Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Santa's Smutty Elves (Romance Reader Appreciation Event!)



Christmas.

There have been years, I confess, when Christmas seemed a dirty word to me. Between trying to scrape up the money to buy gifts and traveling the length of two states, often on the Big Day itself, in a futile attempt to make all the relatives happy, I frequently longed for it to be over--or never arrive. The best day of the holidays tended to be the day AFTER Christmas, when all I had to do was burn the ripped wrapping paper and crumpled bows and try to avoid stepping on the small pieces of already-broken gifts my kids left strewn about.

Things are different now, for me, but I suspect many of you are already longing for the hectic, headlong, holiday hustle to be over. Some of you will shop the day-after specials, braving the crowds to go bargain-hunting.

I'm looking for the rest of you.

I'm seeking those who want nothing more than to relax and find something fun--and free--to do while  your menfolk watch football. If you have an e-reader, or have one on your list, then allow me the privilege of helping you put new books on it.

I'm planning a huge, kick-off-your-shoes-and-unhook-your-bra romance e-book giveaway party on Facebook, from 10 am ET until midnite on December 26th.

Yep. Nothing will be sold. My author friends and I are giving back to our readers--old and new. Jump into quickie contests and win new books for your reading enjoyment. Hang out in the room and chat about all the things you love about romance novels, meet the authors and publishers, and generally unwind.

Don't have an e-reader? No problem, there is free software galore that will let you read in the Cloud, on your PC, tablet, or Smartphone.

So no excuses. Join the event page and prepare to have fun while Santa's Smutty Elves stuff those electronic devices with stories.

Hope to see you there. I'll be the general emcee, in the room all day. That alone has to be worth the price of admission. <grin> I even wrote a poem, just for the event:

'Twas the day after Christmas and I'd spent down to my last ounce,
The kids were hyper and ready to pounce.
My pockets were empty, my new Kindle was too,
Oh what in the world is a poor mother to do?


Hubby in his recliner and me in my flannel
I thought I might scream if he flipped one more channel.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
But a room full of authors, bringing good cheer.

They wore naughty grins and one crooked a finger
"Come over here, so we might linger
Christmas is done, but the fun's just beginning
We're giving you e-books and want you to leave grinning!

"Books filled with smut and good, sexy stories,
we want you to read of our heroes glories!"
"Why would you do this?" I ask in surprise
"There must be a catch to this fabulous prize."

"Nay" they replied with eyes that did wink,
"We'd just like you to read, and to know what you think!
So we're giving you books to brighten a cold winter's night,
in hopes you might tell your friends of the ones you did like!"

"So pull up a chair and ignore all the groaning and shouting
if hubby's football team is getting a routing.
For in this room we will celebrate falling in love,
And you won't even need to shave your legs, my little doves.

"That's all there is to it, it's really quite simple,
All you need is a love of romance and a PC, a Nook, or a Kindle.
We'll have some fun contests, we'll show off our blurbs,
to help keep you from kicking your spouse to the curb."

"We're offering our words; warm, loving and tender
imaginary men so brave and alpha, you're certain to shiver
Tied up in sex scenes sure to make your heart quiver.
and wrapped up in dramas so intense you might cry a river."

"Come make new friends and find some new faves,
enter a contest, 'like' an author's page.
For romance isn't dead and neither is friendship,
We treasure each reader and we're here for the kinship."

"Smut isn't bad, nor vivid images of sexual positions,
If your love life heats up, then we've accomplished our missions.
But above all I say, on behalf of this merry crew,
DEAR READER OF ROMANCE, WE APPRECIATE YOU!"

I heard all that groaning! My parties are much better than my poetry, I promise.

(NOTE: There are still plenty of open slots for authors. The sign-up sheet is linked in the event room.)


Sunday, November 18, 2012

Sawdust and Comfort ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday


Six more from Incidental Contact.



Snorting aloud, Amy rose on her toes and tossed the huge towel over the top of the rail holding the shower curtain before adjusting the water temperature. As though every woman in town hadn't tried to 'comfort' Eric De Marco? Now that Daniel and Colton were off the relationship market, competition was sure to increase for the last unattached De Marco brother. This year would likely be a banner one for adding new notches to his bedpost. Assuming he had any bedposts left. Rumor had it the man was a sex machine. If he actually carved notches in his bedposts, he probably had to suck up the sawdust with a Dyson and buy a new bed every six months. 
Thanks for dropping in. please visit the original Six Sentence Sunday blog to find more six sentence excerpts from other authors.



Sunday, November 11, 2012

Barter ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday


Six more from Incidental Contact


"Lila said not to expect cash for rent," he informed her, his sexy grin seeming to grow hotter. "Maybe we can work out some kind of barter."
Barter.
Amy's normally agile mind went completely blank. An image of the frozen doe she'd dodged when driving down the remote private road leading to the cabin the night before morphed into her head.
"I… um… I suck at c-c-ooking," she finally stammered.

Thanks for dropping in. Have a great week! 


Friday, November 9, 2012

When a Soldier Cries ~ Men of the Military Giveaway Hop


Photobucket

 The winner of a copy of Wildly Inappropriate is: Catherine Lee!
Link to drawing result: http://www.dsrw.org/~dlg/web/straws.php?action=static&static=2b600c424c2360fcb196a9db23b8659f&date=20121116


Men of the Military Giveaway Hop


I wrote a story with a military hero. In fact, of everything I've written to date, that story is my favorite It's called When a Soldier Cries and when I joined this hop, I expected it would be released by now. I parted ways with the publisher who had accepted it, and it will be 2013 before that story makes it to press. To stay informed on the story's status, you can join the blog, sign up for e-mail updates, join my Facebook page, or add me on Twitter.


(unedited excerpt)

Sure, steady movements of his wonderful fingers had chills chasing hot flashes up her torso as her back began to bow. She teetered on the edge of something dark and wonderful, but scary in its unfamiliarity. Anthony had never spent much time touching her this way. By now he’d be ordering her to turn over, just as it was starting to feel good, but a part of her feared what she’d never felt before. What was he doing to her? Strong sensations began to resonate in her pussy as she began to squirm, instinctively trying to hold onto her self-control, yet wanting more. “Don’t stop.”
 Which one of them was she talking to? 
He didn’t stop. Time disappeared. All there was to her world was his mouth and his hand and the pleasure they evoked as she writhed, instinctively still trying to escape, but he wasn’t letting her go. His fingers sped up, driving her toward some dark and unknown place.
She wanted more. She wanted less. She didn’t know what she wanted, but whatever it was, she sensed he knew, and he was about to give it to her. She grabbed onto the sheets with both hands. She had to hold onto something or she else she was going to spin off into space, but who was that shrieking ‘ohmigodohmigodohmiGOD’?  Tori didn’t know, couldn’t care, then lost her ability to hear at all as the darkness exploded into bright, vivid shards of red and blue and green while sharp waves of pleasure detonated inside her. Ruthless, diabolical,wonderful man that he was, he didn’t let her catch her breath before she felt one large finger slide through the wetness of her slit, both heightening and relieving the blissful ache that had settled there. Her hips instinctively pushed toward the invasion, needing something inside her with a desperation she’d never felt, and a frustrated cry escaped as he held back, refusing to push into her.
He raised his head. She cried aloud at the loss of his mouth on her nipple. The expression of male pride on his face made the forfeit bearable as he gazed at her, his expression every bit as heated as the slickened muscles she was tightening inside her core, silently urging him to give her what she needed as she pushed herself toward his hand. His finger retreated, and he chuckled at the exasperated sound she made.
“How long, peaches?  How long has it been for you, Tori?” His finger circled her opening slowly. Tease.
She wasn’t sure which of two possible questions he was asking. Intense feelings of gratitude and need swept over her, and in their wake, she blurted out the shameful truth. “Three years. Never. Never like that.”
****
Tanner studied her from her flushed face to the pale curls covering her mound as he began to work his finger inside her. She was unbelievably snug, yet the tightness of her flesh around his invading finger bore out her shocking statement. Three years?  His cock was a column of agony, but he’d be damned if he was going to try entering her until he’d stretched her a bit. Hell if he’d hurt her.
He’d never felt humbled by the gift of a woman’s body before, but he knew that was what this was, a gift he hadn’t earned, and that feeling of awe kept rolling through him. The most important thing to him now became giving her the most possible pleasure; he’d get his. Rotating his wrist, he pushed deeper as he felt along her upper wall for the spongy bit that some women had, grinning again when he felt hers. Slowly stroking it, he watched her intently, adding a second finger when she was writhing beside him, tearing at her abused sheets again.
The sexy sight of her, off-balance and completely under his control detonated heavy throbs in his cock, demanding he fuck her, but her confession challenged him to give her more, tempted him to see how high he could make her fly. He was never going to forget her, so goddammit, she wasn’t gonna forget him either.
Semper fucking Fi, he thought with a tight grin, assigning himself a brand-new mission. He’d never in a million years have guessed the cool little doc was a screamer, but he was a long damn way from having heard enough of her cries. If he’d ever met a woman who downright needed to lose control, it was Tori.


Meanwhile, I'm giving away a copy of my current release, Wildly Inappropriate, to a random commenter. You must leave a valid e-mail address in order to be entered into the drawing. Thanks for dropping in! 





Sunday, November 4, 2012

Pierced ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday



Six more from Incidental Contact.


Working toward her mouth with his lips, he eased the palm of his other hand down her spine, over the curve of her ass, seeking her slit. With his middle finger, he pierced her slick little cunt roughly. At the same time, he pushed past her lips. He thrilled at the vibration of her moan against his invading tongue; his heart soared at the way she pushed back onto his hand. Her pussy was so tight he could barely get a finger inside her. 

Thanks for dropping in. Don't forget to return to the main Six Sentence Sunday blog for more six sentence excerpts from other authors. Have a great week!


Saturday, November 3, 2012

What to Do With a Two-Timing Muse #nanowrimo

Wouldn't you know it? Just about the time I had a good start on Carmine Club Chronicles, my muse starts blathering about an interracial menage that's been circling in my belfry for a while.

Here's the start. Hopefully, this will shut her up enough to let me finish up the last chapter of Incidental Contact later today, then get back to finding out what Cam does at the auction about to take place at Carmine House.



Honeysuckle and Vellum

Chapter One

(unedited and subject to deletion) 
Bailey
Seated in Gracie's section, I frowned at the woman who wasn't Gracie when she heated my coffee. Gracie Rogers was the only reason I came to this diner-slash-convenience store combo right off the interstate.  Lush figure. Long brown hair.  Eyes the color of cinnamon, as soft-looking as the rest of her.  My father wouldn't dirty his tongue by saying  her name. I knew that was a large part of my attraction to her.

People say a man can't outrun his father. I'd spent the last ten years trying, and hadn't yet given up. My old man's a vulture. Oh, he dresses in fine suits and his shirts are always starched, but his puffed-up chest is lined with dark feathers and the heart beating inside is that of a carrion bird's. Not an eagle, as he might have people believe. An eagle will attack live prey. A vulture waits till his prey is disabled or dead. My father is a torts attorney. In layman's terms, he's an ambulance chaser, and he excels at his job.

Me? I graduated law school a few months back. Whenever people ask me when I plan to start practicing law, I tell 'em I'm waiting to hear back from my application to med school. They laugh, but it's the truth.

For the last two weeks, the uppermost thing on my mind had been Gracie. I heard her childish voice in my sleep. Dreamed about settling in between her round thighs for a long, slow fuck. Imagined her full breasts in my hands while I sucked on her nipples. Saw her generous ass turned up and waiting for my cock.

I had it bad for Gracie. Tonight—or rather, in the morning when she got off shift— I planned to go home with her and fuck her right off my mind. My plan wasn't elegant. I was gonna sit here all night, just talking and flirting till she got off, just before sunrise.

I figured there was only one obstacle to the success of my plan, and he was just comin' through the door. The small restaurant section was full. Virgil Tate surveyed each booth. Better to keep your enemies close, my father said. I stood, indicating the unoccupied seat across the table. When he saw me, his white teeth flashed in a sardonic smile and he strolled down the aisle, headed my way.

He moved like a panther, all sinew and muscle. He'd had those muscles before he spent three years in Cross Anchor Correctional.  Momentarily forgetting Gracie, I recalled cheering for Virgil when he caught touchdown passes at the university that had recently handed me my law degree.

Gracie
As soon as I crossed the railroad tracks, I saw that the only working phone booth between my house and the diner was occupied. I couldn't go to work without making the phone call. I knew I'd never be able to focus. When I didn't focus, my tips were bad. I needed to make decent money tonight. My power bill was overdue. Downtown had been closed for hours so I had no trouble parking along the street. The air conditioning didn't work in my old Grand Am. Not much on the dash worked, actually, including the clock. I picked up my cell phone, just to check the time.  Nine minutes after eight. Time to spare.

To my right, on the other side of the tracks, the elegant steeple of the First Baptist church pierced the setting sun. Sweat dampened the band of my bra, making it bite into my flesh. Reaching into the low neckline of my uniform, I eased my finger beneath one strap, caressing the permanent and tender ditch on one shoulder. The gesture only made the strap seem to dig in more. Sweat trickled between my breasts. My pantyhose felt like medieval armor.

It wasn't a whole phone booth with folding glass doors, but rather one of those half-booths that hung from a post. The kid on the phone reminded me of one of my favorite customers at the diner. It must've been the color of his skin, because when he glanced over his shoulder, the boy looked nothing like Virgil Tate. For one thing, Virgil had stunning light green eyes. They looked like jade, though I’d only seen jade in magazines. 

The brown-eyed kid flashed me the peace sign, then turned his back. Lifting a glass Dr. Pepper bottle off the ledge beneath the drug store window, he took a long swallow. The machine inside the drug store still sold soft drinks in glass bottles. They were a real treat on a hot day and they were only fifty cents.

Maybe sixteen, I decided. He had the arrogant stance of a grown man, the smooth, hairless skin of a child, and his pants threatened to fall down any minute. He turned around again, moving his feet this time so I saw more of him. Heavy gold chains dangled over his sleeveless white T-shirt. The charms proclaimed his interests. A Mercedes symbol. A handgun. A bulldog. The car he wanted to drive, the life he pretended to lead, and his high school mascot, I guessed. He didn't look like a thug. He just looked like a kid wanting to fit in.

I wasn't afraid of him. I'd learned it was the men I knew that I needed to fear. Not strangers. He wasn't talking. Over the ticking motor of the Grand Am, I heard nothing. He kept glancing around, as though I bothered him. Thumping bass made him turn in the opposite direction. I looked up, too.

Coming over the hill beside the railroad tracks, the front end of a small pickup truck caught the setting sun, momentarily blinding me. A grinding sound worthy of my old junker rent the peaceful dusk. I recognized the sound made by bad brakes. The driver was slowing, I guessed, for the lower speed limit through downtown. This was prime time for getting a speeding ticket. One of the town's two patrol cars was sure to be close by. My vision cleared. The truck lurched. I saw an elbow sticking out of the window. I wasn't the only one without air conditioning, looked like. The metallic paint on the truck matched Virgil's eyes.

That notion made my heart speed up.

Heads popped up above the cab of the truck. Four, I thought I counted. Something arced through the air. I physically flinched.

Virgil
The truck stop served fresh vegetables that weren't cooked to mush. I never knew how much I liked my vegetables fresh until I had to eat the shitty, overcooked ones they serve in prison. When they bother to serve 'em at all.

Working late to finish and deliver a couch so I could pick up the money, I'd managed to end up here at what appeared to be prime time. Every booth was occupied. Faces looked up at me, all colors of faces. For one painful moment, I recalled a sea of faces in the stands, first on Friday nights back in high school, when I knew I'd have my choice of pussy after the game, win or lose. Then on Saturdays in college, bigger crowds, but not as big as the ones I lusted to see.

Since I'd played in my first pee wee football game at the age of five, I'd dreamed of little else but going pro.

I almost made it.

I took deep breaths and refused to let my sore hands curl into fists, remembering.  Agents and recruiters were always in the stands my junior year at the University of South Carolina, watching me. Evaluating me, just as the upturned faces in this place evaluated me. One by one, these faces looked away, same as them recruiters turned away. 

Now, instead of running passing routes, I ran a sewing machine. I forced covered buttons through stiff leather instead of forcing my way through linesmen. People didn’t stand in line to see me play nowadays. Folks didn’t move over in their booths, waving for me to come sit beside 'em, competing for the contact celebrity being seen with me brought. No one used my name as a hashtag on Twitter any more, unless the post made liberal use of the word 'loser'. The unkind ones used the word 'rapist', though I'd never forced a woman in my life. Looking for their own kind of celebrity, I reckon. Didn't make it any easier to take.

After the three hard years I served at Cross Anchor for a rape I never committed, I came out lookin' at men with the same interest as women. Hell, maybe I'd looked at men all along. Considering how much time I'd spent in the gym and bathing in locker rooms equipped with group showers, I'd seen more'n my share of cock. There was one guy lookin' at me still, a white dude. He didn’t look either friendly or unfriendly.  He just looked. Maybe I'd get laid tonight after all. No self-respecting white guy would cry rape. Not in this state. Not that I planned to rape the guy. I just wanted a place to sit down and eat. I could suppress my other hungers, same as I suppressed my rage. For now.

For now, I couldn’t afford to think about the way that lyin' bitch posted her apology on my social profile page, like the attention-whore she was. Couldn't think about the hole I'd punched through the wall after I read it, since that damn apology was why I was free now. Couldn't let myself feel the rage building up in me over the way people kept posting about what a great guy I was to accept her fuckin' apology.

Those people didn’t know about havin' no choice. I knew too damn much about it. That's why, most nights, when I woke from fitful sleep 'round three every morning, I came back here to chat with Gracie, because from listening to her talk and lookin' into her eyes, I knew she knew all about havin' no choice.
The lanky white guy stood up, gesturing to the empty seat on the opposite side of his booth. His blue eyes looked friendly enough. Pasting on a smile I didn't feel, I strolled down the aisle toward the booth.

I was hungry.

Gracie
The plastic bottle was full. It skidded across my hood, spraying tan foam. The bottle rolled off and struck the sidewalk, spewing onto the jeans and stark tennis shoes worn by the kid on the phone.

"Motherfuckers!" He raised a single, defiant finger at the flashing tail lights I saw in my rear view. Through the laughing boys in the bed of the truck, I could see the rebel flag covering the back glass of the cab. I saw the patrol car coming up behind me, too. It passed the truck, cruising real slow. The officer behind the wheel never turned his head when he drove past us.

Twisting to reach into the basket of clean laundry in my back seat, I grabbed a folded bath towel. It was still warm. My dryer was as broke as I was. Throwing my weight into the driver's door that hadn't opened right since someone at the gas station had backed into it and left without a note, I tried to force the door open, waving the towel out the window. "How mean," I said, my outrage making me sweat more. "Here. Use this."

He snatched the towel from my grasp, using it to swipe at the brown splotches covering his white shirt. "Did you see that motherfucker just drive right on by?" Assuming he meant the cop, I nodded, managing to get the door to open. He sprang back before it clipped him in the knees. "Thanks, lady," he muttered, reinforcing my guess that he was no thug, just some mother's child, trying to look like all the rest, because being different cost more than that gold he wore.  He propped a shoe on the top of my front tire, rubbing briskly at the stains. I fished into my uniform pocket for the quarter and dime.

"Is it okay if I use the phone now?"

He glanced at me, dark brows rising over darker eyes. I winced. I had to learn to stop asking a man for permission to do a damn thing. I hurried to the phone booth. My hand trembled when I dropped the money into the slot. Punching the number I'd called every night for one hundred and sixty-five days, I fought to control my body's quaking.

The kid tossed the towel into my front seat and turned to walk down the sidewalk, just as the call was answered. "County Detention Center. Officer Jacobs speakin'."

My voice shook as much as my hand. "Can you tell me, please, Officer, if Crowder Watson's still an inmate?"

The sound of pages flipping filled the line. "Yes, he's still here, ma'am. Do you need instructions on how to post bail?"

I slammed down the phone, listening to the sound of my money dropping into the box and the roaring sound of my blood pounding in my head. I pictured the church steeple behind me, and yet again,I prayed no one would see fit to cough up bail  money for the bastard that had killed my child.

By the time my vision cleared of Crowder's hated face, the kid was nowhere in sight and I was late for work.

Yup. 2,238 words I can't count. Happy nano'ing. Opal, my darling muse, I hope you're satisfied now. 


Thursday, November 1, 2012

The Carmine Club Chronicles #nano


Ah, November.

To the sane, non-noveling types, that means turkey and preparations for Christmas. To me, it means something else entirely, or it has for the last four years.

Time once again for Nanowrimo. Never heard of it? Affectionately shortened to Nano, the event is simply an agreement among the thousands of us who sign up annually to try to write a 50K word story during November. That's not quite seventeen hundred words a day. There's a handy-dandy little thingamabob posted on the top right of my blog so you (and I!) can track my progress.

Last year I wrote Wildly Inappropriate. The year before I penned When a Soldier Cries, which has been pulled back from the publisher that accepted it. I plan to rewrite and resubmit elsewhere in December. The year before that, I wrote Soft Sounds of Pleasure. This year, I'm writing a novel titled The Carmine Club Chronicles. Tentative plans exist for this story to be offered by Silver Publishing, beginning in January or February as a serial novel, with each episode consisting of around 10K words. New episodes would be published monthly thereafter for twelve months. If all goes according to plan, by month's end, I should have half the novel written.

The story explores female sex fantasies through the experiences of Cameron Calloway. Cam's a motivated younger man, determined to get ahead in his job for an emerging southern corporate baron, Scott Declan.  Cam's Recruitment, a brief introductory background story, is available free from Silver Publishing here. I solemnly promise to explore the top female sexual fantasies throughout this story. I might also deviate into some transgressional erotica territory.

I thought I'd share the words written today.


(unedited and subject to deletion)

The Carmine Club Chronicles


For a club whose sole purpose was stated to be the satisfaction of female sexual fantasies, there wasn't a woman in sight. Even the bartender was male. Cameron Calloway tried not to stare. How the man could casually mix drinks with his cock on display was something Cam couldn't quite wrap his head around. The attendant's scarlet cutaway jacket was worn over a bare chest, the color made brighter by the long mahogany bar he labored behind. An ebony bowtie, much like Cam's, was fastened around the young man's bare throat, giving him a look of exposure Cam found disconcerting. But not as disconcerting as he found the young man's pants. Suspenders held up black trousers that had more in common with chaps, exposing his cock and balls, and when he turned to grab a new bottle of seltzer, his ass. A wide cock ring made of what appeared to be a flat band of rubber matching his jacket constricted the base of a decent-sized shaft. Golden C's interlocked on top of the servant's flushed organ.
Cam's cock reacted to the painful-looking image, threatening to harden. He realized he was staring again. Brushing his tuxedo sleeve back from his watch, more in hopes his boss might notice the timepiece than to check the hour, he wished for the hundredth time the ballroom doors would open. He was ready for the auction to get underway. He hadn't endured the myriad blood tests and online video psychological profiling session required to gain his temporary membership card  just to talk shop with the handful of Declan employees littering the well-groomed crowd of men. He didn’t know anyone else.
His boss's back remained turned toward Cam while he held court with his employees. Cam didn't believe kissing Scott's ass was the right move tonight. Scott had subtly demanded he be here. Cam was present. He eyed his watch yet again. The visible movement filling the square rose gold case on his wrist proved the used Cartier Santos-Dumont skeleton was running, though the blued-steel hands had barely moved since he last time he'd checked.  It was still five minutes to nine. Cam suppressed an impatient sigh.
He'd be bidding, of course. Scott would never promote an associate who sat on the sidelines and watched. At the beginning of the week, Scott handed Cam a shot at the keys to the Promised Land—a chance at a coveted position inside Declan Corporation—along with an order to join his 'club'. Being a southern gentleman, Scott Declan always couched his orders as invitations. Cam rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass and recalled his boss' exact words.
The ultimate high any man can achieve is gratifyin' a woman sexual desires, whatever they may be. Knowing you can satisfy any woman, anytime, anywhere, no matter what she needs, is a power trip unlike any other. Face it, Cam, we both know it's not that hard to get a man off, but a woman… ah, they're marvelously complex little things. Any man who knows he can do that will exhibit that confidence in his day-to-day tasks, I believe. Carmine House provides the ideal place for learning what makes women tick."
 There was no fee to join, Scott promised, leaving Cam to ponder what the real cost of Carmine Club might be. Silver spoon frat boy types like his boss might be used to scraping the cream off life, but Cam had grown up waking at four in the morning to milk the cows, figuratively speaking. He'd checked into the antebellum mansion a couple of hours earlier, making the long drive to the coast in record time after working three-quarters of the day. So far, the only women he'd seen had been fully dressed.
The mellow voice of the blues singer vibrating through the well-concealed sound system pulsed with the kind of longing Cam felt. Not the basic longing of his stirring cock. Longing to fit in, to have these affable southern boys do more than tolerate him. He didn't desire to walk among them as an equal. He'd learned better than to want that. They'd never accept one not native to their magnolia-and-moonlight-studded land, unless they had no other choice, a lesson Cam learned at The University of Georgia during his undergraduate days. That was fine. What these privileged sons of Dixie respected was power, same as anywhere else. Cam planned on obtaining that power. First, through the work he did for Scott at Declan Corporation, negotiating whatever Scott needed negotiated. Second, by proving his mastery of the club's raison d'ĂȘtre, the satisfaction of females in the bedroom. Cam was determined to dominate both arenas. Then Scott would have no choice but to award him the coveted office in the executive suite of company's new headquarters slated to be built in the upper part of the state. Fresh off a successful week persuading reluctant building owners to sell their holding in the four-city-block area Scott had picked out in Sparta, South Carolina, Cam was more than ready to celebrate by getting laid. Restlessly, he selected an hors d'oeuvre pick from a crystal cup and skewered another marinated oyster from the narrow china tray lined with romaine lettuce.
The baritone buzz of conversation fell silent. The void was punctuated by the ringing sound of stilettos striking a wooden floor. There was carpet beneath Cam's highly polished black leather shoes, so the sound had to be coming from behind the sealed pair of ten-foot doors. The doors swung open. Cam strained to see above the sea of dark-clad shoulders, discarding the ivory-tinted pick in a discrete waste bin half-hidden behind a lush green plant.
"Welcome to Carmine Club's January event, gentlemen. The auction begins in thirty-five minutes. Please come in."
Scott turned from the group he'd been talking with since Cam had stepped into the room.  "That's Willa Seachrist. She owns Carmine House. I'll introduce you."
 She was blonde. Long bangs swept to one side of a flawless oval face reminiscent of the porcelain figurines in the glass fronted mahogany bookcases scattered along the public areas of the resort. He doubted the smooth river of golden hair falling to her shoulders was natural, but the effect was nice. She studied him with blue eyes that didn't match the smile on her painted lips. Those eyes did, however, match the sequined dress flowing over her elegant figure. To Cam, the high scooped neckline and elbow-length sleeves said 'look but don’t touch', despite the fact it rode high on her long thighs. To an ear such as Cam's, attuned to discerning the unspoken though tiny inflections, Scott's voice betrayed his boss' desire to do more than touch Willa Seachrist when he made the introductions.
Cam supposed banging the sex club's owner would be considered a trophy fuck. The river of diamonds cascading from her ears underscored the woman's high maintenance message.
"Welcome to Carmine Club, Cameron. I trust Mr. Declan has filled you in on how our little auction works?" She tilted her head, offering her cheek for Scott to kiss. To Cam's eye, Scott lingered overlong with his lips pressed to the powdered perfection.
Declan had explained the procedure briefly Mostly, his boss merely dangled this carrot in front of Cam's nose before diverting the discussion to business matters. Unwilling to appear a complete novice, Cam nodded confidently, once. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Seachrist." The only thing remotely naked about the plantation's owner was her left ring finger.
She traced the studs down his snowy shirtfront with a long fingertip lacquered in rose. Each tiny click of her nail across his onyx shirt studs sounded to Cam as though she counted his assets. "Willa, darlin'. Call me Willa." Her voice flowed much like her dress. Silhouetted against the stark white walls of the antebellum mansion's massive ballroom, she looked to Cam like a column of dark ice, the kind people don’t see on highways, making them lose control.
Scott gripped Cam's elbow, walking him past Willa so others could enter. "The auction's very simple, really." He gestured toward the long room and stepped back. Cam blinked. The large brass luggage carts seen dotting the property during his arrival had been pressed into double-duty. On the red carpet lining each stand a naked woman knelt, arms raised above her head. Silver metal handcuffs glittered like diamonds against the mellow brass of each service cart. "You were given a marble, right?"
Cam slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers, fingering the red glass sphere embellished with his name in gold. So much like a personalized golf ball, he'd had to laugh when he'd opened the leather case he'd been given at check-in. "Yes."
Cam surveyed the long line of carts, mentally reciting the number defining how high he could afford to go. Would three grand be enough? He could manage four, even five grand, he supposed, but going into debt for pussy would derail his other plans.
The row of masked eyes and rosy, outthrust nipples made it hard to think about mundane things like real estate. The carpeted carts, the masks, and the women's bare skin were the only color in the room, save for the gilded mirrors and the similarly toned frames on the French loveseats scattered about that looked too delicate to support a man's frame. One mirror soaring nearly to the ceiling he calculated to be sixteen feet. Positioned at the end of the room, it reflected a long row of curvy bottoms resting upon folded legs.
Pounding feet made him turn his head. A line of men dressed like the bartender ran into the room. Their outstretched cocks bounced with every step. One man stopped by each cart. They snapped into a position of attention, hands clasped behind their backs to stand motionless. Willa Seachrist valued obedience along with money, Cam decided. He couldn't help holding his breath. His heart thundered beneath the fine cotton pin tucks covering his chest.
"Prepare them." The honeyed drawl came from their hostess. The liveried attendants moved into action. Hands were raised, falling on bare breasts and asses. Innocent nipples were given hard tweaks. Small cries of outrage joined the percussion of skin against skin. The melody made Cam's cock start to harden. As the blows fell, the attendants turned the carts, giving the male club members a good look at the occupants.
"Like I told you, you have to bid to make book. Not every female member puts a fantasy in the books every time. There can be up to six winning bidders for one woman. A winning bid gives you the right to drop your ball. Willa won’t allow the bidding to go crazy. When she decides the price is sufficient, she stops the bidding."
From the corner of his eye, Cam saw Scott's gesture. Tearing his gaze away from the spectacle, he noticed the white-draped table positioned in front of the marble fireplace for the first time. A small wooden box rested on top. The handle protruding from the side of the box made it resemble an antique coffee grinder.
"The winning bidders drop their ball into the top of the box. Willa turns the crank and pulls out the drawer. The ball in the tray decides which bidder will provide the fantasy."
A show of money and the element of chance. Willa might look like a porcelain doll, but the woman's mind—assuming she'd come up with this scenario—worked as elegantly as Cam's watch.


Good luck to all of my friends participating in Nano 2012! Feel free to harass me if you see me noodling about on Facebook this month without posting my word count for the day. ;-)


Sunday, October 28, 2012

Of Whistles and Wax ~ Incidental Contact #SixSunday



Good grief, Sunday again already? Where does the time go?


Six more from Incidental Contact, Book 3 in Those Devilish De Marco Men series.


(unedited excerpt. subject to deletion.)
Eric leered at her from the middle of the kitchen. "Every man in America should come home to a view like that, baby girl."
She pried her hands from over her hammering heart so she could flip him the bird. "Please tell me you've seen my whistle."
"Oh, I saw it alright," he agreed, snapping his fingers. "That reminds me, I need to get you an appointment for a wax."

Thanks for dropping in. Please visit the official Six Sentence Sunday blog for many more six sentence excerpts. Have a great week!



Friday, October 26, 2012

Howloween Blog Hop ~Caption Contest! #wildyinappropriate


WINNER ANNOUNCEMENT:  Macee Majors, check your e-mail, you're the winner of a copy of Wildly Inappropriate. Many thanks to everyone who entered.  I had a great time popping in to read your captions while trying to finish up the next book in the series, Incidental Contact.





Happy Halloween!

I'll be giving away 1 e-copy of my current release, Wildly Inappropriate, to the person who comes up with the best caption for this image:



Remember, you need a valid e-mail address along with your caption in order to be eligible to win.

~*~*~*~*~
Recent reviews for Wildly Inappropriate:


This book triggers a lot of emotions while exposing prejudice in a realistic format, uncovering history unknown in book one and introducing elements of domestic discipline. WARNING: Those of us in the south won't be shocked by some of the situations that arise but others might find it unsettling. Never have I seen this theme done so honestly. It is intrinsic to the development of the story. So much happens in this book and it is all woven so perfectly, so seamlessly, I didn't want to put it down. Including characters from book one was a great addition - readers will feel a part of the DeMarco family as they fall for Daniel and Cynda. There are a few light moments of humor and some suspenseful and tense scenes. The sex is hot, their chemistry is even hotter. This is truly an indulgent read.

Wildly Inappropriate rating: 5 Chocolate-Dipped Strawberries




Wednesday, October 24, 2012

In the Blood ~ Wicked After Dark Blog Hop



Welcome to my stop on the Wicked After Dark Blog Hop!

I must confess, I don't write paranormal, but I do love a wicked man. You know the kind, ones who are so sinfully gorgeous and dominant, they just make a woman wanna be bad? My current series is about an entire family of men like that...tall, confident men, with Italian good looks and blue collar jobs.

 I'm giving away one e-copy of the current release in the series, Wildly Inappropriate, for every 20 commenters who vote in the poll featured on the top right, and tell me how they voted, along with a valid e-mail address. 

Just how wicked are these De Marco men? Glad you asked. Some say it's in the blood. Consider this scene from Wildly Inappropriate, where two of the three brothers are discussing something contained in  their mother's dairies  recently come to light.

(excerpt)

"Now I know why Eric's such a caveman. I mean, Lila goes crazy when I tie her up. Little Miss Control Freak loves that, actually. But I can't imagine what she'd do if I tried to spank her as discipline. I'm thinking target practice with me as the bull's-eye."
"Some women like it," Dan pointed out, knowing he sounded defensive. "You say Lila likes being restrained. Why's it so hard to imagine some like to be spanked, restrained, rough fucked… even forced to have sex?" Colton lowered his head and gave Dan a hard look. "Not rape, dammit, but there's a biological imperative at work here, Colton. Women—some of them—like the idea they're being… taken. Consent's implied, or stated by contract in advance." He could tell he was on thin ice from his brother's troubled expression.
"Dan, why do I get the feeling you're speaking from experience?"
Fuck it. "Because I am. I'm not going to pussyfoot around a woman. If she's into me, and I want her, I'll take her. Whenever, wherever, and however I want. Some women crave that feeling, C, of being shown their man's in charge. Some need to be made to feel small, and helpless, and wanted beyond all reason or convention. They get off on that more than tender, sweet sex. There's not a damn thing wrong with it, either, if you're both into it. When a woman gets all hormonal, chances are a good hard fuck, or even a spanking, will actually help her. She'll cry, she'll get upset, but she… settles down." He shrugged defensively under his brother's stare but met his eyes steadily, more sure today of his answer than he would've been yesterday. "Endorphins are released."
"So… how'd you meet Cynda, again?"
"We met when she came to ask if I'd talk to a man who wanted to buy some land. She and I have an… understanding."
"Well, if Dad forced pregnancies on her, then I can see why Mom ran away," Colton burst out, obviously shying away from the rest of the topic. "She was praying I'd be a girl, so she could talk him into letting her get her tubes tied or something. Having all of us wore her down, D. I believe a woman should have a say in that. A big one. I can tell you for a fact Lila's taken a huge load off me by assuming equal responsibility for Jonah. I can't imagine how much harder it was for Mom with four of us."
Dan had witnessed only the one disciplinary spanking of Cammie. Rafe spanked his children too, and they all knew from experience, Rafe had a heavy hand. He'd been imagining Cammie leaving Georgia's house after making an appointment for an abortion. The other part of the equation, the part he felt separated him and their father from the primordial ooze, was making the effort to know that woman inside out.
Rafe would've sensed something was up, Dan knew. The path Cammie had chosen was such a huge betrayal of trust, she'd have been nervous and Rafe would've watched her more closely. Arranged to spend more time with her, because that was part of it. When you found a woman that wanted to get up close and personal with your inner caveman on a long-term basis, you had to be her everything, because you were demanding that of her. You had to commit to becoming so attuned to every little shade and shift in her moods that she could hide nothing.
At least, that was the De Marco way. Even Colton had the tendency, whether he'd admit it or not. From the minute he'd laid eyes on Lila, at all of nineteen, she'd been his one. He'd simply had to wait a decade to get his hands on her, but once he had, the kid hadn't stopped until he had Lila under his roof and in his bed full-time, overcoming every objection she'd thrown at him.
Dan was well past any need to sow wild oats. Like Colton, he'd always been more selective than Eric, partly because if he had to settle for vanilla, he'd as soon do without. He knew if he could find the one woman who made him smile when there was nothing at all to smile about and who also was into his brand of sex, one who craved giving up her control to him, he'd sink so far into that woman it would be hard to tell where she ended and he began. He'd see to that. Have I found her?

Be sure to return to the main blog hop page to find the other participants. Prizes galore are being offered  and thanks for dropping in. 
Stay wicked.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Innocent ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday


Six more from Incidental Contact, Book #3 of Those Devilish De Marco Men, coming in January from Silver Publishing.

She was like a foreign species, half woman, half child, Eric thought, suppressing a groan. Where was the artifice, the coyness he'd become used to from women? He took off his jeans and boxers, half hoping she'd panic at the sight of him. To foster the idea she could still call this off, he leaned back on the arm of the couch, when what he really wanted to do was pin her down, settle between her soft thighs and fuck her till she screamed out his name.
"Oh."
The single word as she studied his erection with rounded eyes made him wonder whether she'd thought all cocks were the same size.



Thanks for dropping in. Be sure to visit the Six Sentence Sunday official blog to find many more six sentence excerpts.


Friday, October 19, 2012

Strong. Sexy. Stubborn. The Alpha Male Blog Hop #AlphaHop

***WINNER ANNOUNCEMENT***
Draw Straws has spoken and the 2 winners are Natasha and Vanessa N.
Thanks to everyone for dropping in, and double thanks to those who participated in the poll and were eligible for the drawing.


Welcome to my stop on the Alpha Male Blog Hop! 

1st Grand Prize: A Kindle Fire or Nook Tablet
2nd Grand Prize: A $130 Amazon or B&N Gift Card
3rd Grand Prize: swag pack pictured below: (US shipping address required for this one, ladies)



And...
I'm giving away one (1) e-copy of my latest release, Wildly Inappropriate, for every 20 people leaving a comment with a valid e-mail address. EX: sixty (60) comments equals three (3) copies to be given away.

In order to be entered to win you must:
1. Vote for your choice in my poll at the top right-hand corner of the blog  

and 
2. leave a comment telling me which way you voted, along with the e-mail address where I can send your book should your name be chosen by the Draw Straws online application. 

Okay, now we need to talk about those sexy alpha males.

In our day-to-day lives, these may be the men we fantasize about pushing in front of a bus, but put them between the covers of a romance novel and they make us shiver, they make us moan, and we keep turning the pages to watch them deliver.

An alpha male won't hesitate to ask for what he wants. Take, for example, the hero in my current release, Daniel De Marco:


"I won't lie. I goddamn wanna touch you." He choked out a short laugh that didn't sound like he was amused. His breath tickled her lips. "Brian started out by sending balloon bouquets with his offer typed on a little card. They made great target practice. After a couple of years doing that, he sent a stripper over to the garage. She gave my brothers lap dances and left the little portable tape player with her music. I guess his offer was recorded after the music ended, but I don't know, because I threw it out, along with her. My middle brother didn't talk to me for a week." His sudden grin was lopsided. "That was an unexpected bonus."
The chill caressing her skin from the air conditioning seemed to disappear when he smiled. He straightened, but reached to pick up a strand of her hair that had fallen across her chest. "Do you braid it? Corn rows, I think it's called. With long stacks of those little wooden beads at the end? Ten or so, I should think." He rubbed the strand between his thumb and forefinger as if testing the texture.
"Plastic beads," she corrected automatically, forgetting she wasn't supposed to speak.
"Wooden beads." His tone became stern. "And not damn neon. White beads." His smile seemed to soften and the look in his eyes appeared almost shy but his words were bold as brass. "I'd like to hear them clicking together while you ride my cock. Plastic won't make the same sound. There must be a salon in town that has 'em. Straight rows, not those insane zig-zaggy ones I see sometimes. Those hurt my eyes."
His words seemed to sink into her skin. The hairstyle he described was unique to her race, she felt. White girls tried to wear it sometimes, but their hair was too soft to hold the braids for long, and the beads fell out.
"Last year Brian sent six skinny bleached blondes in bikinis. They were supposed to wash our trucks, I guess, but ended up washing each other." Some emotion flashed in his eyes. She thought it might've been scorn. "One of 'em wrote Brian's offer in shoe polish on my windshield." His expression became stern. "Getting those six back into that van was like herding wet cats. Two female customers who had their vehicles up on lifts and couldn't leave haven't been back to the shop since. Now, he's sent you. Why am I finding it so hard to throw you out?"
Cynda had no idea how to respond. The stinging hand prints on her butt were warning enough not to think out loud.
"So, I hope like hell Brian picked your outfit and not you. It won't matter, really, because if you want to go through with this, I'll be choosing your clothes." He shoved his fingers through his hair, whirling away to begin pacing back and forth. "What's your name?"
The soft feeling his comment about her hair had induced evaporated with his insult, but she answered his question. "Cynda Avery."
He continued talking, his long legs eating up the distance between the back door and the table where she sat. His pacing made her think he was the one on a chain, but that made no sense. "I'm not going to put my cock in you, Cynda, but if you'll allow me the privilege, I want to make you come. Look at this as an exercise in trust. And to see if we're compatible, before we discuss anything else."

Daniel's such a bad boy. Can Cynda tame this guy

Thanks for dropping by. If you'd like to join the blog, or my Facebook page, that's optional, but I'd be honored if you did. Every reader counts around here. :)

Over 200 authors are participating in the Alpha Male hop, so be sure to return to the main blog page for links to other sites. Every comment you leave is another entry to win one of the fabulous grand prizes.