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A Bit About My Past...

Trading Wings for a Single Feather…

Erotic Romance Author Kris Norris—aka—Helicopter Pilot…

No, I’m not making that up. That was me, years ago before I embarked on my writing career. Like most authors, I didn’t start off in the publishing industry. In fact, I was as far removed from it as you can get. I didn’t even have a regular job. I spent my time hovering above the ground, either on contracts or later, teaching people how to fly. If you’d asked me then about writing as a career, I would have laughed. I’d never considered any other road than the one I was on. I’d gone to great lengths to achieve my dream, from a stint in the military to college and endless flying jobs for less than no pay in parts of the country no one wanted to go. Being a woman in a boy’s club wasn’t easy, but I loved being a pilot, and quite honestly, I was good at it.

So how does a rotor jockey go from cruising the airwaves to writing erotic romance novels? A change in priorities.

Like many women, there came a time when I realized I wanted more from life than a sleeping bag in a tent and the smell of jet fuel on my clothes (seriously, I’m sure most women have this exact thought at some point in their life). So, I started a family. Three kids (and a breakdown or two) later, you can imagine how the pilot lifestyle and being a mother didn’t really mesh. For me, being away on contracts for weeks or even months at a time wasn’t an option anymore, so I looked for something else to satisfy my adventurous nature. And the voices in my head really didn’t give me any other choice…

Now I know what you’re thinking…being an author isn’t dangerous or even adventurous, but in a way, it is. Instead of actually living the lifestyle, I got to experience it through my characters, which allowed me to become a variable chameleon of professions. Instead of being one person, I became a doctor, a special agent, and yes, for two of my books, a helicopter pilot. I discovered that flying helicopters had exposed me to a vast richness of people and places, and with a little imagination, I could turn these experiences into stories and characters that, hopefully, rang true.

So do I miss dancing among the clouds and feeling the constant beating of the rotors in my chest? A bit. But I wouldn’t have missed my new adventure for anything. And with any luck, while I plan on staying in the business for a very long time, I’ll continue to change my virtual career with every new story. After all, a girl needs a bit of variety in her life. Who knew that a single feather could take me places my wings never could.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the two books in which my leading ladies are also rotor swinging chopper pilots are Keeping Faith… part of the Threefold Anthology with Total-e-Bound, and Hard Target… a thriller novel out with Resplendence Publishing.


Every room in the house! by Lily Harlem

What is it about moving home that requires every room to be christened - and I don't mean with a blessing and some holy water! We moved a while ago, and sort of like making every room our own, we had to, you know, do it within each of those four walls! We drew the line at the utility room - although of course the washing machine could have been a whole load of fun (Mmm, perhaps I shouldn't rule it out after all) and the hall stairs have yet to see action, but that's maybe for the best since there is a long glass window by the front door and we would be on full display to our new neighbours. Luckily the back garden is private but we didn't have the best of weather this summer!!

I love our new home now, to start with it felt like someone else's, or a hotel, but now it not only has our things in it but also sweet sexy memories. Enjoy these pics of 'every room in the house' - they're not of me and the delectable Mr Harlem, but you get the idea!!

I also just want to give a quick mention to my e-book ORCHESTRATING MANOEUVRES which is out today. (It was previously published in the TREBLE anthology)


I have everything a girl could want; money, beauty, friends in high places. So why does it feel as if there’s a hole the size of Antarctica in my soul?

Because missing Dale has become a way of life and now instead of making love to the man of my dreams I rely on my battery-powered Rampant Rocker and spend my days dodging work and slugging champagne-until, that is, the two heart-stoppingly gorgeous Italian pianists who make up Ingresso Livello decide they want me.

Sing praise to the Lord! That was a red letter day, I can tell you!

Being asked to appear alongside them was risqué and controversial and set many tongues a-wagging. Plus they had a very unique way of thanking me for my troubles-turns out these two delectable musicians were as talented at creating erotic delights in the bedroom as they were at playing mesmerising music on stage.

Just the medicine for my broken heart? Well, it was certainly a deliciously sexy distraction and I would never, ever listen to the tinkling notes of a grand piano the same way again. And as for my broken heart? Well, it felt a whole lot better when everything slotted neatly into place.

Reader Advisory: This book contains ménage, M/M and a toy of the vibrating variety!

Publisher's Note: This story has been previously released as part of the Treble anthology by Total-E-Bound.

Lily x

PS - If you head on over to my blog ORCHESTRATING MANOEUVRES featured as yesterday's Sunday Snog - but wach out, its hot stuff!!


What? No condoms?!

When I wrote and even found a warm publishing home for my erotic m/m/m novella Three, I suspected I would get questions, and more than questions, about my choice not to mention condoms in the story. After all, isn’t it a sign of knowing your responsibility as a writer of m/m and gay erotica to make your heroes use a condom when they have sex outside a strictly monogamous relationship?

I come out as lesbian (or rather, I kicked the closet into smithereens and never looked back) in 1979. I was seventeen and I didn’t know even a single other gay or lesbian in my school, neighbourhood or family, so I went looking for them. In Rotterdam I found a small and welcoming community of gays and lesbians of all ages, who knew how to combine fun with political activism. We were loud, colourful and full of optimism about the future. Our relationships didn’t have any legal recognition, let alone protection, and in the few instances we were visible on TV there were roughly three choices: dysfunctional and unhappy, cured into heterosexuality or dead. It didn’t matter, because we were untouchable. We made our own stories, our own art, our own culture.

Then came AIDS and with it the end of innocence.

There was a trickle of time between the stories that gay men in America were dying of a horrible disease nobody understood, and the first in our circle of friends telling us he had AIDS. Amsterdam? That’s still not us. I’m convinced it saved a lot of lives, because halfway the eighties gay men around me started to change their sexual behaviour. Having a STD was no longer a badge of honour, but a sign of danger. Still, one friend with AIDS became two, became three and four and then there were friends of friends and guys you just looked at and you knew.

As a Kinsey six-and-a-bit lesbian in a long-term, monogamous relationship with my wife (we’ve been a couple since October 1981) I never had any personal reasons to worry about HIV or AIDS. I was, for all intentions, an outsider. And yet, I feared it deeply, because I feared for the men who were part of my tribe.

Somehow, we learned to live in a radically changed world.

“Use a condom, I don’t care that you don’t like them or the other guy looks healthy or whatever cheap excuse… Use a fucking condom! You have a package on you? Show me!”

And now I write and publish gay erotica and Owen, Sebastian and Davin in Three do things in bed that in real life would be a prime example of how to spread HIV and guess what? There’s not a condom in sight.

I refuse to fool myself, both as a writer and as a lesbian who remembers the time before AIDS reached us. I write fiction. Regardless of how realistic a story might look, how lifelike a character, fiction has to obey its own rules. Fictional men don’t get HIV and AIDS unless we writers decide otherwise, only real existing men do. And non-fictional men have a plethora of excuses to not use condoms, from internalised homophobia to honest misunderstanding of available information and everything in between.

There’s only one reason I’ll ever use condoms in my stories, and that’s when the story calls for it, when it’s an unavoidable part of the narrative. Not because it makes me feel good about myself for being so responsible or because that’s what gay/bi/MSM men in reality (hopefully) do. I don’t like patronising my readers, even if with the very best of intentions.

I fully respect writers who make a different choice for their own reasons, but it can’t be mine.

Enjoy the naïve innocence of romantic fiction, but please, never use it as an excuse for not having to face the realities of life.

S. Dora

Three can be bought here.


What If...?

May your wildest fantasies come true…

When I was thinking of the concept for Three-Way Tie, I let my wildest fantasies come true.

For a lot of writers a story begins with, “what if…”

What if a woman wanted a no-strings-attached weekend to explore her wild side, to leave her small town Texas life for the untamed Colorado mountains?

Lindsey Nolan, as down to earth as can be, privately enters a very naughty silent auction, never dreaming she’ll win the grand prize…a weekend with a renowned Dom the tall, dark, and slightly mysterious Master Rafael.

When she wins, she nearly has a change of heart. Before they even meet, Master Rafael pushes her to reveal her innermost secrets, including her limits. She’s played a little in the scene in Dallas, but even that hasn’t prepared her for someone as exacting as Master Rafael.

Rafael has a surprise of his own in store for the lovely Lindsey.

He hasn’t been involved with a BDSM relationship for a long time, and he wouldn’t be entertaining now, if it weren’t for his friend, Eric.

Since Master Eric has coerced Rafael into this weekend, he can join them.

When Lindsey arrives there at Master Rafael’s stunningly beautiful home, she finds her wildest dreams haven’t been met they’ve been exceeded.

But she hardly knows what to do with one Dom, what is she supposed to do with two of them?

She mistakenly thinks Master Eric—with his blond, boyish good looks—is the gentler of the two. But while the men are a study of contrasts, they’re both committed to giving Lindsey the weekend of her life, even if it means pushing each of her limits to get her there.

What if…?

That’s my favorite question. No wonder I write.

Wishing you lots of fantasies of your own….

Love, Sierra


"After All These Years" is Here!

Hello again, everyone!

Things are just hopping at Total-e-Bound lately, aren't they? I am so glad to be a part of it! My latest release, After All These Years, hit the Wild, Wild Web a few weeks ago. If you are into romance, military history, suspense and mysteries, give this one a shot!

Here's the blurb:

When Marilyn first meets William at the train station on a cold December day, she thinks he’s crazy. Soon she realises that he’s not crazy—just quirky—and she is stunned that he recognises her as the wife of Bobby Overmire, a Marine who was killed in the Beirut bombings in 1983.

As time passes, Marilyn becomes much more interested in William than in the husband she lost over two decades ago. But William is harbouring a secret-a secret that could destroy Marilyn’s world all over again.
That's the PG-13 version, of course. The excerpt that follows is a bit hotter:

In New York, the crowd was going wild. The gaudy crystal ball was flashing. As I watched, it started to drop. New York revellers were counting down the numbers with increasing frenzy.

William set his champagne glass on the table and turned to me. At the same time, I closed the distance by reaching out and lightly brushing his arm with the back of my hand. Though his left hand didn’t move, his right one did. He reached up and touched my hair, ran his fingertips through it, and moved closer. When I thought he would kiss me, he buried his nose in my hair and took a deep breath. He held very still as the numbers counted down and the crowd on the television screen got louder.

“Happy New Year, Marilyn,” he whispered into my ear.

He kissed me just as Dick Clark announced that the New Year had officially arrived in New York. William kissed me shyly, not touching anywhere but my lips. He nibbled with slow kisses at first, delving deeper with every one until his tongue touched mine.

It was like a match to dry tinder. I kissed him back, suddenly ravenous for his taste, and he responded in kind. He kicked away the blankets and pushed me back against the corner of the couch until there was nowhere I could go and nothing I could do but kiss him right back. I was kissing him with every pent-up year of sexual frustration I had in me.

The crowd sang a rather bad version of Auld Lang Syne as fireworks erupted. There were fireworks of a different kind on my couch. I pressed my thigh hard between William’s legs, and he responded by pushing right back. There was no doubt about his arousal—he was hard and hot. A groan escaped him as I ground against him.

He cupped one breast with his right hand, kneading it. He angled his head and kissed me deeper, harder, his lips rough against mine. What had started out gentle was now turning into something demanding, and it awakened long-lost feelings inside me that made me want even more.

I wanted to feel him inside me.

I wrapped my arms around his back and pulled him harder against me. William took a deep breath, kissed me again, then stopped with a kind of hesitation that said he wasn’t sure what to do.

Let’s slow down,” he finally said.

The words sent a wave of disappointment coursing through me. I waited as he took a few deep breaths. His forehead rested against my lips. His breath caressed my throat through the open collar of my shirt.

“What’s wrong?” My heart was pumping like the wheels of a freight train. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the speed of thingsI was shocked at my own reactions, at how ready I would have been to sleep with him, right there on my couchbut I was sure that I loved kissing him.

Want to see what happens when he explains himself? Pick up your copy of After All These Years right now and find out!



Dream Maker

By A.J. Llewellyn

When I was twelve years old, my father gave me the best Christmas present of my life. It was an Olivetti portable typewriter. He was a little concerned about my obsession with writing and reading, but somebody must have given him the idea of the typewriter (he says he regrets it now because he hates my books!) and I will be forever grateful. I loved that thing. For me, messing with the typewriter ribbon, blue carbon paper (memba those?) and thick pieces of paper on which I taught myself to type was the stuff of dreams.
I wrote my first celebrity fan mail to actor Richard Chamberlain on it. I wrote stories, poems, ideas...and have never stopped.As a journalist, which was my first and only career choice, the company I worked for had giant behemoth manual typewriters. You had to pound on the damned things. Hello carpal tunnel!
To this day, I can always tell if a person learned to type on a typewriter first by the way they pound a computer keyboard.
By the time the company I worked for invested in electric typewriters, I was in love. Mine was an IBM Selectric and it came with an extra corrector ribbon. Remember those fiddling little orange plastic spools?
Gone were the days of having to retype each and every page because of one misspelling.
I bought my IBM from my boss because I was working on articles for a magazine in my private time. I had become attatched to the machine and was worried it would disappear one day the way the behemoth had...but I did feel as if I was cheating on poor Olivetti.
That beautiful machine has traveled the world with me. He (I think of him as a he) sits in my office in my loft and has been looked after by the House of Typewriters here in Studio City for decades. When computers became big, the store changed its name to House of Office Machines, but they still love handling typewriters.
I covet many they have on display (people dropped them off and never picked them up again) and once had a sizable collection. I cut them all back and have kept Olivetti and my laptop. The thing of it is, I can't let go of my first love. The machine that listened, without judgment and let me pour my heart out. Computers will come and go but Olivetti will be with me until some natural disaster separates us.
How about you? What was the first thing you learned to type on and do you still have it?

Aloha oe,


Pictoral Ode to the Phallus

Last week as I searched for pictures of a totally unrelated nature, an image appeared that made me blink. Twice. In the midst of a pile of loose fabric, the shadows formed a perfect phallus. This seemed obviously unintentional, but it made me wonder what else out there had intended, or maybe not so intended, images of the great male member. I enjoyed my hunt and hope you enjoy a few of the pics I found. Oh, and complete credit to all those who took these wonderful photos.


Ancient Pompeii reveals this carving in stone.


Rockets Away! 

An iceberg from Antarctica

If this isn't blatant, I don't know what is.

Gotta love the architects for this building. 
Wonder if they studied it from all angles?

Chocolate covered bananas. Yummy. 

Now that I've put all kinds of thoughts in your head and all day you're going to be looking for phallic symbols everywhere, go out and have a great one! Um, day that is. :D

~ Ayla


Giving Thanks: Buffy, Kraft Mac & Cheese, and Strawberry Pop-Tarts

Prepping for that uniquely American holiday called “Thanksgiving” this year will be a pretty simple affair in my home this upcoming Thursday. Although this is technically “my” holiday this year with my two teenagers, their dad has been ridiculously busy these past couple of months and hasn’t seen the punkers since the beginning of August. The distance between us – him in Alabama, me in South Florida – makes quick weekends a bit more problematic. That’s not cool, him going so long without spending some time with his offspring, so I offered to give them this five-day long weekend together. He was also able to score excellent seats for the Iron Bowl -- that annual state-wide football throw-down between Auburn and Alabama – so, in addition to being well-fed by their extended step-family, they’ll have a great time in the middle of that chaos as well.

I am in fact quite a selfish bitch, so this really isn’t a Hallmark moment: it’s just the right thing to do. I figure, this man hit my hot spot well enough to produce these two amazing kids with me, so I do what I can to co-parent well with him. Besides, I’m sooooo not linear about the holidays, and some of the best have been unexpected moments of pure joy in my life having nothing to do with the "right" time or the “right” foods or the “right” place-settings.

Several years ago, I planned to take my kids – then nine and eleven years old – on a river cruise for Thanksgiving. I didn’t bother to lay in a supply of groceries, figuring I’d give myself a break from the incessant food-shopping routine and just hit the store the day after our big outing. Instead, on Thanksgiving Day, I woke up with a raging inner ear infection. My equilibrium was shot – I couldn’t get off the couch without getting nauseous. Instead of being disappointed, my kids put our Thanksgiving dinner together with the couple of items they found in the pantry they felt comfortable cooking without me watching. They popped in an episode of one of my all-time favorite series we watched together at that time: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season Four, Episode eight, called “Pangs.” (The punkers, of course, did not realize at the time that one reason I favor this episode is because Spike is tied up through most of it ;) Then they presented me with dinner: Kraft macaroni and cheese piled high in the middle of a serving dish, surrounded by carefully-placed garnish – Strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts. It was an awesome – and humbling -- day. A moment of pure joy – one of those moments to recall when I have those other moments when I seriously considering wrapping my hands around my family members’ throats…and squeezing. Hard.

So, this Thursday, while my emergent adults spend time with another group of people who love them, I’ll be watching that episode of Buffy – happily day-dreaming that I have Spike tied up in my dining room -- and chowing down on Kraft mac-&-cheese and Strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts, grateful that I somehow managed to raise a couple of people who understand that families come in many shapes and styles, that dinner from a couple of boxes can come wrapped in as much care and love as a meal that takes days to prepare – and that gratitude is a state of mind, not a day.

The picture below? Nothing – and everything -- to do with my writing. Just my daughter in one of those moments of joy. I hope you experience similar ones yourself during this upcoming holiday season.


Making Love from Payne...because, sometimes...Love Hurts
Available Now from Total-E-Bound: Bending Tyme


Where did it go?

Where did my motivation go? I can't seem to find it! I have been under too much stress lately and there has been a stifling of all my motivation! I hope to find it soon because I have so many ideas built up in my email ideas folder and I want to write them all, want to share them, want to say I am being productive and feel good about it! Ugh...lately it just hasn't happened.

So I need to find it, not sure how. I know some people force out words when they don't want to and others force out certain amounts of time. Neither has worked super great for me in the past.

I need something though, someone to stand behind me with a whip and...wait that may not lead to writing but it could be fun...

So what do others do, what helps you when you have been overwhelmed for months and not writing hardly a word? What gets you back into it where you feel good and productive?


My twisted relationship with kinky sex

Let me tell you about my twisted relationship with BDSM. As an emerging writer, I have often been told that you should write about what you know (unless you're writing fantasy, of course). But with BDSM that hasn't always been all that easy for me. Here is how it started: I came across a picture of a woman dressed in latex and holding a flogger in the ads of a local magazine sometime in the late 1980s. She looked fairly ridiculous to me at the time – mostly, I guess, because she was different from the other pictures on the page offering the usual fair of professional services like "private clubs", "escorts" or "masseuses". I didn't really get why someone would want to wear black latex just to have sex. To my (admittedly unimaginative) teenage mind one didn't dress up for sex. Quite the contrary, in fact, we always tried to get as naked as possible under the circumstances – but that may be another story. And the flogger? Who would be turned on by that? I remembered the occasional spankings my mom doled out as a punishment when I was a kid – the shame and embarrassment more than the actual pain – and frankly, I couldn't imagine anyone getting off on that.

A few years later a friend, who liked to confess things to me (I suspect that she did it to appear sophisticated), told me that she had had what she called Sado-Maso sex with an older guy ("older" meaning older than we were at the time, not elderly). She went into quite some detail about how he blindfolded her, tied her to the bed and teased her with ice-cubes. I'm not absolutely sure if she wasn't simply repeating a scene from the movie 91/2 Weeks to me. And I did my damnedest to just nod and appear cool and sophisticated myself. What surprised me, though, was my own reaction to her tale. The idea of relinquishing control to someone else intrigued me. My curiosity was piqued.
Now, my boyfriend at the time wasn't really into role-play. Let's say the kinkiest thing we ever came up with was eating ice cream in bed. To be fair, I wasn't confident enough to confess my newfound interest to him either. Instead, I began to research – first in books, later on the internet (an infinite resource – did I mention that I'm a bit of a nerd?). And I learned quite a lot – more, in fact, than I am confident to discuss. I eventually tried out some of the things I had read about with my partner, but there's still what I would call a huge discrepancy between my theoretical knowledge about and my actual experience of BDSM practices.

So, should I be writing about BDSM? I don't know. But what I write about isn't always a conscious decision. Characters, stories and topics mostly just present themselves to me and demand to be written down – as did my most recent story "The Accidental Sub". You can read an excerpt from the story below and see for yourself. What's your own relationship with BDSM? Anything you've tried or would like to try, or are you more of a curious spectator like myself? I'd love to hear from you in the comments.

If you enjoy reading BDSM stories, you should definitely check out the brand new Subspace Anthology filled to the brim with exciting tales. And did I mention my story is in it too?

Want more awkward confessions and hot excerpts from my stories? Come over to my blog A DARK KINDOF DESIRE. And, of course, I'll be back here next month on the 19th!

Excerpt from "The Accidental Sub"

Catherine was ready and waiting just inside the wood-framed glass doors to her office building at three minutes to eight. She stared at her wristwatch, counting the seconds. She had double-checked it against the BBC news for the umpteenth time half an hour ago and was quite sure it was accurate now. She hadn’t been able to concentrate on work at all today, hypnotised by the slow-moving hands of the wall clock when she wasn’t daydreaming about what was going to happen tonight. At one point she had found herself typing the word ‘butt plug’ instead of ‘buttress’ into her summary of a serious and urgent environmental report on tsunami countermeasures. Sheesh!

Sighing, she pulled down the way-too-short black leather miniskirt she had bought at a fetish store near King’s Cross Station on her lunch break along with a medium-sized silicone butt plug. A delicious frisson of arousal had crept up her spine as she carried these items back to the office in a thin, black plastic bag. What if her colleagues found out what she was up to?

She had inserted the butt plug in the ladies’ room after lunch but left the miniskirt for later. This really wasn’t her kind of outfit. It showed off too much of her substantial thighs, and she was afraid that someone might notice she wasn’t wearing panties. Of course, this possibility also made her really hot and the constant pressure of the butt plug heightened her arousal.

The top was a disaster in itself. While she tried to keep the soft cowl neck pulled up, it slipped with every movement she made and her breasts were constantly in danger of popping out of the skimpy garment. She had been wearing the top to work today and had only realised it was a dangerous choice when she had taken off the bra and the long-sleeved red T-shirt she had worn underneath.

One minute to go. She checked her makeup in her pocket mirror, then had to readjust her top again. Thirty seconds. She peeked out through the glass doors but couldn’t see much of the street. At eight o’clock sharp a black Saab convertible pulled up to the kerb, just as she stepped out of the building. The roof was closed so she couldn’t see the driver, but the passenger door was opened for her from the inside and she didn’t hesitate to get into the car.

He looked, even more handsome than she remembered, in black jeans and a tight black T-shirt that fitted his broad, muscular upper body to perfection. His short brown hair was combed back, and a pair of black Ray Bans dangled from the neckline of his T-shirt. He was definitely gorgeous enough to eat, and Catherine had a strong compulsion to lick his body from head to toe.

He said, “Good evening, Catherine.” His deep voice went straight to her G-spot and her knees went weak.

She risked another brief glance at him and whispered a shy ‘Hello’, before turning to fasten her seatbelt. Suppressing the insane urge to throw herself at his feet and beg him to take her right here in the car, she meekly folded her hands in her lap and stared at the floor. He started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Catherine didn’t dare ask him where they were going. She felt completely at his mercy, and a delightful shiver of anticipation ran through her body.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered as they stopped at a traffic light. A feeling of calm spread slowly through Catherine’s whole body. It was such a relief to cede responsibility to him. She wriggled forward in the seat and clasped her wrists behind the small of her back. No longer self-conscious about how she looked, she attuned herself to his wishes, anticipating the pleasure of his touch.

He took one hand off the wheel and reached over to pull her cowl neck down below her waist and expose both breasts. He gave an appreciative ‘Hmm’ when her nipples hardened in the cool evening air. He slipped his hand between her legs, nudging her thighs apart as far as they would go in the short skirt. “I like the outfit,” he commented and slipped one long finger into her, then ran it through her folds to spread the moisture. “Hmm,” he rumbled again. His hand slipped lower and his probing fingers found the butt plug. “Very nice.”

He tapped the end lightly, sending shivers of dark delight up Catherine’s spine. She imagined him taking her from behind, fucking first her pussy and then her arsehole. The vivid mental images made her so wet she was sure she would leave a puddle on the seat. 
The light turned green and he took his hand away abruptly to put it back on the steering wheel. Catherine felt strangely bereft without his touch. She clenched her mouth shut around a tiny whimper of frustration.


Errands Galore

With the colder weather I do my outside errands once a week. That way I can be in the cold one day getting everything done instead of daily. Yes I'm in the cold longer but since I am on the move going here and there I don’t feel it as much. I’ve come up with an organization to get everything done in a timely manner.

Well yesterday was errand day and I was up and out of my house at the crack of dawn. Had to take the train to most of my errands. As I went from place to place and things I had to do I was pleased with my progress of what I got done. By the end of the day I was burnt out. Dragging hard. But I was pleased that all my errands were done. My organization worked. Yay.

I was so pleased and surprised at how things went. Got more done than I usually do when I spread my errands out. I think I’ve found the way I’m going to do my errands.

Taige Crenshaw
…increasing the sizzle factor

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Picture This...

By Lisabet Sarai

Picture this. You're sunbathing naked in a mountain meadow, when the most gorgeous man you've ever seen discovers you pleasuring yourself. Your attraction to this man feels cosmic. It's not garden-variety lust. Something about this stranger speaks to your soul. Your one and only desire is to fuse your body with his, and it's obvious from his state of tumescence that he feels the same way. But he refuses to make love to you. He gives you some story about how he'll kill you if he comes inside you and begs you not to tempt him to break his vow of celibacy.

What do you do? The guy's obviously in serious psychic pain, remembering the first time he made love to a woman and the terrible consequences. If you care about him, you should get up and leave, before you lose control. Yet you want him so badly, you're personally willing to risk the immolation he promises will ensue, just to have him once...

This is the quandary faced by my heroine Sylvie in my new Lust Bite release, Hot Spell. Aidan claims that he's a Fire Elemental, that to make love to him will kill her, and there's plenty of evidence to support that claim. Yet Sylvie can't resist the desire he kindles in her – both body and spirit.

Here's a quick excerpt, showing her wrestling with her dilemma.


His tongue was still dancing between her legs when she came to her senses. “Wait,” she gasped. She was not sated yet, not at all, but she wanted more than just his mouth. “Enough…I need your cock. Fuck me!”

“No—I can’t.” His cheeks glistened with wetness from her still-spasming pussy. “I want to, you know I do, but it’s not possible…”

Sylvie scrambled to her knees so they were face to face. She cupped the massive bulge in his groin, trapped in the uniform pants. “I’d say you’re pretty well equipped to do the deed. Don’t keep this all to yourself.” She unzipped his fly, amazed and appalled by her uncharacteristic boldness. Lust had driven out her usual reticence.

His cock was as gorgeous as she remembered—fat, veined, and as bronzed as the rest of him. It lay hot and heavy in her palm. She stroked her finger over the purple bulb, smearing the fluid leaking from the slit. “You want me. You can’t lie.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then take me.” She reached between her legs to gather some of the copious secretions then smeared them over the head and down the rigid shaft.

“No,” he groaned, grabbing at her hands. “Please don’t. Don’t make me come.”

“Ah, but that’s just what I want to do!”

Pulling on his swollen organ, she fell back into the grass, dragging him down on top of her. His knob brushed her clit and she felt herself burst into flame. She shifted beneath his weight, trying to align his cock with her ravenous cunt. He slipped into her for a moment. A wave of hot bliss nearly shattered her.

“Don’t!” He forced himself away from her body and tumbled off to the side. A sense of loss overwhelmed her.

“I need you. I’ve got to have you inside me.”

"No…I’m sorry.” His brows knit into a frown of pain, a shadow of his agonised face the night before. “Forgive me. You’re gorgeous, practically irresistible, but I can’t fuck you…”

“Then go away.” Sylvie grabbed her T-shirt and threw it in his face. “I can’t stand to see you and not have you.” She rolled over, turning her back to him.

“Wait…please. I want…”

She peered over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

“I want you…”

“Then why not take me?”

“You wouldn’t understand. Let me show you, with my hands, with my mouth. That, I can do…”

“Take off your clothes.”

“Uh, I don’t think—”

“Get naked, or get out of here. If I can’t have your cock in my pussy, at least I want it in my mouth.”

“No, that’s not a good idea. I might lose control.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

The man was clearly torn. He rose to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Deliberately, Sylvie reclined and let her fingers dabble in her cunt, where they woke echoes of her past climaxes. With her other hand she caressed her breast, rolling the taut nipple between her forefinger and thumb. The bolt of pleasure only made her cunt feel emptier.

The stranger seemed poised between fleeing and jumping her. She hoped that he’d pick the latter.


By the way, I'm doing a mini-blog tour this month, for Hot Spell and the single title version of Wild About That Thing, due out on the 28th. Anyone who leaves a comment at this or any other of my stops will be entered to win their choice of the two new books. You can find a list of the stops in the left sidebar on my blog. And please include your email as part of your comment. And please include your email as part of your comment. If you win, I want to be able to find you!

And since I titled this post “Picture This”, I thought I'd try to find you a picture of how I imagine Aidan...

Could you resist him?


Always Christmas In Lincoln

Honestly, I've not going completely potty, Lincoln is not the Christmas centre of the UK, no, it's the title of my upcoming new release!

12th December sees the release of Always Christmas in Lincoln.


Isn't He...I mean the cover gorgeous?

Here's the blurb. It isn’t really always Christmas in Lincoln but when Felicity gets her man it feels like it. Felicity hates Christmas. It reminds her of a traumatic event from her childhood. She thinks the Permanent Christmas shop is tacky, with its windows full of trees and tinsel all year round and would rather it disappeared from her picturesque home town. When she discovers that Carl, who she lusts over every time she sees him in the tea rooms, is in fact the owner of Ho, Ho, Ho! She’s not quite sure what to think. It takes a sexy meeting in the middle of a fake winter wonderland to make her realise the advantages of Christmas in the middle of summer. As time passes, Carl and Felicity indulge in more sexy liaisons but as Christmas approaches Felicity doubts whether she is anything more than a sensual distraction for the festive shop owner and when her handsome ex, Sean, sweeps into town on a quest to win her back she finds she has a tough decision to make. Can Carl and his Christmas cheer win over her hardened heart?
 And here's a teensy-tiny tasty teaser excerpt  for you!

We chatted amicably as we positioned and re-positioned soft toys, ornaments and gingerbread houses. I’d not felt so relaxed and happy for a long while. The loneliness had sunk into my soul and I’d barely even recognised it. As I pondered what that meant for me and my life, I miscalculated how far forward I needed to lean to place my singing, dancing penguin, and I slipped. I knocked into Carl, yelped and thankfully landed on the soft toys. Carl’s landing wasn’t quite so soft, since he ended up on top of me.

“Oh, fu—I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Carl pushed himself up, but I was still very aware of his pelvis pressing against mine. 

“Don’t worry, accidents happen.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll pay for anything I’ve broken, I’ll put everything back in just the place it was…”

Carl kissed me.

It was far more complex than that, but at that moment my mind went blank and I just couldn’t think. His lips were on mine. They were plump, hot and very skilled. He took my breath away with just the gentlest undulations. I wrapped my arms around him without thought; pulled him close and let out all the passion that had built up inside me. We broke apart and took ragged breaths before our lips pulled us back together again. Our eyes were open and I could see that he was holding back just a little bit, nervous about whether this was what I wanted. I was sure he’d see the same emotions in the sea of my green eyes.

It struck me as funny that two grown adults lip-locked together still seemed so hesitant. I think he felt the smile cross my lips, because he turned up the heat. He rolled to his side and pulled me over on top of him.
You can Pre-order Always Christmas in Lincoln now and rest assured you'll have this great winter warmer ready and waiting for you as Christmas draws near. When the 16th December comes round I'm going to tell you the tale of how I was inspired to write this story! I look forward to chatting to you lovely folks again then!