Ellen March Gets Asked THE Question

March 6, 2014Blog, Guest Blogger, New ReleasesEllen March, erotica, Fanny Press, guest blogger, new releaseK D Grace

Why 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:

eBook:

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

March 3, 2014Guest Bloggerdecadent publishing, eva lefoy, futuristic, interracial, military, paranormal romance, sci-fi, space opera, the trouble with memoriesK D Grace

The 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.

You can be made to attack the Mars Base. That’s what happens to Captain California Sykes, who falls under the influence.
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!
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.

TheTroubleWithMemories Here’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!

She 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

March 1, 2014Blog, Inspirationerotica, psychology, romance, sex, sex as ritual, sexuality and spiritualityK D Grace

I’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 practice 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.

The 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 7^th, I hope you’ll get your ticket and come join us at Eroticon.

The Red Sheet by Mia Kerick

February 28, 2014Guest Bloggerdreamspinner press, glbt, guest blogger, mia kerick, the red sheet, yaK D Grace

Description:

One October morning, high school junior Bryan Dennison wakes up a different person—helpful, generous, and chivalrous—a person whose new admirable qualities he doesn’t recognize. Stranger still is the urge to tie a red sheet around his neck like a cape.

Bryan soon realizes this compulsion to wear a red cape is accompanied by more unusual behavior. He can’t hold back from retrieving kittens from tall trees, helping little old ladies cross busy streets, and defending innocence anywhere he finds it.

Shockingly, at school, he realizes he used to be a bully. He’s attracted to the former victim of his bullying, Scott Beckett, though he has no memory of Scott from before “the change.” Where he’d been lazy in academics, overly aggressive in sports, and socially insecure, he’s a new person. And although he can recall behaving egotistically, he cannot remember his motivations.

Everyone, from his mother to his teachers to his “superjock” former pals, is shocked by his dramatic transformation. However, Scott Beckett is not impressed by Bryan’s newfound virtue. And convincing Scott he’s genuinely changed and improved, hopefully gaining Scott’s trust and maybe even his love, becomes Bryan’s obsession.

With a foreword by C. Kennedy

Book Links:

Dreamspinner Ι Goodreads

Excerpt:

I’D NEVER hidden in the high school boys’ bathroom, or any other bathroom, come to think of it, before. Not even once—from anybody or anything. I guess already being six foot two, and sharing no resemblance to a rack of bones, in my freshman year had kind of relieved me of the burden most ninth graders suffered of needing to hide from the terrible seniors—I’d already towered over most of them. But in more general terms, I didn’t hide because: A) I was too big to find any sort of a decent hiding spot in a men’s room, and B) everybody else was too busy hiding from me so all possible hiding spots were occupied. Nonetheless, here I was, cowering in a bathroom stall.

I needed to be alone for a few minutes. I needed to figure out what the fuck was happening in my life. I’ll put it this way: I was starting to get a sneaking suspicion that this weird personality change that had come over me went well beyond a desire for a red cape. Yeah, this was something far more complicated.

Inside the stall, the toilet had no lid to sit on, so sitting down on the toilet seat in a dignified manner, with my pants up, did not seem to be an option. On TV, I’d seen plenty of crafty characters hide in bathroom stalls by standing on top of the toilet seat so that if anyone looked under the stall to see if somebody was in there, no feet would be dangling down. But if I was to try that tack, I’d put my head right through the ceiling, as I’d grown at least two inches since freshman year. I guess six foot four wasn’t always an advantage. So I went with sitting cross-legged in front of the toilet. Unsanitary? Yes. Pathetic? Quite possibly. But it was the best I could come up with in the heat of the moment.

Strangely, when I finally got my long body folded into that bent-up position on the floor in front of the toilet, I could see that there was already someone curled up on the floor in the stall next to mine. So much for my solitary thinking time.

I directed my question to the lifeless body. “Excuse me… um… are you feeling okay?” I had no choice. I was called to respond to an insatiable drive within me to help those in need. And this guy had to be in major need or he wouldn’t be crumpled up into a fetal ball on the filthy bathroom floor. “Like… dude, want me to go get the nurse or something?”

I couldn’t see his face, as it was covered up by his arms. He didn’t make a sound.

“Is it your stomach? There’s a lot going around right now, I’d say. My mom is a nurse at County General Hospital and she told me that….” I let my words trail off, suspecting the guy wasn’t listening to me anyways.

“Just leave me alone.”

Well, that was a start, wasn’t it? I mean, we were communicating now.

Positive thinking, Bry.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I was afraid too. I was afraid the new chivalrous part of me wasn’t gonna let me leave the bathroom until I had gotten this guy onto his feet and smiling up at me. And class started in ten minutes, which didn’t leave me a hell of a lot of time to accomplish my lofty goal. “At least tell me what’s wrong.”

“Like you don’t already know.” His response was both muffled and pissed-off sounding, but, again, it was communication, so I felt thankful.

Thankful to whom? I had no idea. I was just thankful, period. (Try to hold off on the fucking analysis at this point, okay, reader?)

“Call me clueless, but I have no idea what is troubling you.”

He slid to the edge of my stall and stuck his head in. I saw a flash of blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched on an adorable nose—it was Scott Beckett, the kid from the cafeteria.

“It’s you.”

“Yeah, asshole, it’s me. So, go ahead, do what you came here to do. You going to give me a swirly? Make me lick the urinals…. What’s it going to be this time, Dennison?”

I had no idea how to respond. I’d never so much as laid eyes on this kid before, and he was acting like I’d been in on some kind of a bullying brigade directed solely at him. Either I had missed something major, or he had a very vivid imagination. “Refresh my memory, Beckett. Tell me what I did… uh, the last time.”

Still sprawled out flat on the floor beside me, directly underneath the stall divider, his pretty face screwed up into a tight knot, he squealed, “Fuck you, Dennison! Acting like you forgot is even more insulting than what you did to me in the first place. Like, I can believe that you and your buddy torture any kid who looks like an easy target, so you can’t remember all the evil details of each individual case, but what you did to me? Saturday night? Just… just fuck you!”

I nodded and then shook my head. I was clueless and confused… and starting to feel guilty. For what, I didn’t know.

Plus, Scott Beckett was just so… so interesting. So appealing.

Why would I ever try to hurt him?

“God, you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought you were… and that’s sure saying something.” Scott dragged himself up off the floor. Once he was standing in the stall beside mine, he asked me, “So, other than last Saturday night, you usually play the role of the evil sidekick when you’re out in public. Where’s your buddy Wilson—the instigator?”

“Brandon Wilson?”

“Ya think? Let me guess… five, four, three, two, one… looks like he’s late, isn’t he? But I know he’s going to burst in here, conveniently, at any second now, right? Or maybe he’s waiting outside the door for an audio cue or something?”

I stood up too. What this dude was implying about my personal character was highly disturbing.

“Should I scream? Is that the signal—or are you going for the tears again, you fuckwad-asswipe?”

Signal?

Tears? Again?

Fuckwad-asswipe? Me?

“No, Brandon’s back in the cafeteria. Now listen, buddy, just do me a favor—”

“Did you just call me ‘buddy’?” He asked me so loudly that his voice echoed in the tiny stall.

“Just tell me what I did to you.”

His stall door slammed, indicating he was now out in the main part of the bathroom. So I came out of my stall as well. And Scott Beckett was just standing there in front of the sink, glasses in hand, looking up at me with round bright eyes, his pretty pink-skinned face saturated with the purest fury I’d ever seen, and it was all directed my way. I mean, this kid fucking hated me… and I didn’t know him from Adam. “I’m not about to do you any favors, Dennison.” His thin top lip curled up in disgust, and then he added in a low voice, “Besides, we both know what went down.”

With one last scathing look, he fled the bathroom. And I was even more flabbergasted than I had been five minutes before when I’d come into the men’s room to think.

That kid is completely full of bull.

Yeah, that had to be it: Scott Beckett was messing with my head. Right? But… but back in the caf, hadn’t Brandon suggested that we had done something to this kid… and that he seemed to be looking forward to the two of us finishing the job we’d started on him? And, for that matter, Jack had referred to the fact that Brandon and me had made more than one trip to the principal’s office in regard to bullying this kid.

I grabbed a hold on the sink, because the entire bathroom was suddenly spinning all around me. I was dizzy, but I was sure it wasn’t because of the shocking realization that I may have done something seriously nasty to Scott Beckett (that I somehow couldn’t remember) to make him hate me this way. No, it wasn’t that at all… convenient memory lapses don’t just happen. Most probably, I was dizzy because I was exhausted. I guessed that maybe I’d drunk more than my fair share on Saturday night, because, in truth, Sunday was mostly a blur too. Or maybe somebody had slipped me a roofie, which could definitely be the reason I was sick and dizzy and I couldn’t remember shit. All I had to do was just make it through the rest of the day, and then serve my detention, go home, and get a good night’s sleep. I’d tell Mom I was sick… that I wasn’t up for a big dinner. That was the truth too—I really wasn’t up for food or conversation.

Rest was all I needed… and tomorrow when I woke up, things would be crystal clear again.

But, shit, I hope Mom brings home those sheets.

Book Links:

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4726

About the Author:

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—all named after saints—and five nonpedigreed cats—all named after the next best thing to saints, Boston Red Sox players. Her husband of twenty years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about that, as it is a sensitive subject.

Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled men and their relationships, and she believes that sex has a place in a love story, but not until it is firmly established as a love story. As a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with romantic tales of tortured heroes (most of whom happened to strongly resemble lead vocalists of 1980s big-hair bands) and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to Dreamspinner Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories.

Mia is proud of her involvement with the Human Rights Campaign and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of marital equality. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology.

My themes I always write about:

Sweetness. Unconventional love, tortured/damaged heroes- only love can save them.

Author Links:

http://miakerick.com/

https://www.facebook.com/mia.kerick

http://www.amazon.com/Mia-Kerick/e/B009KSTG9E/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1389575652&sr=1-1

Surrender to Fire by Skylar Kade

February 26, 2014Guest Bloggererotic romance, erotica, samhain publishing, skylar kade, surrender to fire, the maison chroniclesK D Grace

BLURB

One scorching-hot lesson could leave her begging for more.

The Maison Chronicles, Book 3

Reeling from the double whammy of her Dom’s abandonment, and accusations of colluding with a plagiarizing author, all literary agent Camille Winter wants is some low-profile, drama-free quality time.

Just as she’s settling into a Maison Domine cabin with her to-be-read pile and a full slate of spa appointments, she finds herself sweet talked into playing topless assistant so some Dominant can run a BDSM educational demo.

Architect Damien Winter is on a relationship hiatus, so he focuses his dominant energies on teaching BDSM classes. A chance encounter in Maison’s parking lot with a woman who angrily insists she’s no sub—though every line of her body screams otherwise—turns shocking when she winds up as temporary replacement for his demonstration partner.

Damien is unprepared for the way her beautiful submission gets under his skin. And Camille never thought she’d fall, hard, for just the kind of man she’s sworn off. But when her ex’s vague threats turn serious, Damien fears he’s already lost the chance to claim her for his own.

Product Warnings: This book contains a fiery woman burned one too many times and the Dom who entices her to submit to the heat between them.

BUY LINKS

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

Three hours later, he was on his way up to Maison Domine. With his smartphone calling out directions, he could keep all his focus on the scenery and the satellite rock station he was piping through his speakers. The freeways of LA weren’t much for the view, but once he hit the mountains…wow. It was like the trees drained away all his tension. Or maybe he was relaxing because he was closer to sating his needs.

After missing the turnoff the first time he drove by, Damien pulled a U-turn and crept back down the road until he saw the weathered wood sign with an arrow pointing up a narrow, tree-lined road.

His car rolled down the long drive, soundtracked by Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle”, then burst into a wide-open clearing with a jaw-dropping view of the surrounding mountains. A large rustic structure took up the right half of the clearing, with most of the rest devoted to parking. More cars filled the lot than he’d expected for a Friday afternoon, but if other Angelinos had had weeks like his, maybe it wasn’t that big a surprise.

Parking his car, he wondered what the large building held. Yes, he’d heard other kinksters rave about the private club, but he’d been to his fair share of upscale establishments before. What set this one apart?

The answer sauntered across the parking lot, seeming to come from nowhere and heading for the front door. The woman’s body hit him like a wrecking ball. Every sense went on high alert and his heart jacked up its beat.

Jet-black hair spilled around her shoulders in soft curls, obscuring her face. Her arms were crossed as she walked, as if warding off the mild day’s nonexistent cold. Slumping shoulders drew more attention to the beautiful hourglass shape of her back, her body encased in a flowing, black dress that clung in all the right places. She looked tall, maybe eye level to his chin, though maybe that was her black combat boots. Not fragile—supple. Warm.

And crying. Her shoulders were shaking as she turned away from the building, facing him head-on. His demolition experts had nothing on that look. He wanted to kiss her reddened nose, wipe the tears from under her eyes. He popped open his door and headed for her.

The woman’s eyes widened and she froze, a deer in the headlights.

Car door open, keys still in the ignition, nothing mattered but this woman. He approached slowly, not wanting to alarm her. “Are you okay?” His voice echoed through the parking lot, though they weren’t that far apart.

The dress swirled around her knees, tossed by the wind whipping around the mountaintop. The soft neckline of her dress draped around her full breasts. His palms itched to cup them.

She nodded, letting her hair once again hide her face, which looked like it was made of the finest bone china. “Shitty week.”

He took a few steps closer, then paused. He saw faint tan lines on her wrist, barely there, that looked like she’d been wearing a bracelet cuff for some time. “Is he really worth crying over?”

Her pink lips clamped shut, then opened. “Look, thanks for your concern, but, really, it’s none of your business.” She swiped aside her hair to reveal twilight-blue eyes cracking with anger.

Her defiance stroked down his chest and reached for his growing erection. “I’m sorry, but when I see a submissive alone and crying, I make it my business.” He invaded her personal space until she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, but she didn’t back up. All traces of her dejection were gone. Good.

The wind pulled at her curls as she jabbed a finger in his chest, like she was digging straight for his racing heart. “I’m not a submissve.”

Her nails weren’t painted or manicured, not high maintenance like many women he’d dated. He found it refreshing. Authentic, like her anger. “Not a submissive?” He grabbed the hand that had poked him and raised her wrist to the light. Her pupils dilated and her breathing tightened. Her tongue darted out across her bottom lip and Damien had to restrain a groan. His thumb stroked along her inner wrist where her pulse was jumping like a living thing trying to escape. “How long did you wear his ownership bracelet while you weren’t a submissive?”

She tugged at her wrist. A halfhearted attempt, since her other hand was clenched halfway to touching him. Being the ever-helpful Dominant, he closed the space between them, pulling her wrist up to his lips and laying a kiss on the pale flesh of her pulse point.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

In response, he let her go and stepped back. “I’m proving a point.”

She swayed toward him before scowling and taking her own shuffle backward.

Her cocked eyebrow made him ache to play her until she begged to submit. She was a sassy thing and they had some chemistry crackling between them—something he certainly didn’t have with Lara, his demo bottom. “If you’re not a submissive, then I’m the Pope.”

“That’s your point?” Her jaw ticced and when her hands fisted on her hips, it made her dress strain across her breasts. She looked beautiful when angry.

Through sheer force of will he held his ground, keeping the distance between them. “No, sweetheart, the point was that you’re not crying anymore.”

Her eyes spit every insult her lips seemed unable to form. It only made his cock harder. He replied with his most guileless smile, which only seemed to infuriate her. With a clench-jawed scream, she pivoted away and headed for the woods.

“See you later,” he called as she retreated. Yeah, coming up to Maison Domine early had been a good idea. He’d need the extra time to learn more about this mystery “not a submissive” woman.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: