Sexy Snippets ~ Handcuffed to...What?

Welcome to Sexy Snippets...seven consecutive sentences from a work in progress. I've selected seven from my next release, Forceful Negotiations. Teague Tillis has accepted her friend's invitation to join Carmine Club, but she's stunned to learn from Willa Seachrist, the club's owner, the extent of what she's agreed to do:

"We want them feeling manly and confident; competitive. Think of the auction as sexual theater, designed to provoke those feelings.”

Teague thought Willa’s near-whisper a ploy to be sure the woman had her attention. She resented the tactic even as she strained to make out every word. “We need their testosterone pumping. The auction sets that up nicely. You’ll strip and be handcuffed to one of our luggage carts.”




Read sexy snippets from the other participants. Check the links here, or follow on Twitter or Facebook.

I'm delighted to have found a replacement or Six Sentence Sunday, so look for me to be a regular participant. Have a great week!

A Hot man and a Quickie ~ Cuffed and Ready

The hot man:

Around here, the hot man is romance cover model and body builder John Quinlan. When John mentioned recently he had a new shoot lined up, I begged for images of him in a suit. You can thank me later. After you sit here and stare at this image, knowing what lurks beneath.

John is such a down-to-earth, nice guy, and he loves to talk with his fans. If he weren't a damn Red Sox fan, he might be just about perfect. Connect with John here:

http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.com/

http://www.johnquinlan.org/

http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan

Pinterest board featuring John and his romance covers: http://pinterest.com/taabia/model-john-quinlan/

The quickie: (Excerpt from Forceful Negotiations, Carmine Club No. 01)

Scott gripped Cam’s elbow, walking him past their hostess. “The auction’s very simple, really.” The other man gestured toward the long room and stepped back. Cam’s eyes widened. The brass luggage carts seen dotting the property during his arrival had been pressed into double duty. They were large carts, with thick brass rods about five and a half feet tall at each corner,  curving to intersect over the center. A nude woman knelt on the red carpet lining the base of each wheeled stand. Their arms were raised above their heads, wrists clasped by silver metal handcuffs. The chains connecting those unyielding bracelets were wrapped around the ball-shaped finial jutting from the top of each cart. The polished chrome shackles glittered like diamonds against the mellow brass. Some women tugged at their bonds. Others merely bowed their heads.

“You were given a marker, right?” From the hint of peevishness in his boss’s tone, Cam was certain Scott had had to repeat his question.

Slipping his hand into his trouser pocket, Cam fingered the big red marble embellished with his name in gold, much like a personalized golf ball. “Yes.” Surveying the line of naked breasts, Cam mentally recited the amount he could afford to bid. There were only thirteen women. Would three grand be enough? He could manage four, even five grand, he supposed, but going into debt for pussy would derail his plan to buy a building in the new city and renovate it into condos. Not to mention, this was a recurring expense.

The row of masked eyes and out thrust nipples made it hard to think about mundane things like real estate. Every size and color of nipple, from large and brown to small and pink stared back at him, their shapes emphasized by the stark walls. Each hard peak stood erect, begging to be touched. The masks and the women’s bare skin were the only color in the all-white room, save for the carts and a few sinuous, gilded mirror frames. Behind Willa, a pier mirror stretched almost to a ceiling he calculated to be sixteen feet. Positioned at the end of the spacious room, the glass reflected a stunning row of curvy bottoms above folded legs. A gust of arousal made his head swim.

If all goes well, Forceful Negotiations will be available next Saturday. Thanks for dropping in, and have a great week!

The Mindset of Slut ~ Let's Get Lucky Blog Hop

Hello,

Welcome to my stop on the Let’s Get Lucky Blog Hop…where I am not going to promo a new release.

I have a couple, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something more important on my mind or, rather someone.

Her name is Rehteah Parsons. She’s seventeen years old and she will never be eighteen. She’s dead, by her own hand. Rehteah was raped by four young men at a party. She was fifteen at the time.

What came next was worse.

I won’t regurgitate the story. (You may read a report here, if you haven’t heard about this outrage.)

I do want to focus on one aspect, the way other young women sent her text messages calling her a slut.

Slut. http://www.thefreedictionary.com/slut

A four-letter word much harsher than any other four-letter word I can think of. Slut. As a rape survivor myself, I’d say those messages were more harmful than those from young men asking if she’d have sex with them, and I am not saying the messages from young men weren't harmful. But for the love of God, where's the solidarity, the sisterhood, the support from other woman we all need to get through something like this? And who raised these young? They need to step up and be handed their measure of shame.

Rehteah posted this image on her Facebook wall prior to taking her life.

I’m a widow. I’m a mother. By September, I’ll be a grandmother—twice.

And I write erotic romance. In part, I chose the genre because I wrestle with the line between ‘nice girl’ and ‘sexual being’—and why that line exists.

I think it’s time we stop the shame game, because all other issues aside, at the core of the behavior by the young women who tortured this child with social media and who shunned her as though her rape were somehow her fault, is the mindset of slut, the idea there are two standards of sexuality, one for men and another for women. It pisses me off that women are still slinging this kind of mud on other women, resulting in a new generation all too ready to pour the water of superiority into the dirt of shame. A generation who has the magic of social media at their fingertips to carry the message far and wide.

Women need to stop judging each other for sexual choices made, much less for a rape. Let Rehteah Parsons be the last women to take her life because those who should stand in support turned away—then circled back to attack.

Let us wipe the word ‘slut’ off our lips, and those of our children. Rape is a crime, but the behavior of others toward a victim after the fact in many cases, is an equal, if not larger crime. No woman needs others to make her ashamed of her sexual history, particularly for an entry not made by choice.

Thank you for dropping in. I’d love if you’d join my blog and my Facebook page, but those are requests, not conditions.

I’ll be delighted to give anyone who reads this entire post a free copy of my latest release, Breaking Glass, no strings attached. Tell me your preferred format, .mobi or .epub, and your e-mail address and I'll send you a copy of the e-book. You may use the “Contact Eden” form at top right, or post a comment below.

Guarding the Line ~ Chapter 3

Welcome back! At 5-1, my Braves are off to a great start, sitting atop the National League East. I got to listen to a couple of games while I worked on the edits for Carmine Club this past week, as well as edits on Immortal, a vampire thriller I'm editing for author Kim Faulkes. 

The problem with sharing your head with the universe was, the universe had little regard for traffic rules, much less the consequences of showing you a place you were destined to go when you were doing eighty-five miles an hour on the busy by-pass around the third most populated city in America. Glaring in exasperation at the faded red bricks on the front of the building she’d seen in the gazing ball as the structure flashed by on her left, Verity slapped the small lever to activate her right turn signal. Trying to scoot her car in between a tractor trailer and a pickup in time to dive off the exit ramp was futile. The man driving the pickup flipped her the bird. Hello, Atlanta. The tea was sweet, the accents slow, but give a human male here a damn truck and he seemed to think the vinyl-clad front seat was a throne and the interstate his kingdom.

“Asshole.” The next exit was two miles ahead. Huffing, she slowed enough to merge right, falling in behind the older Chevy. Few adorii lived in Atlanta, explaining why more pickup drivers hadn't been turned into one of the trees these dude's favorite garments mocked. A tan and white pit bull hung his head over the tailgate. Drool splattered her windshield. Glaring at the tight choke collar around the dog’s neck and the leash attached to the toolbox lining the front of the bed, Verity’s temper flared. “May the Goddess seek a kinder master for your pup, and in her wisdom, make you unable to get it up.”

She doubted her impromptu curse would have any effect on the redneck poking along at fifty-five miles an hour. A call to Animal Control might be more effective. For the pit bull, anyway.

She didn't question why the shop was still lit this time of the evening, two hours after the closing time painted on the door. Peering between the faded trio of painted balls on the dirty glass, she spied a clerk. The door opened when she tugged on the handle.

“Just closin’ up. You can look around, though.” The man's grayed head remained bent over an old-fashioned brass cash register. Verity stepped over grass-crusted weed eaters and power saws, uninterested in the spinning racks of second-hand DVDs. The jewelry case held a wide array, but her gaze was drawn to a faded velveteen-covered tray filled with white and yellow gold bracelets. Lying atop an open slot in the back, she spied a gold circlet too wide to fit into a slot.

The shop proprietor slammed the resister drawer closed. Verity tapped the glass when he turned. “May I see that one please? The wide one, at the back?”

“Interesting piece. I never could figure out what this was. It might be an infant's bracelet, but if you look close, one edge is lined with small tines.” His heavy key ring jingled while he paged through the large selection, but another sound rang inside Verity’s skull. Impatience made her shift from foot to foot. It seemed an hour passed before he placed the object in her outstretched palm.

Verity held the weighty item close to her face, squinting in the dim light, trying to read the elaborate carvings. She doubted this human could ever guess what the band was designed to do. She had no desire to enlighten him. “How much?” Slowly turning the band, frustration made her fingers stiffen, causing her to nearly drop the piece. The letters were recognizable, but the words they formed made no sense. She couldn't interpret the phrase or name, but her heart rate increased. The metal felt too warm to be of this world, far warmer than the air in the chilly pawn shop. Could the clerk not feel the unusual heat?

She’d never seen a fidelis ring before, but she’d heard many whispered stories about them. Humans had once shackled the loins of their women to ensure faithfulness. The adorii princesses of old had these bands made for their consorts once they were betrothed. Refusal to don the fidelis ring was grounds dissolution of the engagement, or grounds for divorce after the union. To her eye, it appeared the weight alone would combat a full erection.

Though she could see no hinge, she knew the item bore a hidden clasp, opened only by an incantation. The ring didn't interfere with the male organ’s basic functions, but she could imagine the small barbs sitting just below the cock head  waiting to impale any man trying to have sex while wearing it, and only the person who'd bespelled the ring could remove it. rubbing her thumb across the shot, sturdy teeth, Verity shuddered, feeling sympathy for males who’d been trapped in a far more barbarous manner than any animal.

“Eight fifty,” he stated.

Without hesitation, she ceased her scrutiny of the ring, disturbed by her find. Why she’d been guided to a cock piece was a mystery she had little inclination to solve. Perhaps knowledge of the ring’s whereabouts was all that would be required of her. Verity dropped the fidelis piece onto the old man’s hand wordlessly, suppressing a shudder. A sense of unease slithered up her spine, watching him bounce the circlet in his open palm. Owning the cruel thing felt wrong, but leaving him in possession of the ring made her equally uneasy. Artifacts belonged in their normal realm.

She’d let the Fates decide. She had every dime of her savings with her, but had only two hundred dollars to spare. Sliding the bills from her back pocket, she laid them on the counter. Her heart hammered, watching the clerk’s watery brown eyes move from her cash to his merchandise. Her offer was far too low. He could scrap the ring for far more… but why hadn't he? The object was useless to a human. The ring’s only value in this realm lay in the gold. In the adorii realm, the pretty bauble meant a life of indentured servitude.

 “With tax, that’ll be…” he tried.

Verity shook her head, extending her hand with reluctance. He dropped the ring into her palm and swept her cash off the counter.

 “Gonna try it on?” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

“I know it fits,” she replied, shoving the ring into the front pocket of her jeans and hurrying out the door. She didn't want to think it might have been made for a male in her family line.  

Out on the sidewalk, she hurried around the corner, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the rims were still attached to her car. Her visit to the pawnshop had been brief, but in this neighborhood, a car could be stripped in the blink of an eye by those who made a living dealing in stolen car parts. First, she locked the ring in her dash, glad to have it out of sight. With a twist of her key, the big motor roared to life.

A half hour later, when she pulled into a different parking lot, it was fully dark.Verity eased the car into a parking space in front of what might’ve once been an old dry cleaning establishment.  Rather than ‘One Hour Martinizing’, the neon sign in the front window advertised tattoos. Twisting around despite the twinge of pain, she rooted in her back seat for a pair of sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and a robe. With her items clasped to her chest, she hurried inside, shoving her purse over one arm.

A bell on the door tinkled when she stepped inside, but the huge man she’d come to see lay sprawled on a cracked vinyl sofa leaking urethane foam. Easily more than six-four from his boots to the top of his bright red hair, the tattoo artist overwhelmed the shabby love seat.
“That new baby must be kicking your ass, Thane.”
He opened one eye to glare at her. “Who knew something so small could make so much noise?”
 She laughed as he sat up and scrubbed his hands over his eyes.  “Birth control is widely available, so I hear.”
“Yeah, yeah. I swear, Vee, I’m thinking about getting snipped. How long is this gonna last?”

 She placed the jewel case holding the computer disc into his outstretched hand. “In one way or another, until you’re dead, I hear. You ready to get started, or do I need to buy you a power drink first?”

He scrubbed his face with freckled hands.“Yes, Miss Slave Driver, I’m ready to get started. Damn, I used to be a bad ass. Now my life is full of pushy women. I got your stencils ready, and I’m almost awake. Cleared my schedule today, except for one VIP customer. I decided to let him roll in, just in case you decide to puke, pass out or quit. My money’s on all three.”

She fished the thick stack of cash out of her purse and fanned the bills. “We could bet the whole amount. If I sit still for the entire thing, and don’t wuss out like you seem to think I’m going to, my tat’s free. Deal?”

He eyed her confident expression. “Hell no, something tells me I’d lose. And frankly, I need the bucks. Kid keeps going to the doctor.” She watched him count the bills. Twenty-seven new one hundred dollar bills would pay a lot of pediatrician's bills. “Perfect, I’ll get Averill to do your paperwork when she gets here. Let’s go, girlfriend. I know how long you been waiting for this.”  Rising from the sofa, Thane detoured behind the counter to put the money in the safe before following her to his work space. 
She'd already shucked off her sweater and jeans. Standing in front of the mirror, braiding her hair to keep the mass out of his way, Verity saw the revulsion on his face, he couldn't hide fast enough. You’d think an old motorcycle gang member would be used to looking at scars. He’d seen the damage as they’d discussed her tat, but only in sections, not all at once. The ink was to be her way of taking back control, her way of turning ugliness into something beautiful.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled, realizing she’d caught him staring by looking in the mirror. “As soon as I get these stencils placed, you can put on your robe. Or I can work around it now if you like. The bra’s got to go, though.” His voice shook. “It’s not much, but at least the motherfucker left your face alone, Vee.”

She ignored the last comment. “Got over being shy a long time ago. You might as well get a good look at what you've got to work with.”

The former Hell's Angel enforcer turned away, picking up the spray bottle containing liquid soap and a disposable razor while she tried to get her anger under control. She needed his skill with a tattoo gun, not his pity. It was unbearable to dwell on the idea a man who’d once led such a rough life was revolted by the sight of her scars.

Who would want her now? She'd never been a candidate for an adorii mate and the Triscaro had rendered her unfit for a human one. Standing rigid while Thane applied her stencils, Verity bit her lip till she tasted blood.

~*~*~*~*~*

To be continued April 15. If you missed the first episode, you can read it here.

Thanks for dropping in. Now, come with me and check on the other two Baseball Babes, to see what Jennifer Simpkins and Kathleen Grieve have in store this week. 

Hot Man and a Quickie ~ Delivering a Different Kind of Salami

The Hot Man:

...as always, is romance cover model John Quinlan. I chose this image because (gasp!) it might finally be spring South Carolina. Hopefully, it won't be long until John's not the only person wearing shorts and going barefoot. The Bradford pear trees have lost their vicious, hay-fever-inducing blossoms and the peach trees are dressed in pink.

Places to stalk John:

http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.com/

http://www.johnquinlan.org/

http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan

The quickie: (from Breaking Glass) 

     Snatching the last piece of his costume from the show organizer's hand, Dylan raked his hair from his eyes before he yanked the perforated leather hood over his head. The mask limited his field of vision and made his face hot, but he could tell from his reflection in the mirror—visible through the open door of the men's room—it obscured his identity. Turning to peer through the doorway again, he watched the younger performers strut between the tables full of chattering females as casually as if they were delivering sub sandwiches instead of their personal salamis. Tugging at the waistband of the silk boxers, he wished the elastic was tighter. These things were made to come down.

     He couldn't figure out what had possessed him to make him agree to this nonsense. Goddamn you, Joe Gilante. The big Italian bastard's taunts were damn sure what kept him from walking out. Joe would never let him live this down if he bailed. He didn't have trouble getting it up. Maybe he’d buy a new watch from Teague when he took Joe’s money, something he could rub in the man’s face several times a day.

     "The bride’s the one in the red dress," the show manager whispered, tying the laces on the back of Dylan’s hood. "Be sure you pose for photographs with her and give her a lot of attention." He patted Dylan on the shoulder. "They’ve been drinking for about ninety minutes, so they should be ready to drop their inhibitions… along with your shorts."  His laughter tickled the back of Dylan’s neck. “If you’re lucky, maybe a few will have cold hands. My boy here’s undefeated.”

Dylan cast a look at the other half of the finale, a curly-haired guy about his age, wearing dark-rimmed glasses. He looked like an accountant. Pulling off the glasses, the guy folded them. The stage manager slipped them into his shirt pocket while the performer pulled the leather mask over his head.

     "Good luck, dude. Nice suit. Try not to get cum stains on it." The other man held out a fist while the stage manager scurried behind him to tie his mask.

     "At least I can afford to get them cleaned if I do." Dylan gave the performer's cheap suit a scornful glance, bumping his outstretched fist harder than necessary.

Thanks for dropping in. Have a great week!

Talkin' Smack and Loving Patience. Jennifer Simpkins in the House!

It is my absolute pleasure to bring you an excerpt from the latest release by Jennifer Simpkins, Loving Patience. You'll adore her stories, if you aren't a fan already. Jennifer's from Tennessee, so, she's a fellow southern gal writing about love in a small town. Normally, I'd kick her out for her choice in baseball teams, but she writes such yummy love stories, I'll make an exception. But only of she takes off that damn Yankees cap. Mainly, I'm happy for the chance to tweak her nose about the loss her beloved Yankees took on Opening Day. <grin>  It was inevitable Jennifer and I would hook up. After all, her first novel and mine both flaunt our mutual love of baseball. You might see us talkin' smack throughout the season, but deep down, she knows I love her. While you're at it, treat yourself to the first book in her series about Patience, Tennessee, Forgiving Patience, too.

Enjoy the excerpt! I know I did. 

Blurb for Loving Patience, Book 2 in the Patience Series:

Liza Dyer has spent her career counseling and guiding her patients towards a more fulfilling life, so it’s a shock when she can’t stop her own life from falling apart. After a cheating ex she decides to escape to 
Patience, Tennessee. Instead of confiding in her long-time friend, she finds herself revealing her painful secrets to sexy, ladies’ man Tex Avery.  

Tex is a confirmed bachelor every woman in Patience is trying to catch. He is the last thing Liza needs, but once again she can’t help herself—especially when he shows up at her hotel door looking depleted and leaving her breathless.  It’s in her nature to want to help with the emotional pain Tex is going through, but her counseling is not welcomed.  Liza is determined to not give up on him…but will their connection be enough to convince her to once again put her heart on the line. 

****

Excerpt:

After throwing off her covers and trampling to the door, she unclasped the chain and yanked it open. “Tex,” she said, stunned because he was the last person she expected to see standing outside her door.

His gaze dropped and slowly, he brought it back up to meet hers. Maybe she should have looked through the peephole then she would have known she needed the robe, since it was indeed a man this time. Her pajamas were not in any way sexy, but she did have on a white shirt without a bra. She cleared her throat and refused to wrap her arms around her chest so he could no longer see her nipples were hard. “Is there a reason you’re here, because last time we talked you made it very clear that we are not friends. That you, in no capacity, want me to counsel you…which I was not doing.”

“I brought you this.” He held out a pot of golden flowers, which she couldn’t believe she didn’t see the instant she opened the door.

“A mum? You brought me a plant? Why?”

“I guess it’s my way of apologizing. They have always been my mother’s favorite flower, and since y’all had a good time...well, I just thought you would like them.”

“Thank you, but you know I’m currently staying at a hotel. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“They like a lot of sunshine, so I suggest sitting them outside your door.”

She brought them to her nose to smell. “I’ll do that. Thanks but you didn’t have to bring it to me tonight. It has to be after ten.”

“I just left my mom’s and decided to stop by before I went home.”

She nodded and held her tongue. Not knowing if Pearl was okay had nagged at her all afternoon. When she said nothing, he turned to walk away. She heard herself ask, “Do you want to come in?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned around. She noticed how tired and beaten he looked. It didn’t help that his jaw was still a little discolored from the punch he took. Without saying anything, he walked toward her. She stepped back as he walked inside, gazing at his profile. He was one glorious-looking man.

She watched as he glanced around the room.

“You never seen a hotel room before?” she asked with a slight laugh.

“I have, but not a Town’s Inn room.”

She shook her head and didn’t hide that she didn’t believe him for a second.

“What, you don’t believe me?” he asked.

“I’ve heard things about you. I just find it hard to believe a man with your type of reputation has never taken a girl to the local hotel. I’ve seen your mom’s house. It’s not big enough for you to quietly sneak a girl in and out of your window without her hearing.”

He arched one brow to cast a playfully wolfish look as he asked, “And what exactly have you heard?”

“Just that up until now you have not been very selective with who’ve been with, and that between you and Bradley, you pretty much have serviced the entire town of Patience.”

“Ouch. You don’t hold back much, do you?”

She shrugged. “I just tell it like it is.”

“I like that about you, Liza. I was that guy, I guess, for a long while, but I’m just not looking for the occasional hook-up anymore.” His eyes went dark.

Oh. God. Why did that admission seem to relieve her in a big way? The temperature in the room felt warmer. She forced herself to meet his deep eyes squarely, eyes that sparkled with lust and desire. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What are you looking for?”

He slowly walked to her, and though she knew she should have moved; she didn’t want to. She was not going to back down from Tex. Before she knew it and realized how close he was, she could feel his body heat combining with hers. He had a wicked look in his eye and the juncture of her thighs began to spasm.

He planted his lips on hers, and his mouth took over like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He rubbed then slipped his tongue between her trembling lips. She started to protest, then relaxed into it as she heard a low groan rumble from his chest. That was enough to make her lose what little control she possessed.

Mmmm. God, yes. Now this was kissing. She couldn’t get enough of his touch, his scent. Slipping her fingers under his T-shirt, she explored the hardness of his back. Still, that was not enough for her. She needed so much more. Eagerly, she pulled at his shirt until he broke free of her lips and together they tugged the shirt over his head. Her fingers splayed over the dark hair that fanned across his chest. Damn…

His hands roamed her back…her ass. The bulge hardening against her thigh had her hungering for more. She started to move against his thighs, but he braced both of his hands firmly on her waist and held her back. That was okay for now, because just kissing him was that good.

“Shit,” he whispered between kisses.

He pushed her against the wall just behind the front door. With him lining kisses down her throat, all she could do was press her body into his and sigh. She missed his mouth on hers, but the things he was making her feel with the kisses he was laying on her neck…the slopes of her shoulders…and right between her aching breasts was more than enough to satisfy her.

He cursed again as he tugged at her pants, not seeming distracted by the red and white Christmas candy. She leaned her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and let him pull them all the way to the floor. She was literally going insane. She wanted him urgently kissing her lips, while he kissed softly down her quivering stomach. If only he could give both areas the same attention, at the same time. Finding a little strength, she stepped out of her pants.

“Now, how did I know you would be wearing lace?” A grin split his face.

He slowly traced the outline of her panties, drifting downward to her thighs, sending little tingles up her legs. She quivered under his touch and that seemed to make him want to touch her more. There were no complaints coming from her.

Dropping to his knees, he kissed a trail down her stomach, only stopping to lightly kiss the lacy fabric covering her mound. She was way past the point of being wet. Ohhhh…this is how it’s supposed to feel with a strong, masculine man. Him on his knees in front of her, kissing and licking, sometimes even biting at her flesh, made her feel like a goddess.

“I take it you like lace,” she sighed, stifling a moan.

****

Buy link:

Secret Cravings Publishing

Note: It will be on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, ARe, and BookStrand in about week.

To connect with Jennifer:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Pinterest

Guarding the Line ~ Chapter 1

The setting sun dipped behind the bank of clouds above the distant Atlanta skyline, revealing lace made of gold. Something soft, like the inquisitive touch of a kitten, tickled her hand. Verity Alexander tightened her fingers around the nuzzling, full-blown rose pressing into her palm, wishing she dared use their power. Her imagination painted an image of the three women approaching, each writhing in pain while the sweet-scented vines bound them, slowly driving sharp thorns into their flesh. She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.          When she opened them, she noted the gazing globe centered in her front garden was still a charcoal-tinted orb. Exhaling slowly, she tried to send her growing tension out of her body with the expelled breath. She’d dreamed of this moment for months. An illusion of serenity would better serve her.        Oncoming twilight darkened the shapeless robes worn by her uninvited guests, but Verity knew the fabric was the color of human blood. Watching the women known collectively as the Triscaro move closer, her hatred toward these rulers of the adorii world seemed to scorch her veins, even while her heartbeat danced in anticipation of their message.         Her sentence was up.        Inhaling again, she studied the gilded clouds, seeking serenity from their beauty. The slow-moving group came to a halt at the edge of the drive, as though sensing the violence in her thoughts. They were wise to remain cautious here. This garden surrounding her home was not what it appeared.        “Verity Lavender Alexander.” Pallora spoke, she thought. Though hoods obscured their faces, it was always Pallora who spoke. “Your sentence, as well as Sage’s, will be lifted at moon’s zenith. As the one bearing the mark of her punishment, you may have the honor of informing your sister.”       Some fucking honor. The hated voice was the one haunting her dreams. The sound turned her determination to be civil to thistledown in a thunderstorm. What was the point of being obsequious now? Metaphorically kneeling before these cruel bitches wouldn't change their mindset. If Dignata, Verax, and Pallora were expecting Verity to be gracious, she hoped they handled disappointment better than they wielded power.        Squaring her shoulders, she stared into the dark cowl shrouding the face of the oracle who’d spoken, annoyed by her inability to see her condemner’s eyes. “I am as I was named. I reiterate my innocence. Sage and Rosemary are innocent as well. The Line may have been crossed, but not by one of my family. Your fear has become as acid, dissolving your wisdom.”          She sensed Dignata was the most offended by her caustic words, though she couldn't tell the three apart. Sage’s conviction meant the Alexander family had fallen from aristocracy to outlaw in adorii society. The shiny scars lacing Verity’s back seemed to tighten. Pain lanced her, but she’d be damned before she’d show weakness before these women. Her father was a demigod in his own right. Rex Hin may have rejected Verity when he learned of her mother’s trickery, but his blood still flowed in her veins. The Triscaro hadn't yet spilled it all.        “Blame not me, Verity. One you love deceives.”        “Speaking of deceivers, when will Rex Hin’s sentence end? Will you set my father free or do you fear he is still a threat to your rule?” Overhead, the clouds reformed, dividing into dark, roiling shapes above and a wide swath of gold below, as though the Goddess also mocked this rotten bunch.         The air around Verity began to shimmer, betraying her anger. Pallora’s silence was underscored by the roar of waves crashing against the cliffs fifty yards behind the spot where the Triscaro stood. The pounding of the ocean echoed in her pulse and seethed in her ears. The blood-draped trio turned as one, showing her with their backs what they wouldn't deign to say. Her father wasn't getting off his conjured island prison any time soon.        She didn't give a damn whether Rex Hin ever set foot on shore again, but Sage and Rosemary cared. Adrienne, Verity’s mother, cared. Adrienne cared about little else, in fact. Over the roaring waves, Verity heard another sound, the musical tinkling of her charms, signaling the all-clear. The prickling, uncomfortable feeling of being watched by unseen eyes eased. Janus had called his minions home. Verity blew out a harsh breath, relieved to be rid of the spirits. Rats. Informers. Tattletales. Whatever. Their absence felt like the first kiss of spring.        Her hated watchers formed a leaden fog around the Triscaro, as though they knew it would be wise to protect the women’s backs. She stared until they were gone, caressing the rose head, regretting she hadn’t taken the rare opportunity to send them on the attack. The ruling sisters were reluctant to set foot out of the adorii realm. For them to come here meant… she wasn't sure what it meant, but a smile crossed her lips. She’d known they were coming. Known, despite their ‘sentence’. Half-breed she might be, but Verity had powers from her Wiccan side the triumvirate could not suspend.        A fingernail of moon appeared above the clouds. Closing her eyes, Verity tried to let go of her anger, focusing instead on the pull she felt from the fat quarter. Desire pulsed in her feminine tissues for the first time in eleven lunar cycles. Not tonight. Soon, she’d find a willing male and give in to her burgeoning desires, but now she had an appointment to keep. When she opened her eyes, the gazing globe had returned to its silvery state. Verity smiled at the reflection of the roses, topped by a circular reflection of the dusky gold and blue clouds overhead.        She was free. Stepping off the porch, she moved down the front walk. When she passed the pedestal supporting the decorative ball, she let her fingers skate across the smooth, yet slightly wavy glass. The mercury-filled piece felt warmer than the evening air, drawing her attention.        The curving image on the ball began to move. The deep red reflection of the surrounding rose petals began to fold in on themselves, turning into rectangles that became bricks. The bricks piled onto one another. The round image of the sky became a square, then a dirty display window. When all motion stilled, the image had resolved, not into a reflection of anything around her, but a dilapidated storefront. Verity thought the building looked familiar, but the sphere warped the image to the point she wasn't sure which realm it was in, human or adorii.        No matter. If the building was important, it would find her.        Bunt!  Who the fuck laid down a bunt with two outs in the bottom of the ninth? Cursing aloud, Mike Reardon charged toward the ball rolling slowly away from home plate. It was too much to hope the fucking thing would go foul. He didn't glance at the rookie, now hurtling down the first base line. Mike's entire focus was on the nine-inch sphere of white leather, held together by precisely one hundred and eight red stitches. Halfway to home plate, the damn thing lost all momentum. Charging hard, Mike extended his left arm, palm up. He was taking a risk, trying to scoop the ball up with his glove alone, but this was the top of the ninth in a goddamn exhibition game and he still didn't know whether or not he’d earned the starting job as Atlanta’s third baseman. So, fuck it, he was going for broke.        Leaning over while still running flat out, Mike’s attention diverted to the piece of supple leather he wore on his left hand. His cleats churned the rust-toned infield dirt. It seemed to take forever before the tip of his short infielder’s glove touched the sphere. Flipping his wrist, he grinned when he saw the ball jump into the air. Snatching the ball with his bare right hand, he dug his cleats into Turner Field, trying to stop his forward momentum, knowing he’d fall. Twisting at the waist, he pulled the fist grasping the ball level with his ear before hurling the ball toward the first baseman. The force of his throw and the torque put on his frame by his competing motions threw him off his feet, but falling was something he had a lot of experience doing.                      Tumbling over the snowy chalk line marking foul territory, Mike rolled to a stop and got to his knees. Cameras flashed all over the stadium, blinding him. Gulping a lungful of air, he held it, barely able to see the ball fly across the infield for the spots before his eyes and the roiling infield dust. He strained to hear one voice in fifty thousand.        The blue shirted man behind the first base bag balled his right fist. “Yer out! Ball game!”        Yes. Mike pumped his fist, looking around at the roaring crowd in the stands. He was officially off work now—well, after an interview or three—and Mike knew exactly how he planned to celebrate. A new town and a new team meant it was time for new ink. To be continued on April 8th. Now, jump with me over to the blogs of my two baseball-lovin' pals and see what Jennifer Simpkins and Kathleen King Grieve have in store today on the baseball theme. Together, we're the "Baseball Babes", so named for our mutual love of the sport. All season, the three of us will be posting on a baseball theme every Monday. I'm going to kill two birds with one stone and rewrite this  older WIP, since my hero is a professional baseball player.  Also, Breaking Glass is now available on Amazon! How would you tell your lover you wanted a ménage with his best friend?  Free spirited, passionate Jillian picked the wrong moment to blurt out her fantasy, causing her husband Dylan to turn so cold she asked him to move out. Now, rather than celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary, the Carmichaels are headed for divorce court. Enter Eros, popcorn-loving owner of those passion-tipped points. When a hot jolt of lust doesn’t melt Dylan’s hard heart, what’s a demoted demigod to do? It’s gonna be a long night, because Eros has been given only one to rekindle the Carmichael’s love.