Lucy Felthouse Gives Us A Taste of Rome

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A Taste of Rome by Lucy Felthouse

Blurb:

Book three of the World of Sin series.atasteofrome

Ryan Stonebridge and his friend Kristian Hurst have travelled to London and Paris on their “gap year” adventure, before starting university. Now it’s on to Rome.

The American girls they met in Paris are along for the ride, providing lots of sexy fun for the boys. But as no one in the foursome is looking for commitment, there’s still plenty of scope for hooking up with the locals. Voyeurism, cougars, risky outdoor sex and threesomes abound in the Italian leg of the boys’ European adventure.

Available from: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-taste-of-rome/

Add to your Goodreads shelves: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18399288-a-taste-of-rome

*****

Excerpt:

Ryan came to the conclusion that perhaps this journey wasn’t so horrendous after all. He’d been a little miffed that the American girls, Shanna and Taryn, had wanted to tag along from Paris to Rome with him and Kristian. He’d been keen not to end up with any chicks who wanted more than a one night stand, figuring that any romantic entanglements would screw up their footloose and fancy-free gap year trip. Their last year of freedom, without commitment, before they went to University and had to grow up, buckle down.

In the here and now, however, Ryan decided that Shanna actually wasn’t that bad. It seemed she was determined to spice up the never-ending coach trip from Paris to Rome. Eight hundred and seventy miles, thirteen hours. They’d known when they’d booked it that it would be nigh on intolerable, but it was the cheapest way to travel. And having sat in the increasingly stuffy, tiny coach, Ryan could see why. It made cramped seats in coach class on a flight feel like first class.

Shanna had removed her jacket as the crap air-conditioning was utterly failing to cool down the cabin. It had been draped over her lap for a while before she slid it across so it covered part of his too. Ryan frowned, wondering why she thought it was a good idea to make him warmer. He was already melting in the heat. Then she slipped her hand beneath the jacket and moved it over his crotch. She squeezed his flaccid cock, making her intentions absolutely clear. He realized that if he continued to stare down at their laps it would be painfully obvious to anyone who glanced in their direction what they were up to. So he leaned over and kissed Shanna’s cheek, nuzzling her red hair out of the way to murmur into her ear.

“I’m going to try and act natural.” Then, remembering what had happened to him back in London when he’d ended up with cum-filled boxer shorts, he added, “Can you, uh, catch it in a tissue?”

Grinning, Shanna revealed the flimsy white material in her other hand. It appeared she’d already thought of that. Saucy wench—he liked her. She was a fun girl, gorgeous-looking and a great lay. Had things been different, he might have considered pursuing something long-term with her, but it wasn’t going to happen. He and Kristian had this one chance, this few months to live life to the fullest, do what they wanted, do who they wanted, go where they liked, and he wasn’t going to throw it away for a green-eyed, cute-accented chick. No way.

He wasn’t worried about upsetting her, though. He knew that she and her friend had a similar pact and outlook on their European travels. They too were hooking up, having a good time and moving on.

Ryan grinned out of the window. Life was good. A sexy girl was about to get his cock out on a coach and toss him off, and he was heading to the third destination on his gap year adventure. The Italian capital awaited and he couldn’t wait to see what it had in store.

Before he got there, though, he was going to have another orgasm on public transport. First the toilets on the Eurostar, now beneath a jacket on a coach. God, what was it with women and doing it in cramped, risky places? And Blanche—the French bird on the Eurostar—and Shanna weren’t the only ones he was thinking of. He was beginning to forget what it was like to have sex in a bed. Not that he was complaining—Christ, no. If a sexy woman propositioned him, who was he to refuse?

By now Shanna had undone his belt, button and fly and released his cock from his boxers. It had taken a while as she’d had to keep her movements slow, subtle, so no one realized what was happening. As a result of all the fumbling, his dick was rock hard by the time she got it out, and it sprung eagerly into her hand.

She leaned her head on his shoulder and he slipped his arm around her, pulling her close. Anyone who looked now would just see a couple of young people having a cuddle. Or possibly a hot redhead sleeping on the shoulder of a young man who could either be her boyfriend or a total stranger.

Carefully, she began to stroke him, getting into a rhythm that would drive him to climax without anyone knowing.

Ryan turned back to the window, giving the appearance of looking out at the darkening sky. Shanna’s grip tightened, her movements grew faster and he grew closer to coming. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip in an attempt to regain some kind of control. It didn’t help—his hormones raged and the familiar tingle at the base of his spine was a dead giveaway.

Looking as chilled out, as casual as possible, he turned to Shanna and whispered, “You’d better get that tissue ready—otherwise I’m going to make an awful mess.”

She gave a single nod of understanding and moved her other hand beneath the jacket, slowly, languidly. It probably looked as though she was just changing position, rather than anything naughtier. Ryan, however, was at the stage where he didn’t care. If anyone happened to look across, happened to confront them, he’d hold a hand up to keep them quiet until he finished.

About Lucy:

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, and is book editor for Cliterati. 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

 

Exposing Ellen by Skylar Kade

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Exposing EllenBLURB

Ellen Porter is a stranger to the single life–as much a stranger as she is to facing her same-sex desires. The recent divorcee, desperate to prove that her attraction to women is just a phase, enlists the help of Madame Eve for one night of “getting it out of her system.”

Aimee Tran has had enough of the Los Angeles bar-hopping scene. In pursuit of a genuine romantic connection, she discovers Madame Eve and decides that maybe, just maybe, a one-night stand will tide her over until she finds The One.

Neither woman expects lust to burn down their preconceived notions—or to crave more than one desperate tryst.

BUY LINKS
Decadent Publishing
Amazon US
Amazon UK
All Romance Ebooks
Barnes & Noble

 

AUTHOR BIO

Skylar Kade, self-avowed hedonist and princess extraordinaire, started her writing career after throwing aside yet another romance she could not bring herself to finish. The run-on sentences! The purple prose! Oh, the horror of it was just too much. So she sat down to write her own tale. Her favorite part about writing is the extensive research.

She currently resides in sunny southern California, alternately cursing the polluted air and adoring the weather. Skylar spends her time asking the cabana boys to bring her more mimosas and feed her strawberries while she dreams up her next naughty adventure.

She blogs at the SkylarVerse and with the Nine Naughty Novelists.

AUTHOR LINKS

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorSkylarKade
Twitter: http://twitter.com/skylarkade
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/SkylarKade

EXCERPT

“I….” She shook her head, terrified of the eagerness building inside her. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” she eventually whispered. “I’m sorry. Contacting 1NightStand was a bad idea, not fair to you at all.” Paolo might have been right. Her broken marriage was her fault.

She moved out of the balcony doorway but gentle fingers settled on her shoulders. “Not so fast, hon.” Aimee’s voice pitched low. “It’s not like I know what I’m doing either. I’ve never called up Madame Eve before.”

Ellen stared out over the ocean, where her date’s beauty didn’t distract her and she didn’t have to see the condemnation in Aimee’s eyes. “It’s more than being new to a dating service.” She paused and swallowed around her embarrassment. Neither in her mother’s house nor her husband’s had she been encouraged to talk about intimate issues. She hadn’t even heard certain anatomical euphemisms spoken out loud until her husband’s mistress ended up in their bed. Still, she forged on—Aimee deserved an explanation. “I’ve only been with a woman once, kind of. You obviously know what you’re doing and it’s not fair to you to be stuck for a night with someone who—”

Aimee spun her around, pulled her close, and twisted her fingers through Ellen’s hair. “Am I imagining your arousal?”

Oh, Lord. Her lips parted. The other woman stood so near. Her tongue flicked across Ellen’s lips and she bit off a moan. “I—”

Aimee pressed closer until their breasts squished together. One of her legs slid between Ellen’s. “Am I imagining your little gasps of pleasure? Of desire?” She bit Ellen’s earlobe. “If I am, tell me to leave. Because, honey, right now your inexperience is turning me on.”

Eroticon 2014 Mental Snap Shots

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IMG00622-20140311-1111There are snippets of time we’ve anticipated for ages, and when they’re suddenly upon us, they pass in a whirlwind of experience and laughter and conversation. These snippets stick with us like snap shots, so in lieu of the many photos I was too into the moment to take, I’d like to share with you some of my snapshot moments from Eroticon 2014. Some of the photos I am using I shamelessly borrowed from the Brit Babes.

A strawberries and Fizz Brit Babes reunion in Lily Harlem’s hotel room.

In so many ways this reunion was also a birthday party, since it was last year at Eroticon 2013 that the Brit Babes were first conceived in London in the hotel bar when the ideas were flowing faster than the alcohol. Eroticon is a great place for the imagination. The year before the Brit Babe members dreamed and schemed the Sweetmeats Seven Deadly Sins Anthology.

Armada House revisited

The very first Eroticon was held in Bristol in Armada House two years ago, and everyone I talked to who attended was thrilled to be back in the warm homey space and back to cheeky, sparkly, in your face Bristol.

Censorship online and in Print

The riveting opening talk of Eroticon 2014 was on the topic of censorship online and in print with feminist pornographer, Pandora Blake, solicitor-advocate Miles Jackman and writer and member of Feminists Against Censorship, Zak Jane Keir. I was stunned by the ambiguity of the obscenity laws. In fact, the laws seem to be fluid enough to be easily accommodate any agenda.

10001307_10152675201832786_1266549849_nThe Lister Dent Short Story Formula

After being in Ashley Lister’s poetry workshop last year, his class was at the top of my list. I was not disappointed. Ashley led us down a raucous path of formulaic fiction made literature, that was fun, informative and creative. Some at our table may be revisiting Tales of the Knicker Drawer in future.

Overwhelmed by Sexuality and Spirituality

Victoria Blisse and I plotted this panel at last year’s Eroticon. We Skyped, emailed and schemed for a discussion we both felt was essential to erotica writers. We didn’t know what to expect, but a full house of enthusiastic people willing to share their thoughts on the deep connection between the spiritual and the sexual and the common vocabulary as well as the common experience is what we got. We both came away feeling like we were the richer for the effort.

Delightfully dazed and confused by marketing and Twitter

The fabulous Ruby Goodnight and Michael Knight were very patient and shared myriad ways to market better and use Twitter more efficiently. I confess that I am still a dunce, though thanks to Ruby and Michael, I’m a little less so and most definitely proud of myself for making the attempt to learn more. Every little insight is huge for me, and Ruby and Michael were amazing.

Sacred BDSM

London Faerie was back this year with Martina, who has the voice of an angel. The demonstration of sacred BDSM was moving and full of thought-provoking nuance that I’ll be thinking on for awhile.

In front of the Ibis HotelCyclonic waves of hen parties and gigantic inflatable penises (peni?)

I quickly discovered that Bristol is Hen Party Central on a Saturday night. A growing crowd of eroticoners made our way along the waterfront avoiding the swing of enormous inflatable penises and shoving cheek to jowl with slightly inebriated women teetering on nose-bleed heals. We descended on the Stable for a dinner of pies, pizza and cider. Sixteen of us crowded around a table for ten, and it was well worth every elbow in the ribs and jostle of the knee.

Animal extremes and Cocktails

Animal extremes were not lost on the Brit Babes as we made our way past the Slug and Lettuce to the Elephant Bar for the Eroticon cocktail party. The conversation was great and the drinks were plentiful. My only problem was that I didn’t get the chance to meet and chat with everyone, but with cramming so many people and so many experiences into a weekend that’s bound to happen.

 Bonding of Bleary eyes and smiling faces

were the norm on Sunday morning with everyone clutched the caffeinated beverage of choice. At every Eroticon so far, Sunday seems to be the day when we’ve all bonded. We’ve shared the experience, made new friends and deepened relationship we already had. By Sunday morning I always feel a sense of real cohesion, and it’s one of my favourite parte of Eroticon. The list of people I’d like to mention is way too long for one blog, but it was a special pleasure to meet the fabulous Vida Baily at long last – even have dinner with her at the Stable. And it was a delight to talk sex and spirituality with the spankalicious Renee Rose.

Kristina Lloyd’s workshop on flash fiction

had us looking at paint chips with names like ‘arsenic’ and ‘blacken’ and playing filthy flash fiction bingo. Sadly I missed the first half of the two-hour class, but was very glad I got to wrap my dirty little mind around a bit of quick and dirty fun. As always, Kristina rocked.

Ear Candy …

…well that’s how I described myself when I sat in as a part of the workshop How to Write a Story from Inspiration to Publication with Kev and Victoria Blisse, Lucy Felthouse, and Kay Jaybee. My part was to read an excerpt from a short story I wrote. I could SO do that. I’m always happy to read. And it was lovely to sit back and enjoy with an occasional expert-ish nod.

High Tea and Readings

If Eroticon 2014 kicked off with a serious talk on censorship, it ended on a playful note with high tea (read cupcakes!) and readings. Harper Eliot put together an amazing schedule of readers, of which I was lucky enough to lead, though not lucky enough to be able to stay and enjoy all of the delectable aural offerings. I did, however, get the chance to enjoy Judith Watts’ fabulously filthy poetry before I had to cut and run for my train.

After three amazing Eroticons in the UK and one in the US, which I have heard nothing but raves about, Ruby Kiddell, you just get more and more amazing! Thank you SO much for all of your hard work throughout the year to put together such a stunning event. You’re the best!

And to everyone I shared the experience with, the pleasure was very truly mine! I was inspired and encouraged in a hundred different ways. Thanks!

Rough Weather by Lisabet Sarai

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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

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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.