallow the posse of nerves rampaging through her. Hell, he looked hot. A virile magnetism bounced off him. His gaze, the hot promise from his golden eyes, sent a host of ripples shooting over her. A veritable riptide dragging her under, and she so wanted to skip the banal talk and fuck him stupid. “What would you like to drink?” Relief hit her that she could speak. This man took everything from her, speech, thought, and common sense. And she prayed he’d give it back in return and take. Take what she needed to give him, what she craved off him.

“Nothing. I’ve already eaten.”

She shrugged her shoulders, not quite the answer, but hey ho. Then walked in front of him to the small lounge. Lyric had her questions laid out, at least some of them, curious to know how he would reply. She tried to focus, to tear her thoughts away from his erection sitting snug in his trousers. One that she wanted to take deep inside her.

She tried not to glance down; he wasn’t hard yet, but even so, he had an impressive package. One of the biggest lazy lobs it had ever been her pleasure to sift her eyes over. She licked her lips, not missing how his attention devoured her.

Lyric motioned to the chair, the one she intended conducting her interview from. “Take a seat.”

“So, what is it you want to know?” Quest crossed one leg over the other, the material of his trousers strained taut over his heavily muscled thigh.

“I have a number of questions, which obviously we won’t get through tonight. I need an insight into a man’s prospective.” Her hand shook as she checked the paper out and cursed, wishing she could keep in control

“Begin.”

“Well, first of all, what does it for you? What makes you horny?” She shuffled the papers and tried to quell her nerves. That one word he spoke smashed into her defences; her blood boiled; her skin shivered. God knows what I’d do if he speaks dirty to me. And she wriggled her hips, a distinct dampness between her legs.

“You.” His gaze melted over her.

Oh, fuck. “Whoa, I mean give me a description of the person that would attract you and why.”

“It’s not the looks, it’s the emotion, the connection; do you understand?”

“How do you mean it?” She ran the pencil around on her piece of paper. Doodling. Pretending nonchalance. Anything to keep from pouncing on him, dragging his body to the floor. Lyric continued to draw little star shaped signs. Her mind, her predatory thoughts, on him.

God, she needed to release his so impressive cock, one that she knew lurked beneath his trousers. With determination, she kept her gaze from his crotch because any second she would throw her pad, pencil, and sanity into the air and jump him. She fidgeted, her damp panties soaked against a randy clit.

“I could look at a woman and not feel a thing, yet with you…” He flashed a sexy wink. “You do it for me; I want to sink deep into you.”

Lyric all but groaned. “Okay, what makes you hard?”

“Same answer sweetheart, you do.”

“Bullshit, aside from me, name an instance.” She hauled in a hungry gasp of breath. Unaware, the words blasted out, echoing her thoughts. She spoke them without thinking. “Would you like sex with me?” Fuck, did I just say that? Please God, say yes because, honey, I’m going to leap your bones.

He turned to her, a splash of pure lust burned across his face. “”Hell, yes, why do you think I’m here?”

Thank Christ for that! A raze of relief hit her, so hard she shuddered beneath its onslaught. She liked him. No, she didn’t, she argued with herself. Like was too mild a word. She wanted to fuck him; heck his body, his everything, did it for her. And also, she admired the fact he knew his own mind. That he needed sex as much as she craved it.

Lyric rose and moved to him. She leaned across and draped her hand over his so evident hard-on, her hand palmed his jaw, caressing. With infinite care, she bent her head, her lips seeking his; she licked him across his cheek. One super luscious slurp that smacked of sex and longing.

Her lips hovered over his. “Then kiss me.” Her words sprinkled over him in a hot whisper.

“No, baby, I never kiss, only fuck.” He continued his wandering tease over her skin.

Lyric reared back; it smacked of rented sex. A fuel of anger exploded. “Then, in that case, I suggest you leave, now.”

“What?”

“You heard me; you don’t kiss, then, honey, trust me, that cock of yours is going nowhere near me.”

Quest’s face hardened; his eyes wide, they flared in surprise. And quickly narrowed, a deep molten gold burned into her. An intense heat blasted from him. “What did you say?”

Lyric pointed, her finger quivered with anger that he thought her a quick jump, with no emotion. Even though it would be, but under her terms. “Get the hell out now!”

“What about the tutorials?”

“Has got nothing at all to do with you; now, if you would kindly leave.”

Quest glared at her; no one, and that meant no one, ever told him what to do. Yet it seemed this galling woman had managed to succeed in doing just that.

He gave a sharp nod and, with a sweeping, glaring glance, left, swearing he’d be back because she would bow to what he wanted. And in the meantime, he’d watch over her, only too aware that Chaya sat in the wings.

Buy Wolfsong Lullaby Here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wolfsong-Lullaby-HD-March-ebook/dp/B00L6F8L0Y

http://passioninprint.com/ShowBook.php?10=HDM_WOLFSONGL

Find Ellen March Here:

https://twitter.com/Ms_ellen_march twitter page

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

http://ellenmarch.jimdo.com/ website

The Morning After

June 21, 2014Blog, Inspirationevent, navel gaze, psychology, Smut by the Sea 2014, the morning after, the writer's life, writingK D Grace

The Morning After Smut by the Sea 2014:

It’s been a week since Smut by the Sea now. Can’t believe how fast time flies, and what a roller-coaster ride the week back home has been. But I want to talk about The Morning After today. I wrote most of this post on The Morning After. That meant everything was running late. My brain felt like someone stuffed it with cotton wool. When I sat down to write, I spilled my coffee and woe to anyone who crossed my path wrong. I’d have probably either bitten their head off, or worse yet, I’d have cried. As I walked to the green grocery that Morning After to cheer myself up with some summer fruit, I thought about why The Mornings After are so hard.

This time it was the Morning After Smut by the Sea. Just as I had expected, at Smut by the Sea there was that fantastic camaraderie with other writers. There was the chance to meet readers and encourage new writers to press on. One of the best parts of Smut by the Sea this year was meeting four members of the Brit Babes’ Street Team. Alison Scott, Debbie Lowery, Stephanie Robb and Peter Hill.What a pleasure it was to share the smut-tastic fun with the four of them. I was inspired by Victoria Blisse. I have the beginnings of a hot new story thanks to her workshop. I was reminded of what editors need and want in Lucy Felthouse’s workshop – always good for writers to remember. I was encouraged by the wonderful reaction and input and snippets share by the lovely writers in my writing workshop. I loved being read to in the reading slam and being intrigued by the stories shared there. Jackie Brocker had me squirming on my seat and my mouth watering with the most sensual description of eating a chocolate eclair I’ve ever heard. Janine Ashbless read some of the hottest, most prickly vampire prose I’ve ever heard. I was in aural heaven.

Beyond the actual schedule of events of Smut by the Sea, there was the wonderful catching up with other writers and talking shop. We writers work in isolation so we seldom get that chance to share with each
other. There was the chance to encourage new writers and the opportunity to meet readers in person. All in all it was a perfect day.

Buuuuuut … the Morning After, back home, I moped around with my chin on the ground. Why is the Morning After so hard? Here is a truth that I share gently and, in small doses, with new writers because I’m always afraid I’ll discourage them. Writing is hard enough and discouraging enough without hearing another writer talk about the hardships of the vocation. It’s a neurotic job we do. We work alone; our work is never done, and no matter how hard we try, we’re never a hundred per cent satisfied with what we do. Then there are the rejections that are just a part of the package and the bad reviews that every writer gets. There’s the wondering if we’ve done the best we can to promote ourselves, to make sure that our babies get the attention we think they so richly deserve. There’s the constant mental battle to decide what tasks we can leave undone so we can spend more quality time writing. And who doesn’t live with the chilling fear that tomorrow morning we might wake up and not a single word will come to us when we sit down to write?

The Mornings After are those days that follow the highs of being a writer – a good review, times spent
with other writers, a new sale, a nice royalty cheque, an inspired writing session. The Mornings After are the times when we remember that we’re always on our way up a very steep slope and that the pause to enjoy and to celebrate with writing friends — a pause we’ve well earned — is only that, just a pause.

Those last few weeks before and the weeks immediately following the publication of my first novel, I found myself depressed. The publication of The Initiation of Ms Holly raised the bar. Every writer wants each story, each novella, each novel to be better than the one before, and every writer wants to do all she can to see that her baby gets a good start. The Morning After is the understanding that we don’t know what will happen next, we don’t know exactly how to get where we want to be, as writers, and it’s inevitable that we’ll make mistakes along the way. The path is incredibly daunting. Sometimes it’s daunting because of the huge challenge we face. I felt that way when I began writing as Grace Marshall. Sometimes it just feels overwhelming because there are never enough hours in the day to do what we’d like to do to promote, to write, to become better at our craft. Quite often the Mornings After, for me, involves the overwhelming desire to run away and hide someplace where no one can find me until my heart rate settles and I can breathe again and think rationally again.

But when I strip away all that overwhelms me, all that frightens me, all that upsets me – the massive need to promote my work, the blog posts that need to be written, the work that needs to be done, the editing, the social networking, the tight deadlines, the fact that I’m never totally pleased with myself and I set my standards outrageously high and I’m tunnel-visioned, and … breathe, KD! Breathe!

Once everything else is stripped away, the bottom line, the bedrock of my life and who I am as a human being is that writing is not a job for me. Writing is not a hobby. Writing is my vocation, my calling. Telling a story is my passion, and I’ll do it no matter what. I’ll do it because I can’t NOT do it. It’s as important as breathing. It’s my anchor to sanity when I feel like running away screaming. It’s both the gift and the curse, and the pull at my centre that keeps me focused and moving forward.

I hope that by writing this, I haven’t scared new writers, or maybe I hope that I HAVE scared them. It’s that perpetual state of fear and discomfort edged up close and personal to the love affair with story, with word, with a vocation that sometimes baffles us, but never, NEVER bores us; it’s that sharp edge that makes writing the story more than just a hobby, that makes it a spiritual journey and a digging down into the meat and bones and grit of the tale we’re compelled to tell and the passion we have for it.

No worries. I got through the Morning After. I always do. The Work in Progress grabbed me by the collar, yanked me away from my navel gazing and sat me in front of the laptop, and once again I’m focused on what really matters. I’m a writer at the heart of me, and if I go to the heart of me, I can always get through another Morning After.

A very special thanks again to two of my heroes in the world of smut, Victoria and Kev Blisse. Thanks to you two, Smut by the Sea was the kind of event that make for great memories, loads of inspiration, and much encouragement long after The Morning After. xxx

New Release: The Attack of the Woodwose by Selena Cooper

June 20, 2014Guest Blogger, New Releaseserotic romance, erotica, fantasy, new release, selena cooper, the attack of the woodwoseK D Grace

BLURB

THE ATTACK OF THE WOODWOSE: LEGENDS OF MAGH MEALL, Book One

Two enemies must stand together to face a common foe!

Upon returning home with his human fiancé Berta, Reghan the Leprechaun learns that his brother is hiding the sister of Sloan, the Clurichaun who, along with his men, recently attacked Reghan. Reghan goes to tell Sloan that his sister is safe before the Clurichauns determine she’s been kidnapped.

At Sloan’s manor, the men are informed of an impending attack against both the Clurichauns and the Leprechauns by a vicious tribe known as the Woodwose. The only way they can win a battle against the woodwose is to stand together. Now they must convince their clans of that!

BUY LINKS
Bookstrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/the-attack-of-the-woodwose
Our direct sales: https://ganxy.com/i/94059
All Romance Ebooks: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-theattackofthewoodwose-1532419-340.html

EXCERPT

Berta was nervous. She stood on the porch and stared out at the pitch dark night. Living in the farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with her Leprechaun lover had been pure bliss for the past three months.

The Clurichauns, who’d beaten Reghan and had abandoned their pursuit only when Berta’s dog and a team of coyotes had driven them away, had left Berta and Reghan in peace once their leader had realized Berta was carrying Reghan’s child. Every day the couple had grown more in love, and every day she’d learned something new and wonderful about her lover. But now Reghan’s father had sent word that a delegation was on its way to get them and bring them home.

The screen door creaked and then clicked shut as Reghan stepped onto the porch behind Berta. He slid his strong arms around her slightly bulging middle. He brushed aside her long blonde hair and kissed her neck. “My parents aren’t ogres, you know.” His voice was a low rumble vibrating against her skin.

“Are there such things as ogres?” “There are…but there aren’t many in these parts…not anymore,” he said.

“But there were?” Berta still couldn’t quite make herself believe that Reghan’s being a Leprechaun wasn’t just some elaborate hoax. When he spoke of other “mythical” beings so offhandedly, she didn’t know what to think.

Reghan didn’t look like she’d have imagined a Leprechaun to look. He wasn’t a tiny little man with a green top hat, buckles on his shoes, and a pot of gold in his hand. In fact, he was a rather large man with dark red hair, bright blue eyes, and a neatly-trimmed beard. His handsome face and chiseled body might’ve made some women think he was a demi-god, but Berta doubted anyone’s—at least, any human woman’s—first thought upon seeing Reghan would be, “Hey, look! A Leprechaun!”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Reghan murmured against her neck. “You have nothing to fear from my parents.”

“What if they don’t like me?” she asked, for what had to be the hundredth time.

“They’ll love you.” He turned her to face him. “Now come back to bed and make love to me again before the delegation arrives.”

“A delegation,” Berta said. “The very fact that they’re sending a delegation to get us terrifies me.”

Reghan tilted her chin up. “You worry too much.”

AUTHOR BIO/LINKS

Selena Cooper lives in the Southern United States. She’d love to hear from you! Send her an email at selena@selenacooper.com and/or follow her tweets and posts on Facebook. She’d love for you to consider becoming a part of her street team, Les Chats Noire. To learn more about it, visit her website!

Author Website link: http://www.selenacooper.com
Author Social Media Site links:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SelenaCooperBks
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SelenaCooperAuthor
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/cooper2478/

Calendar Men: Mr June – The Other Brother by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985) #erotica #romance

June 18, 2014New Releasescalendar men, contemporary, decadent publishing, erotic romance, erotica, Lucy Felthouse, military, new release, romance, the other brotherK D Grace

Photographer Melodie Carr moved to New York City to escape and make a fresh start. Her soldier fiancé was killed in a friendly-fire incident in Iraq, and she has been struggling to come to terms with it ever since. She still feels strongly about needless death and those left behind, so when she sees a call for photographs for a calendar of topless men, with profits going to the Hero Family Fund, she’s eager to help out. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know any men that fit the profile, so she gives up on the idea. That is, until Patrick Brogan—her late fiance’s brother—turns up in New York. Seeing him brings up all kinds of memories, but she’s determined to push them aside and be friends with Patrick. She also realizes he’d be perfect for the calendar. But can she persuade him to take part?

Buy links: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/calendar-men-mr-june-the-other-brother/

Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20554243-the-other-brother

Calendar Men freebies: http://calendar-men.blogspot.co.uk/p/desktop-calendars.html

*****

Excerpt:

Melodie Carr reluctantly clicked delete on the e-mail with a disappointed sigh. She couldn’t contribute to the charity calendar for the Hero Family Fund, a cause very close to her heart, because she didn’t know anyone suitable to photograph. Although her photography work varied—from children to pets, landscapes to portraits, she’d done a bit of everything—she got the impression the call for calendar models sought hunky guys to create a collection to make women swoon. Unfortunately, she didn’t work with professional models and therefore had to give up on the idea. A cute dog, something she had plenty of images of, simply wouldn’t cut it.

She might not be able to contribute, but resolved to find out when the calendar would be available and do her bit to help by buying a few copies. Some eye candy on her wall would definitely not go amiss, and her friends Poppy, Lola and Charis, and her grandmother, Joyce, would no doubt appreciate it. She grinned. Joyce, always good fun, said, there’s no such thing as too much eye candy. The saucy old broad.

Her smile faded. She missed her, having not been back to Boston to see her friends and family for a while. She should ask Joyce to come and visit her in New York—she hadn’t traveled much, and would love the hustle and bustle, the endless opportunities to people watch. Maybe Melodie and the rest of the family could buy her a ticket for her birthday. She’d have to give it some thought. It sure would be nice see a familiar face, other than via Skype.

Someone pressed the buzzer to her apartment and she sighed again. It was probably a delivery driver trying to get into the building. It wouldn’t even be a package for her.

Taking her time getting to the intercom, she hoped whoever it was would go away. No such luck—the buzzer squawked again. She inhaled deeply, trying to rein in her annoyance and avoid being rude or abrupt.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a male voice said. “Are you Melodie? Melodie Carr?”

“I am.” A caller looking for her? Had she ordered something and forgotten about it? “Who’s calling?”

“It’s Patrick,” the voice replied. “Patrick Brogan.”

“Patrick….” Speechless, she laid a hand on the wall to steady herself as the bottom dropped out of her world. Evidently, running to New York—albeit under the pretense of a good career move—hadn’t been enough. Her past still followed her, still tried to flood her with reminders of what she’d lost.

“Melodie?”

Damn, the man’s persistent. She never should have admitted her identity before asking his. She could have told him he’d gotten the wrong place and sent him away.

*****

Author Bio:

Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over 100 publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include several editions of Best Bondage Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica 2013 and Best Erotic Romance 2014. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies, and also edits for a small publishing house. She owns Erotica For All, is book editor for Cliterati, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Warm Up for World Cup with Lily Harlem’s Sizzling Football Novel, Scored

June 16, 2014Blog, Guest BloggerBrit Babes, erotic romance, erotica, football, guest blogger, Lily Harlem, novel, Score, sports romanceK D Grace

Thanks so much for inviting me over today, Kd, it’s great to be here. I’m so excited about the FIFA 2014 World Cup. Mr H and I are planning parties with our friends and family. There will be England flags and banners, cakes and hats all with the England flag on them. No doubt some face-painting going on too!

Football fever really grips my family. I have five brothers-in-law plus three brothers of my own and they are all football crazy. It’s always loud, fun and to be honest, there were many years I didn’t ‘get’ it, but then I decided “if you can’t beat `em, join `em” which is exactly what I’ve done.

Now I’m now the one planning the party, organizing the get-together and Googling all the kick-off times. There will be beer, cheers, sighs of dismay and much discussion until the small hours of the morning – all good fun! Go England!

Scored, my sexy football novel, isn’t about the World Cup but the European Cup, specifically the 2012 European Cup hosted by Ukraine. I watched it avidly and was so inspired by all those sexy athletes shooting up and down the pitch that I created an England captain all of my own – enter Lewis Tate. Yum! He’s the perfect combination of alpha male, considerate English gent and single-minded athlete.

The heroine in Scored is a sports journalist, and a serious one at that. She isn’t interested in the gossip and the scandal surrounding the players, she wants to give the lowdown on the formation, the starting line up and the on-pitch skills. Yes, of course she does, she also can’t help having a major crush on Lewis, and despite some of her Bridget Jones’ ways, it seems he kinda likes her too!

Blurb

Okay, so I eat, sleep and breathe football and reporting the beautiful game is my dream career. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time for a major crush on the England captain, Lewis Tate. The bloke is sex on legs, hot with a capital H. Add in his awe-inspiring talent, his brooding good looks and what’s not to lust after?

So my excitement is sky-high as I set off with the official press team to cover England’s battle for the European Cup. But when a series of unfortunate, or as it turns out fortunate events, attracts Tate’s attention my way, who am I to say no?

Add in a misogynistic manager, an over-zealous colleague, two blue silk ties and some incredible ball-handling skills and it becomes clear the road to victory, for me, will be an intensely erotic journey. Determined to savor every moment, I hang onto my sanity as best I can while living the fantasy and wondering if it can ever become reality. Because once Lewis Tate has taken me to heaven and back, its clear no one else will ever compare.

Here’s a snippet taken from when Nicky and Lewis have secretly met up in a Cathedral in Donetsk…

“But I’m just Nicky Thomas, sports journalist. I come from Stoke and have a middle-class, unremarkable background. Why would someone as amazing as you, with all your footballing credentials, want me?”

He shook his head and appeared bemused. “What does football have to do with me admiring your professionalism, being comfortable with who you are and fighting for what you want?” He paused. “You do still like me, don’t you?”

I nodded. Unable to trust myself to speak and gush about just how much I liked him. How much I would like to cover him in whipped cream, sprinkles and chocolate drops and spend an entire day eating it off him.

“Good,” he said. “Because if you can just cope with this craziness for a little while longer, in few weeks the tournament will be over and we won’t have to sneak around.”

“You mean—”

He brushed his lips over mine. “Yes, honey, I mean this is just the start of something. Well, it is for me anyway. It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone who’s been my last thought as I’ve gone to sleep and my first thought each morning.”

Oh, fuck. Now he’s got me.

I became a puddle of romantic ideals falling toward him. Didn’t he know what kind of effect sentiments like that had on a girl? I reached for his shoulders, pressed my body to his and allowed him to kiss me into a stupor of longing. He was my every thought too. When I wasn’t with him I was thinking about being with him and when I was with him I just couldn’t get close enough.

He tangled his fingers in my hair and held me firm as he kissed and explored my mouth. I let him in and melted under his touch. The way he was clasping me was so possessive, so masculine and dominant. Little thought kernels of what he could do to me, how he could make me feel, in bed, began to pop like candy in my belly. Imagine if he held me like this when he…

Oh, sweet Jesus. I was getting turned on again. Shit, and in a holy place.

Lewis groaned and sent kisses across my cheek, tugged my hair firmer so my head tipped, then licked and nipped at my neck. Lust shot to my pussy. It was like there was a wire from the skin on my neck to my clit and his attentions sent white-hot streaks of pleasure zapping down it.

“Lewis,” I murmured, trying to move my head but unable to. I discovered that far from feeling frustrated I reveled in the hold he had on me. That fact that I couldn’t move and he was doing what he wanted to my neck was a massive turn-on.

“Ah, honey, I could have fucking killed Fellows the other night. Walking away from you took every ounce of control I had.”

His breath was scalding hot against my flesh and I shivered with pleasure at his heated words.

“It was okay for you, though,” he went on.

“What do you mean?” He released the grip on my head and brought my face level with his. “I think you know.” I swallowed. I did know.

“You used it, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Don’t act coy.” A slow smile spread on his face. “Because it makes me so horny to imagine you using your vibrator and thinking of me.”

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

He took full advantage and kissed me again. This time he slipped his hand up my top and cupped my breast over the new bra.

I pressed closer for more. Why did we have to be fully clothed and in a cathedral? Right now I would sell my soul to be naked in bed with him and no other person for a hundred miles around.

“I can just imagine you,” he said, tweaking my nipple through silk. “Lying on the bed, legs spread, that buzzing shaft penetrating your sweetness, getting you off, making you pant and sweat.” He paused. “Did you think of me?”

Fuck yes.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “Please, I want to know.”

“Yes. Yes I did.” I felt his body tense and his shoulders hitched, like he was pulling in a deep breath.

“And did you say my name?” He switched his attentions to the opposite breast.

“Yes, over and over.”

He fluttered his eyes shut and let out a long deep sigh. “Oh, fuck, that mental image of you is so hot,” he muttered.

“Lewis Tate,” I said in a scolding whisper. “You’re a bad boy picturing such things in a holy place.”

His eyes pinged open and his gaze trapped mine. For a split second I thought he might grin. He didn’t. “Tell me you’re not thinking them too.”

“Yes, I am, but—”

“But the difference is you’re not going to have zipper marks permanently imprinted on your genitals.” He shifted on the seat. “Fuck, you make me so hard.” He shook his head and muttered, “So hard it hurts.”

That knowledge thrilled me utterly. “Is that so?” I ran my hand down over his chest, his abdomen, then settled it on the solid wedge of flesh at his groin that was pushing and straining against the denim.

“That’s not helping.” He moaned. His face twisted and his eyes screwed up tight.

“I know what will, though.”

Fuck. Had I really just said that? Double fuck. Had I really just thought that? I had, and it seemed I was the biggest sinner of the lot because I didn’t care. I wanted to act on my impulse. In fact, I wasn’t sure anything could stop me. Not now the need, the desire, had flooded my brain like a tsunami.

I tugged at the button on his jeans, freeing it with a quick flick of my wrist.

“Nicky,” he said, parting his lips on a pant. “What are you doing?” He opened his eyes. They were dark and smoky, their normally crystal-clear depths clouded with lust.

“I’m going to help you out with that zipper problem.” As I spoke I tugged down the zip on his jeans. The flesh beneath burst forward, the cotton of his briefs not as efficient at containing his cock as the denim had been.

“Ah, fuck, really, here?” He hissed in a breath as I cupped his shaft through cotton.

I glanced around. “We seem to be alone.”

“But anyone could walk in—”

I kissed him, cut off his words, the same way he had me earlier. “I somehow don’t think it will take long.” I sought the waistband of his boxers and delved inside. Bulging, heated flesh strained forward and I gripped it eagerly. Ecstatic to finally

have his cock in my hand.

“Now just let me down there,” I said, nodding between his knees and finding myself admiring the proud, scarlet shaft filling my palm. The head was wide and shiny and blushed with arousal.

He didn’t speak, just spread his thighs and let me maneuver myself between him and the pew in front. “Keep look out,” I said, finding a prayer cushion for my knees and settling into the softness.

“I’ll try.” His cheeks were flushed, his jaw tensed.

I gave him a sexy grin then poked out my tongue and stroked it through the deep slit on the head of his cock. Pulled in his flavor and swept it over my palate. It was sweetly bitter with a salty creaminess to it. Delicious.

“Ah, shit, that’s so horny seeing you do that.” He tipped forward and gripped the backrest of the pew behind me, effectively embracing me within his bulk and engulfing me in shadows. “Fuck, be careful. I’m so near coming already.”

“Keep looking out,” I said.

*****

Oh Nicky you’re so bad, but it does get good for her, really good! Against the wall, in the bath and tied to the bed good! Here are a few reviews for Scored…

Lily Harlem’s story of a famous footballer and a hardcore sports writer is one of the best happily ever after erotica novels I’ve read.”

“Explosive, and oh my god wow, that’s all I can say. I could not put the book (Scored) down till I was finished. A must read!”

“From strangers to friendship to lovers, Nicky and Lewis were amazing. It felt like real life and I could picture all the events taking place. This is a must read!”

“An amazing story.”

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And if you like Pinterest this might be right up your street… http://www.pinterest.com/lilyharlem/sexy-soccer-scored/