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Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Naughty Giveaway Day 2 - Out of Hell #RomFantasy

The Devane Files: Book One

A murder scene is not exactly the place to find romance. But when Inspector Michael Devane is called upon to solve the murder of Robert Bradshaw, he finds a woman who arouses intense passion in his heart. Unfortunately, she’s at the top of his suspect list! Denyse Bridger brings the Victorian Era alive in Book 1 of her romance series The Devane Files.

In 1892 Whitechapel, only a few years after the infamous Ripper murders, Inspector Michael Devane is given the job of investigating the murder of a theatre producer. Devane is a haunted man, driven by the dark demons of his past, the elusive Ripper, and a growing addiction to opium. His brilliance is unquestionable, but his methods are highly unorthodox.

When Devane comes into the home of the victim, an unpleasant man named Robert Bradshaw, he meets Bethany Davenshire-Bradshaw. In Bradshaw’s widow, Michael finds a kindred spirit who defies both the conventions of society, and the trappings of false mourning. As they grow closer, Devane discovers that Beth is a woman of many secrets, but could one of them really be that she is the murderer he’s looking for.

Exclusive excerpt:

“Mrs. Bradshaw,” Devane walked into his modest home and she turned, her face so filled with concern, and relief, that he felt absurdly guilty for his absence when she’d arrived.

“So,” she murmured softly, “we are once again retreating to the safety of formality, my dear Inspector Devane.”

He caught the hint of dry humor in her tone and smiled.

“Of course not, love,” he said gently and closed the door, then joined her in the small sitting room they’d occupied a few nights earlier. “You look beautiful,” he whispered when he was standing only a couple of feet in front of her. He was able to see the shadows beneath her eyes, but the ethereal beauty that was inherent to her spirit still shone in spite of her weariness and sadness. She was dressed in dark jade silk this morning, again with the obligatory black lace trimming the dress, a reminder that she was a widow, and therefore in mourning; whether or not the grief was genuine paid little part in the necessity for her to play the correct role in their present drama, at least to some extent when she ventured out in public.

“Thank you,” she replied with equal softness. “You, Michael, do not, though.” She touched his arm, acutely and overly conscious of the texture of fine material as her fingers absently stroked it, and of the supple strength in the smooth length of muscle and sinew under the jacket. “Is there anything I can get to ease your pain, Michael?” she asked, seeing the dull presence lurking in his dark eyes. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?” she went on without pause for his response to the first query she’d made.

He laughed quietly, unable to stop the reaction.

“You are fussing like a distressed mother,” he remarked with gentle teasing.

She flushed red and he refused to let her turn away when she attempted to put distance between them in the small room. His hands on her arms caressed unconsciously, and she stared at him, green eyes both curious and confused.

“I only wished to help,” she answered his words, trying desperately not to succumb to the desire to step into his arms and forget everything her life had been before he’d so unexpectedly come into it and awakened her from a nightmare in which she’d grown too complacent. “Let me fix you a meal,” she requested with a smile, “and we can talk again.” 

“I don’t know if there’s anything...” he began, his eyes leaving her to look into his tiny kitchen. He rarely shopped for food. He rarely ate at all. It was all part of the addiction and its way of depleting the body of strength as effectively as it did the mind.

“Then we will go to a very fine café that I am familiar with,” she replied quickly. “The owner is an old friend, and we will be seated where no one can observe,” she added, seeing the doubt rise in his eyes for a moment, then vanish at her assurance of privacy. “I wouldn’t care if we were seen, Michael,” she told him, voice and eyes earnest and truthful. “I could never be ashamed to be at your side. Not as I was with my husband.”

The last statement made his heart ache with its poignancy, and the loss of innocence that nothing could restore to her.

“I would not risk your reputation,” he said, his hand on her chin tilting her head so she would face him directly again. “Not for any price.”

“I know.”

It was flutter of air between them, and Devane felt more than heard the words. He was startled when she stepped back and walked to the small table that was between the kitchen and the sitting room. She looked down at the assortment of bottles that littered the table’s surface, then selected one of them. When she returned to him, she handed him the bottle and he looked down at it, curiously ill at ease with her obvious knowledge of his addiction when he saw that she’d picked up the tonic that Sir William Gull had ‘prescribed’ for him during the Ripper case. Abberline had actually delivered the medicine to Devane after Gull had asked him to remain behind for a private word. Michael had been sent out ahead of his superior. It was to help restore the appetite that was stolen by the opium he smoked. Bethany Bradshaw clearly understood the significance of everything she had found on the table. He met her eyes, and found nothing but warmth and understanding in their deep green depths.

“How is it you understand the deprivations of opium addiction?” He didn’t want to ask. He couldn’t keep the words from pouring forth.

“Someone I loved once suffered greatly from his association with opium,” she replied after an instant of consideration for the query.

When she was disinclined to elaborate further, he nodded. After a brief hesitation, Devane swallowed a healthy dose of the bitter tonic, pocketed the bottle, then held out his arm for her. They left his flat in easy silence.

“My carriage is outside,” she said, “Percy will take us to the Café, if you are willing to be seen with me, Inspector,” she grinned as she spoke, a teasing challenge in her tone.

“I think I’ll risk it, Lady Bradshaw,” he replied, matching her tone.

Once they were underway, he looked across the carriage and saw she was still watching him, a wistful smile softening her features. When she saw he was observing her interest, the expression changed, and became one of polite warmth. He was exceedingly disappointed.

“Why did you want to see me?” he asked, finally coming to the reason for their present meeting.

She opened the small bag she carried and offered him the handkerchief he’d given her in the library of her home, after the torrential storm of her tears had passed and left them bonded much more intimately than was wise for either of them. He accepted the freshly washed and pressed handkerchief, tucked it in his pocket, and waited.

“Bethany?” he prodded when she seemed inclined to remain silent. He leaned forward, and saw the ashen features that had been so animated mere minutes prior to his query. He took her hands in his, felt the chill through her lace gloves, and his chest tightened painfully. “What is it, darling?” he coaxed, sincerely anxious when her agitation grew more evident.

“Last night,” she started, choosing her words with obvious difficulty and care. “Do you believe dreams show us things, Michael?” she asked, attention erratic, switching topics so swiftly, he blinked.

“Yes,” he answered her honestly. How could he not believe in dreams as visions of truth when much of his investigative brilliance was based on the abstract images of dreams and drug-induced vision.

If it was possible, the answer upset her further. He left his seat and settled next to her, keeping her hands held tightly between his.

“What have you seen?” he asked, filtering the probable answers through his brain even before she could reply. When she spoke again, she offered him the one possibility that he would never have guessed.

“Your death,” she murmured, voice heavy with dread. “Last night, in my dreams, I saw you die, Michael! You were alone, lying on a dark street...” She shuddered violently, closed her eyes, and tears slid from beneath the veil she’d hidden behind. “I know it is highly inappropriate, but I cannot help it,” she looked at him again, and finished, “I do not think I could bear your death, dearest.”

Devane was speechless for a few seconds, stunned by the revelation of both her nightmare and the depth of her sincere affection for him. Bethany clearly misinterpreted his silence; she pulled her hands from his grasp and stared at the other side of the carriage wall.

“You must think me a complete fool, Inspector,” she murmured bitterly. “Please accept my apology for the embarrassment I have...”

Devane reacted purely on instinct, cutting off the apology that hit him as an offense, not a deference to his feelings. He touched her cheek, turning her to face him. Before reason could censor his action, he touched his lips with hers, covering her mouth with a tenderness that had been missing from his heart since the early days of his marriage. Back when he and Evelyn had been in love and filled with hope. The kiss had been meant as a brief caress of reassurance, but the tentative touch slowly caught him and held, making him deepen the kiss further, turning it into a sensuous exploration of her mouth. The taste and scent of her filled his awareness and he leaned closer, holding her head, guiding her willing response as she sighed quietly and melted into his embrace.

It was several minutes before he withdrew, and seconds more before he knew what had pulled him out of the erotic languor that had seeped into his very bones. The carriage had stopped moving. He looked at Bethany, and she stared back, her expression a combination of wonder and confusion. He was puzzled by the emotions, but decided not to ask.

“Lady Bradshaw!”

Percival Vaughan’s anxiety laden voice reached them a moment before the carriage door was unceremoniously opened and the footman peered inside. Devane caught his attention instantly and was startled by the burning resentment that sizzled in the other man’s light blue eyes.

“I’m fine, Percy,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. “Really. Thank you for your concern.”

“I told you we was here, ma’am,” he stated quietly. “When you didn’t answer, I thought you’d fainted again.”

She winced at the reminder of the last time she’d ridden in a carriage with Devane, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the smile from curving his lips upward. She pretended not to notice his amusement.

“I’m sorry, Percy,” she apologized, quite unnecessarily. “The Inspector and I were discussing Robert’s death, and I truly didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he bowed his head in deference, and held the door open while Devane stepped from the carriage then turned to assist Bethany.

Devane caught the anger in Vaughan’s eyes again the instant his hand touched hers, but he made no outward appearance of having noted the emotion. Bethany stepped daintily onto the cobble-stoned walk, and asked Percy to return for them in approximately an hour. He nodded, slammed the carriage door shut with needless force, then climbed back into the driver’s seat. Devane felt the prickle of ice at the back of his neck as they approached the door to the café, and he glanced back, long enough to see Vaughan glaring at him with open hostility. The vehemence of the resentment struck Devane like a blow, then he entered the building and turned his attention to Bethany as she spoke quietly to a young man, asking for a private room. He clearly knew her and was happy to accommodate the request.

* * * *

Hours after they’d returned to Devane’s flat, Bethany worked quietly in the small kitchen, preparing a light meal for later in the evening. Devane had finally surrendered to his need for sleep, and periodically she would walk to his bedroom door and watch him. He was like a fragile angel when he slept, she thought, his smooth, angular features relaxed and at peace. The raven’s wing of his hair fell across his forehead, and his pale skin had less of the ash tone on it now. As she went to the door again to look at him, Bethany knew without doubt that she’d fallen deeply in love for the first time in her life. She knew with equal certainty that she would never forget this beautiful man, whatever happened in the coming weeks. He’d shown her kindness, compassion, and respect; all things with which her late husband had had little acquaintance.

Devane had told her to go home, making a half-hearted effort to observe the mandates of society. He had not insisted when she refused to acquiesce. She’d told him to go to bed, and promised she would be here when he woke. Since her presence seemed as much a comfort to him as his was to her, she knew she had been right to stand firm in her decision. She had told him she would cook, and after his initial skepticism had incited a small, if teasing exchange between them, he did go to his bed, and she to the kitchen. Percival had been sent for groceries, then dismissed once he’d delivered them.

She was setting the small table when a sharp banging on the door, it could hardly be called a knock, made her drop the cutlery she’d been placing. It clattered to the floor with a rattle, and she scowled at the door before walking over to open it. She backed up a few steps in automatic retreat when her father’s glowering countenance stared down at her.

“So, it is true!” he snarled, coming into the flat like a hunter stalking hapless prey. “Where is he?”

“Inspector Devane is sleeping, Father,” she said in a furious whisper. “Please keep your voice down, there is no need to shout!”

“No need to shout!” he roared. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Beth? I don’t give a damn if Devane is asleep or not. You, my girl, are leaving this flat at once!”

“I am going nowhere,” she stated quietly.

“What’s going on?”

They turned together when Devane appeared in the bedroom door, wrapped in a heavy robe, his eyes still dreamy with sleep and his hair an unruly rumple. Michael resisted the audacious, “Hello, darling,” that wanted to be tossed in Bethany’s direction, and focused on her outraged father instead.

“Mr. Davenshire,” he nodded in greeting. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

The courtesy was absurd, though the humor wasn’t lost to Bethany, who stifled a smile.

Davenshire puffed up like he would explode at any moment. His face reddened with the effort it took to keep from taking Devane by the throat.

“Are you trying to destroy my daughter’s reputation entirely, Devane?” he managed to grind the question out without shouting, barely. “She is a woman in mourning. A widow for less than a week, man! Where’s your sense of decency?”

Now it was Bethany who looked about ready to erupt with fury, and Devane was a great deal more concerned with her feelings than he’d been about her father’s indignation. He crossed the space in a few steps and shook his head in warning. She met his gaze squarely, and to his surprise, she smiled.

“This is between me and my father, Michael,” she stated softly.

Then, she turned her look to her father, and Devane felt helpless while he watched the mutation of her lovely features as she allowed herself the luxury of speaking freely, at long last. “Decency, father?” she queried, the ice in her voice was painfully cold.

The old man winced and Devane felt a moment of pity for him. His daughter was about to flay him with words and the young Inspector was fairly certain each slash of the verbal knife would be more than justified.

“You dare to speak to Inspector Devane about decency, when you sold me into slavery to Robert and his filthy demands!” She walked past Devane, who looked on in perverse fascination. “If I’d known someone like this man before I’d met Robert, I would have been lucky enough to have some happiness in my life. But,” she hesitated at the pale, shaken features of her father, then her voice softened very slightly, and she chose not to continue as she’d intended, “I can hardly blame you for what he did to me. Still,” she drew herself up straight and laced her fingers together in front of her, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Devane, seeking his strength, and finding it in the smile he offered her, “I will not have you destroy my friendship with the Inspector, Father. He is a good man and a good friend.”

“He’s a police inspector, Bethany!” Davenshire stated, frustrated and edgy in equal measure. “Meant to be investigating the death of your husband.”

“A job I am sure he is doing, Father,” she replied.

The defense angered the old man again, and Devane stepped forward to avert the wrath he knew was about to be unleashed. He needn’t have made the attempt.

“The only job he is doing, Bethany, is the successful enterprise of destroying your standing in society, while a murderer walks free!”

“I think you should leave now, Mr. Davenshire,” Devane interjected before they could say more things that would inflict wounds that might never heal between them.

Davenshire and Devane faced each other, both men measuring the strength in his opponent and discovering they were finely matched. It was Davenshire who broke the intense lock first, though. He turned to his daughter.

“Get your things, Bethany,” he ordered firmly. “We’re leaving.”

“I am...”

“Damn it, girl!” he roared, “do as you’re told or I’ll drag you out of here.” When she hesitated, her eyes going to Devane for guidance, Davenshire’s erratic temper snapped and he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her toward the door.

Bethany broke away and went to Devane’s side.

“Go with him for now, darling,” he advised quietly and kissed her temple, despite the smoldering rage in her father’s eyes.

She nodded, accepted his wisdom, and went to retrieve her cloak from the coat rack by the door. She left the flat ahead of her father, and Devane, who had crossed the room to place her cowled cape on her shoulders, spoke again, this time his hushed voice murmured to Davenshire. “Touch her again, and I’ll see you dead for what you’ve done to her.” It was a whisper of vehement fury. Davenshire actually paled slightly as he stared in open astonishment at the young police inspector. If he doubted Devane, there was no evidence of it in his mute acceptance of the very real threat the inspector had issued. Davenshire turned on his heel and followed his daughter.

Once he’d closed the door, Devane dragged his shaking hands through the thick tangle of his hair and decided to go back to bed for a few hours. The smell of the meal Bethany had prepared was pleasant, but not overly enticing to his temperamental stomach. He twisted the lock on his door and walked silently back to his bedroom.

Dropping his robe, Devane nestled between the still warm sheets of his bed. He fell asleep quickly, but his comfort was short-lived. Dreams invaded his mind again, the same erotic torments that were beginning to plague his subconscious on an almost nightly basis. Bethany Bradshaw’s supple body lured him into a tempest of passion-induced madness and he went to her eagerly, his entire being caught in the throes of hungry desire. Her hands and mouth were everywhere and he lay flat on his back, willing slave to her kisses and caresses...

Michael woke with a gasp, still caught in the tangled remnants of the dream and the twisted sheets that covered him. He flung the bedding aside as his body trembled under the assault of memory and longing. He groaned loudly and closed his eyes. His hand moved of its own volition, strong fingers curled around the pulsing heat of his erection and in his mind, as the motion of his stroking hand increased in momentum, he imagined Bethany sucking the smooth length of his shaft deep into her mouth...

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CONTEST is open only to those 18+ years old!

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Naughty Giveaway Day 1 - Simply The Best #RomFantasy

I thought we'd kick off this wild week with a look back at my very first full-length erotic novel. I've always been a lover of action shows, and thrillers, so when I decided to try my hand at writing 60K or so of sexy romance, this was the genre that presented itself. Max Richmonte is a man of many talents, he's alpha male to the core, military, and has no filter when it comes to giving voice to whatever he wants... something Kaylee Masterson is wholly unprepared for when he storms into her life and sweeps her into his world.


“What are you here for, Mr...” she hesitated when he tossed her a pointed look, then she relented. “Why are you here, Max? I doubt it was to discuss architecture or house design.”

He wasn’t totally certain himself why he’d sought her company. He’d told himself numerous times that it was sexual curiosity, that he wanted to sleep with her, nothing more. But Max wasn’t a man to lie, especially to himself, and he knew there was something about Kaylee Masterson that had gotten under his skin. He wanted her, yes, but it was more than that. He simply hadn’t discovered yet what it was he hoped to find in her. When he’d decided, on impulse, to come over to her house, he sure as hell hadn’t expected to find her draped in gauzy silk and standing in surroundings that made him think even more seriously about seducing her.

“I was going to ask if you’d like to give me a hand with my book-keeping,” he said, grabbing at the first remotely plausible thing that came into his mind.

She peered intently at him, measuring the truth in his words and finding none. Her nerves were screaming at her to get him out of the house before he really knew how deeply attracted to him she was. He suspected, she could feel that much, but he had no way of knowing how much of her time was preoccupied with every aspect of him. She didn’t want him to know.

“How did you find me, Mr. Richmonte?”

There it was again, Max thought, that smooth shift back to formality any time he made the slightest gesture of interest.

“Tommy remembered seeing your address in the notebook,” he offered, dodging the question without thinking. It was possible enough to be the truth, though, and she accepted it as such.

What else had Tommy seen in the book? She wondered, agitation becoming a tangible kind of panicked pain within her.

“I’m not really an accountant,” she offered with a weak smile. “Maybe you’d better consult someone who does know what they’re doing.”

He nodded, his gaze still wandering over the house, and the woman who occupied it.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Richmonte,” she began quietly. “But, if that’s all you wanted, I would like to be alone tonight.”

“Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asked, curious about her reaction more than her response. There it was, the near terror in her pale eyes as she considered his invitation, and her desire to accept it. The light grey of her gaze clouded, then the set of her jaw gave him his answer a moment before she politely declined, for the second time.

“What are you afraid of, Kaylee?” he questioned, refusing to be put off this time.

“Nothing,” she returned firmly. “I simply don’t want to see you socially, Max.”

“Because you’re afraid you might actually like me?” He grinned, and one eyebrow rose. “Or is it something a little more basic that’s scaring you?”

“There’s that word again,” she stated, voice little more than a whisper between them. “I am not afraid of you, Max Richmonte,” she asserted. “If you require some kind of proof, feel free to stay for awhile.”

“Thanks,” he grinned. “I’d like to.”

She groaned inwardly, but pasted a smile on her face and showed him fully into the living room. He dropped his tall, lean frame into a comfortable chair and looked up at her, that devastating smile coming into full play over his stunning features.

“How about a movie?”

She shook her head. “Do you like old radio shows?”

Max’s surprise brought a rush of sweet, feminine giggles from her and he watched her cross the room and switch the sound system over to tapes. She popped in a cassette, handed him a huge bowl of popcorn, and poured two glasses of red wine. She handed one to him, then dimmed the lighting again before settling on the couch adjacent to his seat in the armchair.

Max gave the old audio program half his attention, the other half was focused on the woman sitting a couple of feet away. She’d set aside the wine glass and was listening, her eyes closed. Her wrap had fallen open and he was drinking in the view of her breasts encased in the filmy silk and lace bodice of her gown. Her nipples were a dark shadow, and he watched them harden as he stared at her, as though her body was in perfect synch with his desire to touch her.

He left his chair, silent and graceful, and reseated himself next to her on the sofa. Her eyes opened and she looked at him, her breath a soft rush of air between them. Max leaned into her, his lips finding hers as he pulled her close to him. His tongue slipped into the wine-tainted warmth of her mouth, drawing her into the kiss, deepening it to something exquisitely erotic as he tasted and teased her. One hand held her head, the other glided over her until his fingers found the softness of her breast, and he began to stroke and caress, his fingers circling the taut nipple continuously.

Kaylee moaned softly when he began to squeeze her breast, and the sound mutated into a gasp of pleasure when he ended their kiss and both his hands caressed her, and tugged at her sensitive nipples. Max slid the wrap off her shoulders and slowly peeled away the clingy material that covered her skin. When her breasts were bared, he touched her again, shuddering at the intense hunger the feel of her soft tits in his hands was creating. He caught one of her dark buds in his teeth and nibbled, making her tremble and whisper his name. He licked at her nipples repeatedly, first one then the other, sucking intently, then hardly touching her. She was breathing so fast after a few minutes that he wondered if she was going to faint.

“Kaylee? Are you all right, honey?”

She nodded, and her passion bright eyes locked with his. “Why are you here, Max?”

“I want you, baby, isn’t that obvious?” His voice was rough with need, but gentle, too.

“You could have any woman you wanted,” she murmured. “You’re amazing. Why do you want me?”

Max laughed softly at her perplexity in her tone. “When was the last time you really looked at yourself, Kaylee? Jesus, baby! You’re the kind of beautiful most men lust after.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

His smile was indulgent. “Ridiculous? I’ve been called a helluva lot of things, but that one’s a first in this situation.”

“And what, precisely, do you think this situation is?”

“Well.” He smiled, one eyebrow quirked in teasing humor. “I’m hoping this situation is about to evolve into you... me... and all kinds of wonderful...”

To make his point, one hand disappeared under her gown and she tensed slightly, eyes wide with combined anticipation and a shade of uncertainty.

“I don’t think I want this to happen like this, Max.”

Max’s other hand slid behind her back and he eased her toward him. He lifted her and turned, settling into the sofa cushions as he put her astride his hips. Her fingers curled over his shoulders and she looked down at herself, the reaction unconscious. She bit her bottom lip at the sight; her naked breasts dangling before him, his hands barely visible beneath the sheer silk of her gown. He was stroking her thighs now, his caress slow and seductive.

“Tell me what you want, honey.”

She shook her head and he bent to take a nipple between his lips. He opened his mouth wider and she gasped loudly when he began to suck the entire peak of her breast, his tongue flicking furiously at the pebble hard point. Her body convulsed a moment later when the sensation of his mouth on her was overshadowed by the dizzying pleasure of his fingers buried in the tight channel between her legs.

“Tell me what you want, Max,” she repeated his words, and he saw the surge of power and challenge in her eyes when he lifted his head and locked his gaze with hers.

“What I want?” His voice was a textured, gravelly purr of sensuous hunger. “What I want, Kaylee Masterson, is to fuck you until you can’t walk without thinking about what it felt like to have my cock so far inside you that you want to scream.” Passion lit in her eyes and he could see how turned on she was by his words. He let them keep coming. “I want to shove my dick into your dripping little pussy, over and over again, baby.” He was punctuating every syllable with his hand, his fingers moving in and out of her tight heat, the sounds slick and wet, so exciting he wondered if he’d be able to exert any real control over his lust.

“What then?” She was fucking his fingers now, her hips meeting him thrust for thrust. He knew she was close to an amazing, intense orgasm. He also knew that she didn’t give a damn what he said, as long as he kept on talking, probably telling her things no man had ever uttered to her.

“Then,” he let his fingers slip free of her, and began to stroke her wet slit, his thumb slowly caressing her pulsing clit. “I want you to suck me, Kaylee. I want my cock in your mouth, honey, and your finger up my ass. Do you think you can do that for me, baby? Make me so crazy I lose control.”

She shuddered as she came, suddenly and so violently she almost fell off the sofa. Her choking moan muffled as she leaned forward, her head against his, foreheads touching. Max didn’t give her much time to recover, he moved again, sitting her on the sofa cushions. He stood up, unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, and hissed in relief at the easing of the pressure in his crotch. He shed his clothes quickly and smiled at the appreciation in her eyes when she took a long look at him.

“You’re as gorgeous as I knew you’d be, Max,” she told him, voice husky and seductive.

“Spread your legs for me, Kaylee,” he directed, enjoying the sexy image she presented to him, with her silky gown draped around her, her beautiful tits with their jutting peaks begging for his mouth again. She started to stand, no doubt to remove the gown, but he shook his head. “Leave it, honey.” She grinned at him and pulled the material up around her waist like a cloud of shimmering gauze. When she spread her legs wide and parted her folds to his hungry gaze, Max’s hand closed on his cock and he started to stroke his rigid length as he walked toward her. She was caressing herself, her middle finger slipping in and out of the wet tunnel between her thighs, the sound soft and slick, making the head of his cock weep an oozing bead.

Kaylee smiled and pushed herself off the sofa. He stopped and she knelt in front of him. Max’s breath escaped him as a hiss of sound when her tongue licked the swollen head of his cock, flicking rapidly at the tiny slit as it continued to spill droplets of moisture that she eagerly lapped up. She pushed his hands away and his knees shook when she began to massage between his thighs, squeezing carefully, rubbing with precise gentleness. Her wet finger, sticky with her own orgasm, stroked the sensitive strip behind his balls, slowly making her way to the tight hole that was her target zone. Max groaned softly and his hands tangled in her hair, holding her while he pushed his cock deeper into her mouth. She started sucking and his heart pounded so loudly that he wondered if she could actually hear it.

Her finger was probing delicately and Max was sure his legs were going to give out if she penetrated him. He was willing to risk it, he decided, and spread his legs wider, using the shift in position to anchor him to the floor. The pressure of her mouth was an exquisite torture, and her tongue was twirling around the throbbing head of his dick, finding the spots that made him tremble, lingering over them until he was gasping and pushing deeper into her throat. She opened her mouth wider, took him in as far as she could, and sucked harder. Her finger slid into him, the sensation electric as it shot unbelievable pleasure to every nerve ending he possessed. He felt like he was going to explode, not just in her throat but into about a million flames of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Fighting down the orgasm that was about to burst from him, Max pulled her away. He shivered when her finger slipped free of him and she stared in surprise from her position on the floor.

“I want to be buried to the hilt in your pussy when I come, baby,” he told her, barely recognizing the rasp of his voice.

Before she could reply, the sound of his cellphone ringing brought reality crashing back. The stereo had gone silent without notice, and the sudden stillness in the room was shocking...

CONTEST is open only to those 18+ years old!

Monday, April 14, 2014

Guest: Kate Hill @KateHillRomance #RomFantasy

Welcome to my guest Kate Hill. We're going to start with a short interview, then she'll share a bit about her latest book with us! 

Has writing been something you always did, or was it a discovered talent that came to you at a later point?
I've been writing for as long as I can remember. When I was sixteen I started submitting stories for possible publication. It took about ten years before one of my stories (an erotic vampire tale) was accepted.

Do you remember how it felt when you were offered that first contract? What emotions stand out in your memory?
I couldn't believe one of my stories had finally been picked up by a publisher (Circlet Press). It felt terrific!

Is this a first book, part of a series, or the latest in a long line of many?
My latest vampire series is Weapons of Redemption. The series has five stories in all. While they can be read alone, the books are connected by a story arc.

What is the oddest thing that’s happened to you since you chose to become a professional writer?
Will it ever make it into a book, or is that a secret? That's a hard question! I can't think of anything that's too odd that's happened to me, but I tend to be an odd person in general so I guess odd is subjective!

Do you have your next book underway, or other titles in the planning stages?
Right now I'm working on the last book in my Daring Domanicos series. It's about three daredevil brothers--a lifeguard, a firefighter and a bounty hunter--who find their soul mates.

Do you have a favourite genre and why? Is it one you write in, read in, or both?
I love romance and horror. Sometimes together and sometimes separate! I write many sub-genres of romance and I also enjoy writing horror and hope to someday be published in that genre.

What, to you, is the most exciting part of the writing process? Does it change from book to book or remain the same?
For me the most exciting part is getting to know the characters. When new characters start "telling" me their story, it's always a thrill. I love preparing for the story as well as writing it.

If you could co-author a book with anyone, who would you choose and why? What kind of book do you think would come from the collaboration?
Honestly, I don't think I'd do well co-authoring a book. I really prefer to work alone until it's time for the critique and editing process. I'm a bit of a control freak. LOL!

Where can readers find you on the web?

Thank you!

Thanks so much for being my guest, Kate. And now, let’s have a look at your book:

Weapons of Redemption 4: Marksmen by Saloni Quinby
(M/M Erotic Vampire)


Ansley and Brayden were stolen as boys by the hated vampire pirate, Tarun, to work aboard his ship. As men, their friendship blossomed into a deep, undeniable love. They've built a life together and their home is the headquarters for the brotherhood of five rebels who broke free of their hated master. In the final battle between the vampire pirate and the Weapons of Redemption, Ansley and Brayden's love for each other will either save or destroy them.


“Brayden.” Ansley turned to face his lover. Scratches marked Brayden’s arms and chest. The fang marks on his neck still oozed blood, the flesh around the punctures bruised from the force of Ansley’s bite. Guilt washed over him, then rage.

Brayden stared at him with calm blue eyes that expressed only love.

“I’m so sorry,” Ansley said in a strained whisper. His fingertips caressed Brayden’s neck, hovering over the vicious bite marks.

Brayden took his hand and kissed his palm. “It’s all right, Ansley. Everything will be all right now.”

“No, it won’t. We’re stuck here with Tarun and --”

Brayden silenced him with a kiss, then whispered against his lips, “We’re together. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“We’ll worry about that later.”

The door opened and two guards entered. Both wore black. One had cropped red hair. The other’s scalp was smooth shaven.

“Master Tarun wants us to show you to your room,” said the bald guard.

“Give us a minute to get dressed,” Brayden said, reaching for their discarded clothes.

“Take all the time you need. We’ll be outside,” said the redhead before both guards left.

“What do we do now?” Ansley asked.

“Go to our room and enjoy Tarun’s hospitality.”

“He hasn’t been very hospitable.”

“I think that might change.”

“Brayden, what’s gotten into you?”

“A dose of good sense. Just follow my lead. I think it’s time we make some changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

Taking Ansley’s face in his hands, Brayden said, “You’ll see. Will you follow me?”

“Anywhere you lead, as always.”

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Let the fun begin, it's time to get naughty! #RomFantasy

Today begins a ten day look back at some of the older titles in my catalogue. I've chosen some of the sexiest stories I've ever written, and will select special, exclusive excerpts for the run of this contest. You don't have to buy a book to enter, of course, but I hope you find something you like in the coming days. Once my special guest has been featured tomorrow, the posts from my books will begin.

BUT, to kick off the fun, have a peek at the fine assets of my friend, cover model John Quinlan - that should get you in the mood for some naughty fun!


The first book we'll look at is TEXAS HEAT, so stay tuned for that. AND, this is the prize that will be given away at the end of the contest:

CONTEST is open only to those 18+ years old!

Friday, April 4, 2014

Welcome Lucy Felthouse - Giveaway! @cw1985 #RomFantasy

My guest today is Lucy Felthouse, a very cool lady and a talented author. I hope you enjoy getting to know her a little better, as well as her books! She's also having a giveaway, so don't forget to enter!!

Has writing been something you always did, or was it a discovered talent that came to you at a later point?
I’ve been writing ever since I could use a pen. As a child, I was always telling people that I’d be an author when I grew up. Of course, when I grew up I realised that nobody was going to throw money at me, allowing me to sit and write when I felt like it. However, after being dared to write an erotic story, I found my genre and have never looked back!

Do you remember how it felt when you were offered that first contract? What emotions stand out in your memory?
I was insanely excited when my first story was published. It was in a magazine which is sadly no longer around, but it was a very, very exciting time. I told everyone that would listen that I was going to be published. And as for when I actually saw my story in print... well, I bet you can imagine how happy I was! I don’t run around telling everyone anymore, but the feeling of happiness when someone says yes to a piece of your work never gets old.

Is this a first book, part of a series, or the latest in a long line of many?
Letters to a War Zone was written as a standalone story, but there’s no reason why I couldn’t continue the characters’ story. I guess we’ll have to wait and see what the reactions are to the piece :D

I’m only just getting into series writing as I’ve found it pretty daunting, but I’ll definitely be writing more series books in the future. I have several ideas bubbling around in my brain.

What is the oddest thing that’s happened to you since you chose to become a professional writer? Will it ever make it into a book, or is that a secret?
I’m very lucky in that I have many fellow erotica and erotic romance writers that I consider to be friends, not just colleagues. It’s always a fun experience when we get together—the conversations are filthy, hilarious and cause havoc when overheard by other people. Some examples include: “I want a golden shower,” “he asked for some adult nappies” and “she set me up for anal fisting.” And no, those won’t be making it into books.

Do you have your next book underway, or other titles in the planning stages?
I’m always writing something. Usually several things, actually. At the moment I’m working on a short story and also a co-authored novel, and I’m preparing to edit the novel I finished a couple of months back. I have a constant queue of things to write—I never stop!

Do you have a favourite genre and why? Is it one you write in, read in, or both?
I really like reading and writing erotica and erotic romance. I enjoy it because it feels so real—you can tell any kind of story but you don’t have to stop at the bedroom door if and when characters get there. That wouldn’t happen in real life, so I like it when it doesn’t happen in fiction.

What, to you, is the most exciting part of the writing process? Does it change from book to book or remain the same?
I absolutely love it when I get good feedback on my work. Probably my favourite comment to date is from a reader that said my book was her ultimate fantasy and that she couldn’t put it down. On top of that, she also said that her partner kept reading it over her shoulder instead of watching football. What higher compliment can there be?!

If you could co-author a book with anyone, who would you choose and why? What kind of book do you think would come from the collaboration?
I’m very lucky in that I’ve already co-authored projects. My good friend Lily Harlem and I co-authored Grand Slam, a BDSM sports romance novel, which is now part of a series which we’re hoping to get back to soon. I hope we’ll continue working together—and, as for what kind of books will come from our collaboration, we both write a wide variety of stuff, so it could be anything!

I’m also co-authoring with another of my good friends, Victoria Blisse. We’re penning a contemporary erotic romance called The Billionaire and the Wild Man. It’s set in the Peak District in Derbyshire, my favourite place on earth, and we’re having real fun with it. Our senses of humour and writing styles are pretty similar, so we keep making each other laugh when we pass chapters back and forth – in a good way!

In an ideal world, I’d love to co-author with each of my fellow Brit Babes, but we’re all so insanely busy with various projects that I don’t know if it’ll ever happen. But two out of seven isn’t bad!

Thanks so much for having me.
Happy Reading!
Lucy x


When lonely insurance broker, Bailey, gets himself a new hobby, he ends up exchanging letters with a war zone. But he’s not expecting what happens next…

Bailey Hodgkiss is lonely and dissatisfied with his boring life as an insurance broker. In an attempt to insert some variety, he signs up to a website to write to serving soldiers. He’s put in touch with Corporal Nick Rock, and over the course of a couple of letters, the two of them strike up a friendship. They begin to divulge their secrets, including their preference for men.

Nick encourages Bailey to add more interests to his life. As a result, Bailey picks up his forgotten hobby, photography, and quickly decides to team it up with his other preferred interest, travel.

Booking a holiday to Rome is his biggest gesture towards a more exciting existence, and he eagerly looks forward to the trip. That is, until Nick says he’s coming home on leave, and it looks as though their respective trips will prevent them from meeting in person. Is there enough of a spark between them to push them to meet, or will their relationship remain on paper only?


After clicking all the available links on the website to find out more about it, Bailey decided to go ahead and sign up. He’d never know what it was really like unless he gave it a go.

He’d read about the site in an article somewhere, about how it linked people with serving soldiers, pilots, marines and sailors in order to write to them. It had been proven that receiving mail—even from someone they didn’t know—improved military morale. It sounded like a damn good use of time to Bailey, and it would be interesting, too.

He began typing his details into the online form. Of course, the chances were that he’d be paired up with a man, given the ratio of males to females in the forces. It didn’t matter, though. He could still exchange letters with a guy, become friends. It seemed like such an old-school way to communicate with someone, given how technology had come on over the years, but at least it was different. Perhaps it would give him something in his life to look forward to, something other than getting up, showering, going to work, coming home, eating, watching television and going to bed. The watching television—and even the eating—were occasionally replaced by nights out with friends or seeing family. Weekends were spent cleaning, washing clothes, gardening and odd jobs. Dull stuff, in other words.

He had an utterly mundane life, and Bailey knew it. It wasn’t even as if his job was exciting. Insurance broking was hardly thrilling, game-changing, or going to save the world. He didn’t expect having a pen pal to change his entire life, but it would certainly break the monotony. Hopefully.

He went through the various steps to fill in his details and create a profile, then continued right through to the information on actually writing and sending the letters. It looked straightforward enough.

His mind made up, Bailey immediately went in search of a pen, some nice paper and an envelope. Armed with a print out of exactly what to do when the letter was finished, he settled down at the kitchen table. Instantly, his mind went blank. What the fuck was he meant to say? He didn’t know any soldiers or other military personnel, didn’t know anything about their lives, other than there was a great deal more to it than shooting people and being shot at. His own existence was so fucking boring that he didn’t want to write about it. Unless there were any insomniacs in Afghanistan—telling them about his day would solve that particular condition right away.

After chewing on his biro until it broke, covering his lips and chin with ink, Bailey replaced it, resolving to try harder. He’d tell his pen pal the bare essentials about himself, then ask lots of questions about them and their work. That was bound to rustle up some conversation.

That decided, he began to write, absentmindedly swiping at his inky skin with a tissue. He’d have to scrub it off when he was done with the note. His wrist and hand had begun to ache before he was halfway down the page. He rolled his eyes. He sat on his arse at a desk all day, using a computer. As a result, even writing something short by hand was hard work! There was no way he was going to divulge that particular piece of information to someone that was willing to lay down their life to protect their country.

He just about managed to fill a single side of the A5-sized paper. And that was only because he’d formed large letters and spaced his words and lines out plenty. But he tried not to worry—at least he’d finished it, his first letter to a war zone.

He read through it carefully, relieved to find no mistakes. He’d forgotten how much more difficult—and messy—errors were on the written page. Computers let you edit and rewrite to your heart’s content. No correction fluid or crossings-out necessary.

Finally, he addressed the envelope. It felt like the longest address ever. The area and country was bad enough, even without including the soldier’s name and BFPO address. But it was done—Bailey Hodgkiss had penned a missive to Corporal Nick Rock, currently stationed at Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

Now he’d just have to post it and wait for a reply. The website had said his missive would take between one and three weeks to reach Corporal Rock. Then he had to allow for time for him to read it and send a reply. It could be around six weeks before he heard anything. If he heard anything at all.

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 Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: