The Thief and the Desert Flower

Do you ever watch a movie and get totally inspired by a particular scene. You lose track of the movie as you go off on a tangent of your own? I was watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon a while back and the hot, sexy desert scene with the fighting couple who, of course, become lovers inspired a story of my own.

The Thief and the Desert Flower comes out on Monday at Samhain.

Can a princess find love in the arms of a desert thief?


Princess Chala is facing an arranged marriage to a man she’s never met. When her caravan is attacked in the desert and she’s kidnapped by the nomad leader, she thinks only of escape—at first. But the charming rogue, Kyo is set on seducing her until she freely gives him what he’s craved from the moment he saw her. The fiery-tempered princess and the unscrupulous scoundrel engage in a battle of the sexes.

Lust slowly turns to love as they share details of their lives and realize they have more common ground than expected. But Chala’s powerful bridegroom, Brachas isn’t about to let a merger between two kingdoms dissolve without a fight. His soldiers find and reclaim the princess, who now has an agenda of her own.


Can a clever princess and her determined lover save a desert people, bring a despot to justice and find a future together in a world of their choosing?

Excerpt:

Grit crunched between Chala’s teeth, infiltrating every pore of her skin. Her mass of brown curls was heavy with dirt. Particles even invaded her lungs, making her cough. A film of grime covered everything in the coach.

“Karachi, this trip will never end!” Her invocation of the deity was caught between a curse and a prayer.

After days of traveling through the desert, she longed for a return to civilization, but dreaded her destination, Rajira, the capitol city of Calwas. The bond she would soon make with a stranger would change the rest of her life. All she wanted was to be back in her own rooms, among familiar things, her friends, pets and diversions. Yet sometimes, as she dozed in the stifling heat of the swaying vehicle, she felt vaguely excited, too. There was a stirring in her belly and between her legs when she imagined what her future husband might be like.

She’d seen a picture of Fordin Brachas, ruler of Calwas. While he wasn’t the romantic ideal Chala and her friends had daydreamed about, he wasn’t repellant. But more importantly, he governed lands that made him a valuable alliance for her father’s kingdom.

Chala pulled her cuorta around her face. The soft fold of fabric shielded her from the others in the carriage. No one could see her trembling lip or glistening eyes. Her maid and confidante, Gen, would understand such fears, but her chaperone, Madam Britta, would remind her a princess was born for this kind of union and she should be happy to have made such an important match.

Like the lowest scullery maid, Chala had duties to fulfill. Daughter of King Mica Leandros and Queen Tiah of Gendera though she may be, she was still bartered goods. There should be more parties, dances and fun in her life before she submitted to her destiny. She was too young for this!

The carriage rolled down a sharp incline, lurching from side to side. The creak of the vehicle, the jangle of horses’ harnesses and the occasional shouts of the caravan drivers had become so familiar Chala scarcely heard them any longer. But suddenly a new sound broke the monotony—yells in a foreign tongue and many pounding hooves.

The carriage ground to an abrupt halt, nearly throwing her off the seat. Gen screamed and clutched Chala’s arm.

In the seat across from them, Madam Britta’s eyes flew open. “We’re under attack!”

The carriage door was wrenched open. Sunlight blinded Chala. A dark-clad arm reached inside, seized Britta’s skirt and hauled her toward the opening. A deep voice shouted in a language as rough and gritty as the desert sand.

“Out! Now!” the voice commanded in thickly accented Genderese.

Britta seized her handbag. She hit the man’s arm, breaking his grip.

“Stop! You may have our jewels and that is all.” She reached to unclasp her necklace, her eyes warning the other women to do the same.

This can’t be happening. Chala’s stomach churned. She could barely breathe the choking, dry air as she pulled off her rings, bracelet and gold choker and put them in Britta’s handbag. The older woman thrust the bag toward the open door.

A brown hand seized the bag. “Out!”

Madam Britta descended almost regally from the carriage while Gen tripped on the hem of her gown as she stumbled through the door.

Chala gripped her gem-studded brooch in her fist with the sharp pin protruding between her fingers, her heart racing, sweat drenching her gown. Every instinct told her to cling to the safety of the carriage for as long as possible. She felt strangely calm and distant, too busy calculating how she might save herself to be as terrified as she might be.

“Come out,” the voice barked.

Remembering who she was, Chala injected every ounce of royalty she possessed into her calm reply. “No! You have what you came for. Now leave us alone.”

The robber cursed in the language of the desert nomads as he invaded the carriage. Silhouetted in the doorway, his body looked as though the bright day had ripped apart to show a piece of midnight sky. His hair was black and long, his clothes dark and his skin brown leather. Only his teeth were white, like snapping wolf fangs. Although the carriage was spacious enough for four to comfortably travel, the man seemed to fill the entire space.

Chala pressed flat against her seat, arms crossed protectively over her chest. She didn’t scream, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing her fear. But her heart thundered loudly in her ears and she felt faint.

Glittering black eyes scanned her body. He reached toward her hair and snatched out a jewel-studded comb she’d forgotten. Her hair tumbled down, several locks trailing over her face.

After examining the comb, he thrust it into his jacket pocket. “You have money?” He stared hard at the folds of her dress, as if he could see through them and expected to find gold coins hidden on her body.

“I don’t carry money.” She gazed straight into his eyes. Her mother had taught her that good eye contact and an impartial tone were important in establishing one’s authority over the lower classes.

He reached toward her bodice. Chala slapped his hand away from the rose satin. The brooch cupped in her other hand was slick with sweat, but she waited, saving it in case her situation grew even more desperate.

“I assure you, I have nothing that would be of any interest to you.”

The white wolf teeth flashed. She imagined he would lunge forward and take a bite out of her. Chala wasn’t naïve, despite her sheltered upbringing. She understood the meaning of his smirk, and her fear mounted.

“I check.” He grabbed her upper arm, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. He reached for her skirt with his other hand, gathering the yards of fabric until the hem was up to her thighs.

She tugged her gown away, attempting to smooth it back down. No fear. Don’t ever show fear. Chala glared into shining black eyes, only a few feet from hers. She smelled leather, sweat and a foreign spice. Her body was rigid, the muscles tensing hard enough to cramp. She felt his gaze would burn her to a cinder and the ashes would blow away in the desert wind to mingle with the sand.

“Not hurt you. Want money.” His tone was as polite as if he were a friend invited to tea and asking for a small loan, but beneath her skirt he touched her thigh, stroking upward toward the juncture of her legs.

She squirmed against his other hand pinning her shoulder to the seat. Chala grabbed his wrist through the fabric of her cuorta and squeezed, trying to prevent his fingers from roaming any higher.

He leaned closer, his warm breath tickling the side of her face, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to the neckline of her gown. Pulling free of her grip, he drew his hand from beneath her skirt and reached to touch the top swell of her breasts with a light brush of fingertips.

Her skin tingled as if fevered. Her nipples tightened. An odd, aching sensation settled between her legs. Her breath caught at her body’s strong reaction to the man’s touch. She was torn between repulsion and a strange, hungry feeling.

Setting his palm flat against her chest, he splayed his fingers wide and remained silent, unmoving, simply feeling her skin and the beating of her heart. The weight and heat of his hand were almost comforting. She stilled, waiting to see what would happen next. Maybe, now that he realized she had no money, he’d simply go away.

His gaze lifted from her breasts to her face. For several long moments, they stared at each other. From outside the carriage came the sounds of whinnying horses, men’s shouts and Gen’s wailing, but the uproar seemed a world away from this intense, silent moment. Only the robber’s breathing disturbed the quiet. His gaze flicked to her mouth, settled there, and he leaned slowly forward.

Chala wouldn’t have believed her heart could beat any faster, but when his breath tickled her lips, the pounding in her head became deafening. His hard body pressed against hers. His warm lips covered hers. She snapped out of whatever trance held her and twisted her head to the side, breaking the pressure of his mouth on hers. Lifting the hand with the brooch, she drove the pin into his cheek and raked downward.

He cried out and released her, his hand rising to the side of his face.

Chala wriggled from underneath him. She tried to scramble away, but his leg on the folds of her gown anchored her in place. He grabbed her arm and jerked her back down onto the seat.

“Lagro!” He growled and wrapped a firm hand around her throat, not squeezing, but keeping her from moving.

Chala drove the brooch pin into his hand. Even though there was nowhere to escape to even if she got free of him, she wouldn’t give in without making an effort to protect herself.

Shinje curses rattled like gravel from his mouth, but he didn’t let go of her throat. Grabbing her other wrist, he squeezed until her bones creaked. She gasped and opened her hand, dropping her only weapon.

No. Not her only one. Chala brought her knee up, trying to strike her assailant between his legs, but again her skirts restricted her. She squirmed and struck at his face with her free hand, but he held her fast.

He flipped her onto her stomach, her face pressed into the seat, and pulled her arms behind her. His legs bracketed her body on either side, pinning her down, as something coiled around her wrists, binding them together.

“Stop!” he ordered when she continued to buck beneath him.

Chala hadn’t wasted breath on screaming, but she was winded and gasping from her struggle. She stopped moving and inhaled deeply, reassessing the situation. She couldn’t free herself or run away. It was best to conserve her energy for whatever happened next. Maybe an opportunity for escape would come later.

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I'm posting as Kate today

because I have a Kate release coming out. No, it's not erotic so it's not Summer Devon's work. It's not a historical, so it's not really a Kate book either.

It's not like anything I've written. It's a story loosely based on Daddy Long Legs, the book by Jean Webster. I got the cover yesterday and it'll be out July 7.

Here's an excerpt:

THANK YOU, MRS. M

Copyright © KATE ROTHWELL, 2009

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

The sleek silver oval lay in the palm of Ben’s hand. The sheaf of papers lay on his lap. Lots of instructions, most of them boiling down to one word.

Talk.

It took a while for him to figure out how to turn the silver recorder on. The thing was too damn slick. He gave it a tap for luck and began.

“You want honesty. An hour’s worth a day of normal speech, nothing prepared is necessary. Yeah, okay. But I’m pretty certain I’m not supposed to talk normally. No fucking way, because every other fucking word is fuck. Don’t fucking ask me why. Just the fucking way it is. Especially when I’m with Prophet and Repo. I’ll tone it down for you, okay? I assume you’re an old lady with some style. For you, I can stop.

“Hey, I try to talk any other way with Repo, who’s about six-three and two-thirty pounds, he’d beat the shit out of me. He was in the army for a while—got out as soon as he could—but he enjoys describing the ways to kill people with his thumbs. ‘Fu—eff, you’re an umbatz,’ he’d say. Effing crazy. He wants to be an Italian mobster and studies their jargon. I keep telling him there are very few African Italian American mobsters.

“’How’d the eff you know?’ he asked me. ‘You effing got some Italian in your mix?’

“Who da eff knows?

“Maybe you do, Mrs. Moneybags. All the background research your guys did. Some sort of agency, huh. Very mysterious. No, I won’t learn the name of my sponsor, although I may be informed that she’s female. No, I don’t need to fill out any qualifying paperwork. No need to demonstrate need by supplying bank statements—that don’t exist, by the way. ‘We have taken care of all that, Mr. Evans.’ The letter says ‘Your grades alerted us to your potential.’

“Bull. I’ve taken a class a year. Easy enough to ace school like that, huh? Especially a school like the one I currently attend. Nothing against it, but it’s no Yale.

“So I’m supposed to take the money and run. Just talk about every damn detail of my boring life. Be sure to answer the questions on this thirty-two page questionnaire and add details. Copious details.

“Heh. Now that you’ve got me hooked on the money, you’re gonna make me do the paperwork? I have to say it was a nice cover letter from your admin. ‘Ben, honey, you got the money. Get to work. Here’s a recording device to make the job easier. You pick emails or voice recordings. If you really must talk to someone, call this number, but we’d rather you didn’t.’”

He pressed the rubbery button on the recording thing and shoved off his boots. The talking was simply work in exchange for money he needed. Legitimate, easy work. No reason to be so annoyed.

He turned it back on.

“I just wonder, what will you do with an hour a day? I know the admin swore up and down these recordings are confidential, and even she won’t hear them, so what’s it about? You catch sight of my butt and wanna haul me into bed? You writing a novel? Names will be changed to protect the not-very-innocent? Are you trying to scrape together information to garner sympathy for underprivileged folks? God, that is fu—um, screwed.

“I don’t want to use somebody’s pity to get what I need. Are we clear on that? This isn’t about poor me, because I don’t need anything but your money. You want a story. Fine. An exchange.

“If you’re actually listening, pay attention to this part too, Mrs. Moneybags. I’m strong enough for anything I wade through every day. All of us are, Beeb, Junelia and me. Hear that? The only missing piece is the money.

“Yeah, yeah, I know some agency you hired got the basic facts about me, and you might even be psycho enough or bored enough to actually read them, or listen to this, so I won’t try to bullsh—lie to you.

“As you’re paying for this, I will give you the finest, grade A, real stuff. And I’ll even try not to lie too often. Just often enough so you can have fun fact checking. ‘He really drop out of high school when he was sixteen?’

“Nosy, aren’t you?

“So go ahead and listen. But please do not pity me because I don’t want or need sympathy. I want a scholarship and this is way easier than trying to go through the feds, the state and way fu—effing easier than filling out paperwork or, God forbid, writing essays for other scholarships. And Rodrigo’s gone so I can’t borrow any more. I couldn’t afford much with his interest rates anyway.”

He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and blew out a long breath.

“Back up. Start again with less of the attitude,” he muttered, and held up the recorder again.

And here's a link to the story.

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Lazy Hazy Beach Daze

I've been at the beach for the last week. Life is good. Warm sand,cool water, and hot bodies. HMMM HMMM HMM.

Romantic things to do list.
Write love messages in the sand.
Rub suntan lotion on each other.
Walk hand in hand along the water's edge.
Watch the sun rise together.
Build a bonfire at night.
Have a date strolling along the boardwalk.
Skinny dip (if you dare)
Make out under the stars.

Here's where I've been.





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Polar Impressions Photography

Lisa Andel here, Erotic Muses would like to introduce you to the photographic art of Brett Jackman today. A very gifted photographer in Sydney, Australia.

For those of you that are wondering how this ties into erotic romance, I ask, how doesn't it? His erotic nude shots are stories of their own. I just wish he did cover art.

Maybe, just maybe, he might. (I think we should work on him, on this front.)

I stole the following information from his website (with his permission. Sort of):

My name is Brett Jackman and I am “Polar Impressions Photography”. I am an artistic concept and theme portraiture photographer.

If you're looking for a photographer who has a tripod and camera bolted to the ground in the one spot and pulls a fake blue sky background down like a roller blind and says “everybody say cheese” then you are NOT looking for me.

My studio is the city of Sydney, the state of NSW. Everything and anything from the Harbour to your back yard, your favourite beach or golf course or the local auto wrecking yard.

(Following is an example of Brett's work.)

There are just too many incredible photographs to show them all here. To see more of Brett's work visit one of his other sites:

http://polarimpress.deviantart.com/
http://www.redbubble.com/people/polarimpress
http://www.modelmayhem.com/862891

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Cage Match now available

Cage Match is available at Loose Id.

A prince of industry, an imprisoned gladiator, fistfights instead of ballrooms—Cinderella was never this hot.

A master in the arena but a slave when combat is over, Jabez is a cage fighter raised on the streets. Wealthy, young Andreas Fortias rescues him from his bleak existence and offers him the chance for a new life. But can Andreas break through the hard barrier erected over a lifetime and touch the man inside?

When two friends bet on a cage match, Andreas wins the prize—time spent with the winner of the match. He feels an instant sizzling connection with the battered warrior as well as guilt at using the man for his evening’s entertainment. He buys the indentured man’s contract and takes him home.

Jabez is skeptical of Andreas’s explanation that he’s hired him as a self-defense trainer. Uneasy in the luxury that suddenly surrounds him, he resists the primal magnetism that draws him to his handsome employer. Their mutual struggle against desire explodes into passionate fighting in the ring. Soon both men surrender to attraction which evolves slowly into something more.

As Andreas’s social conscience grows, he discovers his family’s corporation has dark, dangerous secrets which will place him in a fight for his life. Meanwhile, Jabez learns what it is to care for someone else more than for himself and puts his body and soul on the line for Andreas. But will he be able to beat the clock and free Andreas in time?

Excerpt:
The anticipatory rumble of the crowd made the hair on Andreas’s neck rise. They wanted blood and violence, maybe even death. The thick scent of lust and sweat hung in the air along with a pall of opium smoke. Andreas breathed it in through every pore, let the muttering roar fill his head and the adrenaline tingle through his veins until he was one with the primal vibe that simmered in the cavelike room.

A single thick beam of light sliced through the darkness, illuminating the cage below. The big man in front of Andreas shifted to say something to his neighbor, blocking Andreas’s view. He bobbed his head to the right. The fighters were entering through barred doors that face each other across the circular arena. Both men were practically naked except for briefs, oiled bodies glistening. Tonight’s match was a hand-to-hand fight with no weapons or armor, only muscle and skill.

Andreas fingered the gold chain around his neck as he studied the two opponents, both virile, stunning specimens. He swallowed and his stomach muscles tensed as his erection swelled. Leaning forward, he peered intently at the taller of the two men. He was the more battle-scarred of the two fighters. Red-haired and bearded, his broad chest also boasted a pelt of coppery hair. His muscles were hewn rock and his facial features were blunt and square. He looked like he could tear a man’s arms off and beat him into submission with them.

Andreas looked at the other man and felt as if someone had delivered an unexpected punch to his gut. He exhaled his breath in a gasp. The second warrior was a chiseled and polished work of art compared to his adversary. Andreas’s pulse quickened at the sight of his beautiful, sleek body, the wide shoulders, shining pecs and abs and long, sinewy arms and legs. The man sauntered rather than strode toward his adversary, but despite his casual manner, there was tension and power coiled in his lean body. His fingers clenched lightly making the muscles in his arms ripple all the way up to his shoulders. He was like a snake seemingly asleep in the sun but poised to strike.

Turning up the magnification on his image-viewer, Andreas studied the leaner fighter. His hair was cropped close to his scalp and he was clean-shaven unlike his opponent. His nose would’ve been a long, straight blade but for a kink where it had been broken. A scar bisected his right brow and turned down the corner of his eye, but the damage only added to his handsome features giving them character that the perfection of faces in the stands lacked. There were few in the crowd tonight who hadn’t had some cosmetic surgery and Andreas thought all of them looked like pale imitations of the real man in the arena.

Guilt mingled with his pleasure at examining the attractive fighter. He despised himself for coming to these events, ashamed at the blood-lust and the voyeur aspect of watching two men tear each other apart with weapons or beat each other senseless with their fists. But at the same time, there was an undeniable craving in the pit of his stomach, roiling around like a bad case of food poisoning. He couldn’t look away from the arena and wouldn’t walk out now even if given the opportunity. He had to watch.

“Hey, Andreas,” Timon leaned over and nudged his arm, “want to bet on the match? Blind stakes, I choose Redbeard.”

“Blind stakes? What’s that?” He glanced at his friend, noting that Timon had tinted his hair and eyes to exactly match his blue shirt. The garment was no doubt a top designer label. Timon was a fashion hound who’d rather be dead than underdressed for any occasion.

“New game Rabi and I invented. You place the bet without announcing stakes. They’re revealed at the end of the match.”

Andreas laughed. “That makes no sense at all.”

“No, it makes it more exciting and it’s fresh. Hurry, they’re about to start. Are you in or out?”

“In, I guess.” Andreas looked at his fighter again. Lighter, leaner and younger than the other man, he also looked faster and smarter. “Sure. My guy can beat your guy.” And maybe I’ll win back my boat, he thought. Last time they’d played cards he’d lost the brand new vessel to Timon after only sailing it twice.

The bell rang and the fighters began to circle one another. The crowd suddenly hushed to a low, rumbling murmur. Andreas tuned out the people around him, craned to see around the man in front of him.

He dubbed his fighter “Snake” due to the way he moved, smooth and deadly, circling slowly around his opponent. Andreas couldn’t tell from this distance what color his eyes were, not even with the magnification of his image-viewer, but he could see they glittered as he stared at the other man. A chill went through him at the intensity of the gladiator’s gaze.

For long moments the pair stalked around each other like a pair of cats. Andreas wondered how much of it was for show. Did the men really need to assess one another or was it expected by the audience and so they went through the motions? Were both of them aching to surge toward their opponent?
Viewing at such a high magnification, Andreas almost felt he was with his chosen fighter. He was so intent on watching Snake that when he finally did attack, Andreas started and gasped in surprise. The man was so fast. He darted at his opponent and jabbed a fist into his solar plexis, knocking him backward.

Andreas quickly dialed back on his viewer as the two fighters dodged in and out of his frame of vision. By the time he’d refocused, the pair were punching and flailing, rolling on the sand and kicking up so much dirt it was hard to see who was on top at any given moment.
Their grunts and the soft thumps of their fists were picked up by the cage mics and broadcast through the room. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as it listened. The fistfight was quieter than the exaggerated flesh hitting flesh in a vid, but more affecting because it was real and because everyone knew these men wouldn’t stop until one of them was unconscious, possibly even dead. That was the thrill of the experience, the vicarious rush everyone came for.

Redbeard scrambled out of the other man’s grip and pulled himself to his feet with the aid of the cage grille. Snake also retreated, rolling and pushing himself upright in one smooth move. Both men stood panting for a moment then Redbeard let out a roar and ran at Snake. He bent and rammed his big head into the other man’s stomach like a battering ram, driving him back into the bars. Snake grunted as the air was driven from him. He doubled over the other man. Redbeard brought his body up, snapping his head into Snake’s face.

The audience groaned in sympathy as the lighter man took a beating. The bearded giant kept him pinned against the bars and used him as a punching bag.
Timon leaned toward Andreas. “Doesn’t look too good for your guy.”

Andreas didn’t answer. He winced every time Redbeard’s meaty fists drove into Snake’s body. His fighter tried to keep up his guard but the blows were coming in from every angle.

Then Redbeard made his mistake. He grappled Snake’s body close in a wrestling hold, twisted him around and cast him down. Sand puffed up as he hit the ground. Redbeard took a second to raise his arms and turn in a circle facing the crowd, receiving applause for his prowess then he turned back to his opponent, crawling away across the floor, and ran at him.

“Body slam!” Timon announced.

But as the big man drew himself up for the leap, Snake’s long leg swept out, cutting both his legs from under him. Redbeard toppled rather than leaped and missed his mark. He landed on his face on the ground.

Snake scrambled to his feet and jumped on top of him, driving a knee into his back. He gripped Redbeard’s head by the hair and slammed his face into the ground over and over. Redbeard struggled to knock him off or flip over, but Snake was tenacious. He continued to pound the man’s head into the sand with single-minded ferocity until he stopped struggling.

Andreas felt sick as he looked around him at the cheering crowd, the avid, hungry expressions of the beautiful people. Deep inside the stomach cramp of guilt remained, but at the same time his pulse pounded. He was as entranced and addicted as everyone else. He pumped his fist in the air and shouted until he was hoarse.

Down in the arena, the unconscious fighter was placed on a stretcher and taken away. The promoter raised Snake’s arm high above his head, declaring him the official victor and another roar of approval came from the crowd.

Timon leaned toward Andreas to complain. “You lucky bastard. There was no way he should’ve won over Redbeard. Now for the stakes.”

“My sailboat,” Andreas answered promptly. “I want it back detailed and pristine, the same condition in which you took it.”

“Whoa, boy, you don’t understand how this game works. The winner doesn’t get to say what he’s won. The loser tells you.”

“That’s ridiculous! Who’d give anything valuable?”

“We’re all stinking rich,” Timon pointed out. “None of us is going to be cheap about it. The point is to think up something extraordinary the winner would never have asked for on his own.”

Andreas shook his head, but laughed. Timon was nothing if not inventive. If he ever turned his considerable cleverness to something useful, he could change the world. “All right then, what have I won?”

His friend’s slow, evil grin tipped him off that he might not like his prize. “Rule is you have to accept what you’ve won no matter what.”

“Oh no, Timon, what are you up to?”

“Something good. Something fun and different. Trust me, you’ll love it.” He grabbed Andreas’s arm and pulled him down the row, bumping peoples’ knees as they went.

This was a small venue, nothing like the stadiums where full scale battles were waged for the audience’s entertainment. Still it took a few minutes to get out of the stands and reach the stairs leading to the lobby. Behind them the announcer called out the next pair of warrior’s statistics while the excited murmur of the crowd swelled again.

“Your fighter showed mercy. He could’ve snapped Redbeard’s neck. No holds barred in cage-fighting,” Timon remarked as he led Andreas across the lobby and toward the backstage. “Stay here a second.”

Timon trotted ahead, spoke to the man guarding the off-limits area and handed him some money then gestured Andreas over. “Go with this guy. He’ll take you down to meet your hero.”

“What?” No! I don’t want—”
“Rules of the bet. You take what you’ve won and, my friend, you’ve won one full hour to do anything you like with that hard-bodied beast. These guys have all had their shots so you don’t have to worry about catching anything, just ride him hard and enjoy that sweaty meat.” Read more!

Gang Banging Reviews

According to Wikipedia, "A gang bang (or gangbang) is a situation in which a person has sexual intercourse with multiple partners in turn or at the same time." Hmm. I've read some great stories with gang bang scenes. But that's not the type of gang banging I'm blogging about today.

I came across a review today and it was BAD. The reviewer didn't have ONE positive remark. That didn't bother me. An author can't write a 5 star story for every reviewer. What one loves another will abhor.

The gang banging I'm referring to is all the comments that were posted about the review. To be exact, 347 comments. Though I didn't read all of them, I read maybe a third, and none of the comments were kind. Words like "garbage", "ridiculous", and "painful" popped up. Many of the commenters were fellow writers. That is what has me upset and thinking of the word gang bang. Because one writer just got fucked by her peers.

Erotica or erotic romance, not everyone has the same taste. What some consider to be highly erotic leaves others cold. I'm guilty of flipping through sex scenes when a book I'm reading has more sex than plot. But I have never and will never disrespect a fellow writer with comments like "embarrassment". In one response, the writer discribed herself as "tickled" and as feeling "superior".

How sad.



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Hawaii Moon is out!

My latest from Liquid Silver Books is out - Hawaii Moon. Set in the sensual paradise of the Hawaiian islands, Hawaii Moon is the story of a fiercely independent perfumer and the sexy surfer/professor who steals her heart. Blurb below.

She found the man of her dreams in Hawaii...until a Hawaiian curse brought her nightmares to life.

When perfumer Jessica Halston is hired to create a fragrance embodying the beauty of the tropics, she heads to Hawaii on the research trip of her dreams. Amidst the tiki idols and moonlight, she’s hoping for a little romance—but nothing prepares her for the dark and sexy Dr. Jet Atwood, an anthropologist devoted to preserving the magic and superstition of the islands.

A firelit beach ceremony ignites sparks of passion for Jessica and Jet. But while they’re burning up the sensual Hawaiian nights with white-hot lust, Jessica’s arrogant boss is burning with jealousy. Determined to come between them, he frames Jessica for an outrageous insult to the goddess Pele—and unleashes a cavalcade of furious Hawaiian ghosts and gods.

Overnight Jessica’s life becomes a desperate attempt to escape long-dead Hawaiian warriors, malicious forest spirits and one very angry goddess. To save her life, she must find a way to break the curse—and persuade Jet to return to her open arms.

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