Jane Davitt's Blog, page 4

Fic! Make it Better

I donated to Archive of Our Own, as I always do, and since I'm currently re-watching The Sentinel, I thought it'd be fun to post one of my fics to cheer up a dull, rainy Friday. I also baked cranberry-lemon muffins, but they're tricky to share online...

Make it Better

Scarlet skin, radiating heat, hovering over Blair's skin like a mirage. Jim smooths on aloe vera, dousing the flames, and ignores Blair's yelp of protest.

God, it's like touching the sun safely, and he loses himself in the way the gel melts against that blaze, thinning second by second, so the barrier between his hand and Blair's skin soon dissipates. Over and over, his hand strokes, so gently now, caressing that stinging, tingling skin.

"So have you learned your lesson?"

Blair sighs by way of reply and Jim administers a reproving prod to his ribs.

"Hey!"

"Well?"

"God, you're such a -- I've learned my lesson, okay?" Blair turns his head to scowl up at Jim, who meets the accusing glare calmly. "No falling asleep when I sunbathe."

Jim nods, accepting that, and lets his hand go lower, his fingers, slick with gel, sliding between cheeks his hand, not the sun, painted red that morning. Blair grunts, a grumbled, grudging sound -- why he's pissed with Jim is a mystery, but somehow his sunburn is all Jim's fault -- and spreads his legs wider, pushes his ass up.

"More," he demands. "Put them in me."

Jim chuckles and brings his hand down just once on that steaming, sizzling ass, before doing as he's told.

Grab it while it's hot!

Turn Up the Heat is now available from Loose Id, with sample chapters to download if you want to see if you like it.

It's here:
Turn Up the Heat

And on Amazon

and
iTunes

Alexa and I loved getting to know Shannon and Rory as they discover the heat a touch of kink brings to their relationship and we hope you do too.

First impressions fool recently dumped Rory into thinking Shannon's a walk on the wild side, the perfect way to get over a failed relationship. And Shannon's not about to argue. Not when Rory coaxes him into some of the hottest, roughest sex of his life. But who is Rory falling in love with? A fantasy lover or the real man?

Fighting to keep Rory happy, longing for romance as well as the steamy sessions that leave them bruised and breathless, Shannon's got a lot on his plate even before family and friends complicate matters further.

There's only one solution. Turn up the heat, and hope it doesn't burn their relationship to the ground.

Nearly there!

Turn Up the Heat comes out on Tuesday from Loose Id; so excited!

Check it out on their site:

Turn Up the Heat

And Alexa and I are currently editing our next book, Accept my Surrender, so it's a productive year so far.

Hard Drive died

Not a good week. Playing Neopets and suddenly got BSOD, Tried to fix it, gave up, took the tower to Best Buy and they said they couldn't get anything off the HD at all. Luckily I had backups but turns out the failing HD meant they hadn't been backing up properly, plus do you know how much stuff you have saved, downloaded, bookmarked over 6 years? A lot, that's what.

New HD saved us buying a new computer (though I want one of my own; tired of sharing it with husband. The kids have their laptops so why can't I have a computer just for me?)

I'm doing okay but I have a feeling all the files for my web page might be toast. Rebuilding that would be hellish. And how many ppl visit it? Not sure.

Waiting for the files I do have to be restored. Been going on for a few hours now.

Wish me luck!

Lauren won a poetry competition!

Lauren (16) had a letter from the library today and a poem she entered into a competition is one of the winning entries! There's an award ceremony in April where the poems get read out. So proud of her! This is it:

Liar
by Lauren Davitt
Nothing left to hide

(Nothing to hide)

Everything is simple as it can be

(Simple)(Be, be)

What are you looking at me for?

(For, for)

I’ve done nothing wrong!

(Today, at least)

I'm just a truth teller

(Lie spreader)

Teller of the truth,

(Lie spreader)

Walking paradox,

(A paradox comes to life)

Soft sorrow, no morrow

Endless life, no strife

(A paradox brought to life)

There’s no story left to be told

(Lie spreader)

No memories to hold

(Lie spreader)

Trust me, I’m not that bold

(Lie spreader)

I don’t care about you

(Please don’t go)

Scram, will you?

(Let me love you)

We just have no connection

(I’m wired to your heartbeat)

Walk away!

(Stay, stay)

Leave!

(Never escape my arms)

I'm just a truth teller

(Lie spreader)

Teller of the truth,

(Lie spreader)

Walking paradox,

(A paradox comes to life)

And there you go…

(Go, go, go)

I’ll easily forget you

(I’ll miss you every day of my life)

Truth teller

(Liar)

Turn Up the Heat Cover Reveal

Squee! (Yes, I really do that :-)) Valerie Tibbs has nailed Shannon and Rory in her gorgeous cover.

The book comes out from Loose Id on April 11.

First impressions fool recently dumped Rory into thinking Shannon's a walk on the wild side, the perfect way to get over a failed relationship. And Shannon's not about to argue. Not when Rory coaxes him into some of the hottest, roughest sex of his life. But who is Rory falling in love with? A fantasy lover or the real man?

Fighting to keep Rory happy, longing for romance as well as the steamy sessions that leave them bruised and breathless, Shannon's got a lot on his plate even before family and friends complicate matters further.

There's only one solution. Turn up the heat, and hope it doesn't burn their relationship to the ground.

New book started

Alexa and I started plotting out a new contemporary BDSM book today. Love this part, where we're getting to know the characters and seeing where their journey will take them.

Names of the MCs, Logan and John.
Basic set up, lodger and landlord.
Who's the sub?
Need to wait to find out (as will we...can't decide which way is hotter).

And don't forget, speaking of steamy, Turn Up the Heat is due out early April!

Heheh.

I got some lovely feedback on an old Psych fic and reread it idly.

Then I made myself laugh by something I wrote so long ago I'd forgotten I wrote it. I can't read my own stuff until it reaches that point.



"Don't jerk off, either," Lassiter said on the way to the door, after a kiss delivered to Shawn's left earlobe. "I'll know -- and you really won't enjoy the spanking if you do."

"Why not?" Shawn couldn't help asking.

Lassiter turned his head and smirked. "Because there won't be one."

Final Day

Glurk. Not so happy with how this twisted on me, but it's done, as promised. Never let me write off the cuff again; I always paint myself into a corner.

Happy Holidays to all my readers, friends, authors I adore.

2016 sucked, but Santa is on his way!

***

The days go by quickly. I’m surprised how easy it is to fit into the world with this man. I realize eventually that I’m treating it as an extended vacation, with no real intention to stay. The universe is teaching me something and when I’ve learned the lesson of the day I’ll be sent home. Except, what lesson? I wasn’t unhappy before. A little lonely, maybe, but who isn’t? And when it comes to falling in love with John, yeah, I could go there, but there’s a huge gulf between us in some ways.

He’s not from my time and it matters. He doesn’t get a zillion nuances or jokes. Doesn’t see why I get so worked up over slavery in the US or the non-existent women’s rights of this century. He’s casually racist in a way that has my jaw-dropping and considers himself a reasonable, kindly man because he’s against killing Indians for no good reason.

Yeah. I could educate him, but what’s the point? Everyone here’s the same. I’ve gone into the village, introduced as John’s cousin visiting, and found the same disconnect.

The sex is good up to a point, but he’s ashamed of what he is and what he wants from me, a tangled mess of conflicting desires. He won’t let me fuck him and seems to think if anyone bends over, ass up, it should be me.

Frustrating. But I like him, for all that. He’s accepted me with surprising calm and he’s good company through the long winter nights.

I ache, under-used muscles protesting the work I have to do, but I toughen up. I feel the cold less, my caffeine headache finally goes, thank the Lord, and I’m healthy and fit.

But I want to go home. I suggest he comes with me, or tries to, but he shakes his head firmly. He knows where he belongs and it isn’t there.

Then spring comes, the woods turn tender and green, and he meets someone else. I come across them in a glade, the most romantic setting imaginable, but there’s nothing sweet or loving about the rough, almost violent fucking I watch for a while before turning away.

I don’t tell him what I’ve seen, but the next day I take off, heading for the milestone. Doesn’t work. I stand there, tap my heels three times, scream at the sky, and kick the earth until a cloud of dust chokes me, but I’m still in the past.

It has to work. I can’t stay here. I think it through. I shifted times in the woods. Maybe the door moves? So where is it now? How do I intersect with it? I could walk for the rest of my life in circles or straight lines and never find it.

I stare around, desperate, tears damp on my face. So fucking sick of this. I want to go home. Then I see a shimmer of light, a twist of the air, a few yards away. Could it be that easy? But if I go through and get sent back again…

Won’t know until I try.

I take it at a run and emerge on Main Street, slamming into a complete stranger. He grabs me, steadies me and gives me a bewildered look. “Where did you come from?”

He’s cute, he’s clean, and I smell like a trashcan on steroids. I step back and flash him an awkward smile. “A long way from here. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

I cautiously step to the side. Still here. Bigger step. Still here. And it’s not spring, but Christmas judging by the snow and the decorations in every store. My apartment is still mine, my job’s safe, and I’m not a missing person.

I punch the air, whoop, and take off. If I’m leaving my soul mate behind, staring after me, mouth open, so be it. I want a hot shower, junk food, a coffee, oh God, a gallon of coffee, and that’s all I want.

But when I open the door a few days later and find him standing there, a quizzical smile on his face, a bottle of wine in his hand, and learn he tracked me down through a mutual friend, I don’t tell him to go away.

Hey, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.

Day Twenty-Three of Advent

Husband turned 50 today and all has been busy and now we're heading out. Will finish the time travel fic, I promise but for now... a random bit of smut from Secretary and yes, it's m/f.

***

So she drifts to the bathroom and freshens up, spending long moments staring dreamy-eyed at herself as she draws her brush through the hair a day of trying on clothes has left wild, spending even longer staring back over her shoulder at her ass, where the dark shadows left by his hand are stark and unmistakable against her pale skin.

Finally, she walks with a purposeful step back into the bedroom, sorting through the bags, hiding his present in her case, and setting aside the bags from the final shop.

She empties them onto the bed, all divested of tags and ready to wear, which she knows is down to Wesley's forethought, all pretty, so very fucking pretty.

The whip tumbles out last, and that's not pretty. It's elegant, wickedly erotic, and although the crystal-encrusted handle, with the dangling leather and crystal loop are baroquely extravagant, there's very little of the toy about the whip itself. She imagines it could hurt her very well indeed and she wonders if he will, how he'll use it on her. She pushes it away. If he wants it, he'll tell her to bring it to him; otherwise she'll leave that until the end.

He's told her he wants her naked, so it's with a perverse sense of conflicted obedience that she dresses again, but really, she's close to being naked in this. The black, be-ribboned demi-bra cups her breasts, so low-cut that the edge of her nipples show clearly, an insert of pink satin in the cup exposed by teasing, tautly-stretched laced ribbons. She slips into the matching panties and then, because she can walk in them better than bare feet, her office shoes, black suede and high, so high.

And it's easier than she imagined to walk through the dark room, lit only by the city and two lamps, set far enough from his chair so that, after all, she can't really see him, but it doesn't matter, because she hears him sigh softly, an exhalation of breath that's the perfect tribute.

And it's like dancing in the clubs, like walking in a slow, arrogant strut to the bar, watching the hunger and the lust spark and flare in a dozen faces as she dares them all to be the one to risk rejection for the sake of one of her smiles, one of her cruel, careless kisses.

Silence as her background music, an audience of one, and yet she's still walking that walk, still so very fucking sure of herself.

She pauses in front of his chair and bends over, placing her hands on the chair arms and smiling into his face, so carefully controlled that it's mask-like, with only his blue eyes alive.

“Remember I said you couldn't touch me, Wes?” she asks. “Remember you had to wait?”

“I remember that's what you said,” he answers with the faintest stress on 'you'. “But, as ever, you failed to clarify the fine-print.”

She straightens up and gives him a tiny, pouting frown. “Hope you're not going get all impatient, Wes,” she says. “Because I've got more than this to show you.”

He lifts up his hands. “I won't touch you with these,” he says, “but I think, yes, I rather think, I'd like you to be carrying something when you return.” He smiles at her. “Tell me what I want, Faith.”

“Your present,” she says. She knew it.

“Oh, yes,” he says with an approving nod. “And I'll leave it up to you to decide how to bring it.”

She spins on her heel and marches off, ass swaying and twitching like an angry cat's tail because she's able to keep it together when she's walking over to Wes, but Wes holding a whip? Drawing it through his hands, so the diamante handle and tassel twinkle in the light, dazzling her eyes; laying it in an uncompromising line across his knees or beating it in a slow, gentle tempo against the palm of his hand? Fuck, she'll be on her knees before she gets halfway to him, begging him to use it on her, begging him to fuck her.

She changes into one of the see-through pairs of, yeah, fine, call 'em that if you like, knickers, red, with black and red bows, saucy and begging to be tugged open, matching them with sheer black pull-on stockings and something that's so over-the-top she'd rolled her eyes in bemused awe when she saw it, because, really, it's not a bra, it's the outline of one, cupless and saved from severity by the black bow in the center that, wide and lavish though it is, still does nothing to cover her bare breasts, thrust upward impudently.

And she could crawl to him, whip between her teeth, and he'd love that, but she's not in the mood for the obvious, not tonight, when the fizz from seeing herself looking fucking spectacular in a dozen fancy mirrors is still making her dizzy.

She holds the whip in front of her, gripping it firmly and then lifts her hands and rests the whip across the back of her shoulders, so it's rubbing her neck where he kissed it, so her breasts couldn't look sassier if she tried, so she's sauntering toward him, with an exaggerated, deliberate placing of her feet, so that her hips sway and she's saying, 'come fuck me', not begging for it, but she's had that, she's done that, and it wasn't enough and so she pauses and waits, standing still, letting him see her and then she turns, slow, slow, slower, until he can see her ass and she holds position for long enough to let him appreciate how the thin, translucent scarlet recalls the way it looked the night before.

Then she goes to her knees, back beautifully straight, lifts the whip over her head and sets it down on the floor beside her, keeping her hand on it.

She's kneeling as she was in the photograph and she turns to look at him over her shoulder and stares at him, finding his face in the dim light, seeing the way he's looking back at her in silent contemplation, hands curled tightly around the arms of the chair, his eyes narrowed.

He stands up in a smooth, unhurried movement and walks over to her, extending his hand. She glances up at him and, still kneeling, places the whip in his grasp.

“Thank you,” he says.

The tip of the whip strokes the upper curve of her breasts and then he rests the whip across them, for a long moment so that she can feel its weight.

“Are you still going to make me wait, Faith?”

And she doesn't even have to think about it.

“Always, Wes. You going to make it worth my while?”

The whip lifts up just high enough to make the downward stroke sting and she sees a single red line rise up, thin and straight.

By the time she'd shown him everything, her skin's crossed with half a dozen faint lines and each time she starts to walk toward him she thinks this will be the last time, that she'll beg, that she'll kneel, because she's barely able to walk now, with the heavy fullness between her legs making each step a torture that never ends because each flick of the whip deepens her arousal without satisfying it.

But she makes it back to their bedroom and there's nothing more to wear, so she strips off the thong she bought to make quite sure they ended where she wanted them to, and, naked, with the collar in her hand, goes out to where he's waiting for her.

The whip's been set aside on a table and as she walks toward him, she feels the tingle of each mark it's left on her and grips her collar a little tighter just thinking of how it sounded as it cut the air. He'd applied it to her skin with such care; one stroke to greet her as she reached his chair, one as she turned to walk away, and yeah, although he'd watched her walk toward him half a dozen times, skimming his gaze appreciatively over her, by the end his eyes were lingering not on satin and silk but those red lines left by his hand wielding the whip.

And she'd stared in the mirror as she changed from one outfit to another and she'd been looking at them too, tracing them with her fingers, her breath coming faster with every brush of her hands against skin he'd woken to life with a stinging kiss of leather.

“Thank you, Faith,” he says, sounding polite and formal, as she kneels down by his chair. “That was—yes, worth waiting for. You looked beautiful. Breathtaking, in fact.” His hand smoothes her hair back off her flushed face. “Though never more so than the way you do now.”

“Glad you liked the show,” she says, rubbing her cheek against his knee. She's still holding the collar but his hand reaches down, palm up and she sighs and relinquishes it.

“There's no need to be so reluctant to return my property,” he chides her softly. “I fully intend to fasten it around your neck, you know.”