Justine Elyot's Blog, page 22

Menagerie

There's something extra-specially appealing in the realm of fantasy about a threesome. And writing about threesomes is lovely – you can choreograph them just exactly as you think they should go, glossing over the bumping body parts and rudely awakened insecurities a real threesome might involve.

So I was delighted to receive my contributor copy of the latest Xcite anthology, Threesome: When One Lover Is Not Enough. I've been flipping through its pages and finding a plethora of different angles and takes on the menage experience.

Stories by Thomas S Roche ; Lana Fox ; Malin James ; Josephine Myles ; Sommer Marsden ; Emma Richardson ; Darla White ; Elizabeth Coldwell ; Alcamia Payne ; Kay Jaybee ; Rachel Kramer Bussel ; Giselle Renarde ; Angela Caperton ; Richard Hiscock ; Charlotte Stein ; Leslie Lee Sanders ; Heidi Champa ; Josie Jordan and Jean-Philippe Aubourg are  your guarantee of quality.

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If you still think three's a crowd, try a taster of my story, Belonging.

I return the salver to the kitchen, make sure nothing is burning or overboiling, then I present myself in the 'parlour' – the living room on less formal nights.  Danni is reclining cross-legged in her favourite armchair, listening to the ice cubes clink in her gin, but Paul's dominating presence radiates from the centre of the room. He has his Master of the House face on.  I stand as expected, spine straight, head slightly bowed, hands clasped behind back.

'Face,' he says, and I look up.  His fingers cup my chin while he scrutinises my maquillage – sweeping eyelashes, scarlet lips.  He runs a smooth hand along my smoother hairline, following it to where it disappears into a bun whose severity is dissipated by the frippery of white lace ribbons that trail down from it.

'Good.'  He turns attention to my sheer white blouse, undoing the top pearl button, all the better to plunge his hand into my cleavage and check that I am wearing regulation underwear.  The cupless rubber basque is breathtakingy tight, and obviously he would have seen my rouged nipples through the whisper-thin fabric of my blouse, so you could argue that this is an unnecessary formality.  If you dared argue with Paul, that is.  I wouldn't.

I gasp when he pinches each nipple then exhale at the withdrawal of his hand.

'Good.  Now lift your skirt, please.'

I hitch it to the waist and stand silently while he casts his eye over my nude shaved pussy and white thighs, contrasting with the black suspender straps that dig into them.  At a wave of his hand, I turn to display my bared bottom.  No knickers is a rule that does not only apply to nights like this.  I am forbidden to wear them in any other than emergency circumstances.

'Yes, that seems to be perfectly in order, Slutworth.  Now take yourself over to your Mistress, for closer examination.'

The heels I totter over on are high and slim, but I manage to maintain the correct posture until I arrive at Danni's negligently crossed legs.  She puts down her gin, leans forward and casts a sharp eye over my pubic triangle.

'Spread those legs, Slutworth,' she commands icily.  I position my feet wide apart, still holding up my skirt, awaiting the crowning moment of my inspection.

Her hand snatches at me and I feel the perfect polished ovals of her fingernails glide along my labia before she tests the size and protrusion of my clitoris with the pads of two fingers.

'She's very wet, Paul.  Dripping wet, in fact.'  Danni swishes around in my private places – though I am not supposed to think of them as private any more – until her fingers are thoroughly coated with my juices, which I am then made to lick off.

'Disgusting little slut,' she croons, smiling at me, her brilliant blue eyes narrow as a cat's.  'Turn around and face Paul.'

I do so, then I feel her press her knuckles into my slit, hard against my clit.

'Ride them, Slutworth, while I prepare your back passage.'

 

1888 Part 14

Just for this month, I'll be updating this story on a Friday instead of a Wednesday.

When the temperature in the glass dipped so very low, there was nothing else for it in Vyvyan Stanford's lowly garret but to draw a blisteringly hot bath and retire there until it was time to burrow beneath the covers.

 

Jessie was sitting on a cushion by the hearth, watching a fresh pot of water heating over the coals, half-oblivious of her lover watching her from the claw-footed tub.  She always preferred to wait for the water to cool a little, having delicate skin that burned easily.  She would pour in this new pot and then join Vyvyan when the clouds of steam abated a little.

 

"Why so pensive?" Vyvyan sank down to shoulder level, feeling his head grow heavy as his dark locks were submerged.  The glow of the fire gave vivid life to Jessie's burnished mane, but her face was closed and pale.

 

"Oh…"  she startled back into reality.  "I find I have a great deal on my mind of late, love.  But at least we can afford this coal now."

 

"Jess, you do not have to do this…you do not have to prostitute yourself for my sake.  There are other ways, I am sure…"

 

"It isn't prostitution, love.  I have not taken off a stitch of clothing.  Old men take me out for supper.  The most they do is put a hand on my thigh.  Then I tell them I'm not that kind of girl.  If that's what they want, they can find it down any back alley.  They like that, Vyv.  They think it's a challenge, so they ask me out again.  They buy me things…we've got this fire because I was able to pawn a beautiful jet bracelet today.  What's wrong with that?"

 

"I can only repeat the question, then.  Why so pensive?"

 

"Oh, this and that."  Jessie smiled at him, heaved the copper pot off the fire and carried it carefully over to the bath.  "Last one," she warned and poured it with a terrific splash into the tub, almost disappearing for long seconds into clouds of vapour.

 

"Come in now, Jess," wheedled Vyvyan.  "It's not so hot that you can't bear it.  Come on, I'm lonely here on my own."

 

Jess grinned at his puppy-dog eyes, shrugged off her woollen robe to reveal splendid statuesque nudity and dipped a toe into the water, grimacing slightly at the scalding heat.  "How can you endure this?" she wondered, then she shrieked as Vyvyan rose up like a sea monster from the depths, grabbing her around the waist and tipping her into the bath so that the water crashed and spilled over the side, pooling and seeping into the floorboards.

 

"No!" she screamed.  "It's too hot!  And you'll flood us out!"  But soon enough she was giggling and kissing, slithering wetly against her lover's tightly muscled body.

 

"I must insist that you tell me," murmured Vyvyan into her reddened ear.  "What is preying on your mind?"

 

Jessie sighed and lay back against him, sitting between his thighs and resting her head against his shoulder.

 

"I have been summoned to see a new client – a rich one, I think.  I am to meet him upstairs at Swanson's on Wednesday next.  It is the first time I have had to meet a gentleman in a private room and it unnerves me a little."

 

Vyvyan thought about this for a while, his wrinkling fingers playing idly with Jessie's waterlogged breasts.

 

"Would you like me to accompany you?  Perhaps I could take the room next door – if anything untoward should occur, you will know you can come to me."

 

"Oh yes, love, that would put my mind at rest."  Jessie twisted her face around to plant a kiss on the side of his neck.  "I do not know this gentleman at all; I had a note from his manservant after last night's performance, but it gave neither his name nor his intention – just the time, date and location of the rendezvous."

 

"Most intriguing," commented Vyvyan.  "Perhaps a King is violently in love with you."

 

Jessie laughed, then grew serious again.  "Speaking of violent love…do you think Alex is quite…sincere in his intentions towards my Florence?"

 

"He certainly seems so.  You haven't seen the reams of poetry he has written on the subject of her limpid eyes and capricious favours, have you?  She is quite the Muse; I fear Shakespeare's Dark Lady has a rival."

 

"I suppose you are right.  But it seems out of character for Alex.  He has always seemed so sensible and self-possessed."

 

"But he is a poet, after all, Jess.  They are not a breed noted for their emotional rationality."

 

"Hmmm.  I just wonder.  Florence is a sweet girl, but she is naïve, even gullible.  Where does his money come from?"

 

Vyvyan sat up straight, displacing water so that it rippled around them in waves.

 

"You suspect him of a financial motive?  Jess!  I am surprised at you!  Are you jealous?"

 

"No, of course not!  But he has never told us anything about his family or his fortune.  Is he living beyond his means and now needs an heiress?"

 

Vyvyan shook his head.  "How cynical you are, Jessica."

 

"Not a cynic, love, just a realist," pouted Jess.  "Ah, now, don't look at me like that.  It was just a thought…see, I will dismiss it…thus!"  She skimmed a hand through the water and shuffled round to half-face her head-shaking beloved.  "I do love to see you like this – so hot and dishevelled, with the water droplets beading over your skin."

 

She ran a hand up his chest, through the damp and matted hair, kissing along the trail it left.  Reaching the hollow of his throat, she chuckled deeply at the sound vibrating against her nose from his adams apple and then she squeaked in triumph at the evaporation of his self-control when he placed his hands beneath her armpits and hauled her up to fasten his lips to hers.

 

Like two slippery creatures of the deep they writhed against each other, their bodies making slapping, sucking sounds, sometimes sticking together, sometimes sliding frictionlessly.  Vyvyan squeezed the cheeks of her bottom, pulling her into position above his cock, which floated up to crest the water like a fleshy periscope, only to be enveloped and hidden inside Jessie's depths of darkness.  Together they rocked and bounced, heedless of the water splashing and staining those worn boards, laughing when Jessie's nipples brushed Vyvyan's face, banging knees and spines against the hard enamel, heating up and up until the droplets on their skin were only perspiration while the bathwater cooled to lukewarm.

 

Then Jessie shouted out, burying her face in Vyvyan's neck and biting down, which precipitated his own climax, swirling his seed into the wetness to mingle there until it softened and joined with the other fluids in the bathtub.

 

Gasping and sated, like a pair of beached merfolk in the shallows, Jessie and Vyvyan lay in each others' arms and clung to each other for dear life.

 

 

H.C. is in da House

 

I'm delighted to welcome my second guest in the Noble Romance Authors Blog Tour – the prolific and multi-published H.C. Brown. Give her a warm welcome and don't forget to comment if you want to be in the running for a plethora of prizes.

Welcome to the blog – can you tell me a little bit about how you came to be a Noble author?

HC. I was so very fortunate Jill Noble took the first story I submitted. I didn't write erotic romance, she loved my story and asked me to spice it up. I did and here we are 17 books later J

 

My theme for 2011 is music. Is music important to you in your life and your writing?

H.C. I could not write romance without music. At present, my Muse loves Adam Lambert or Savage Garden

 

Do you have a song that sums up the situation or relationships of any of your characters?

H.C. No not really, a little of all I listen to really.

Do you listen to music while you write? Or have you ever been inspired by a piece of music to write a story?

H.C. Dominate Me (Floggers' Holiday Sale) came after seeing the film clip  'For Your Entertainment' all that leather and whips . . . whew.

What songs do you consider especially romantic?

H.C. Truly Madly Completely- Savage Garden.

 

What songs get you in a sexy mood?

 

H.C. I'm always in a sexy mood J

Everything is going well for badass dom, Nash Mage, and his sweet sub, Paul, until Nash does a favor for Rio, the owner of Floggers' BDSM Club.

Expecting Paul to trust him implicitly, Nash's world falls apart when he finds his confused, innocent sub in the arms of his nemesis, Frank. Teetering on the edge of sanity and out of control, Nash is looking for revenge.

Buy Link www.nobleromance.com/ItemDisplay.aspx?i=249

You can find H.C. Brown here:

http://www.hcbrownauthoroferoticromance.blogspot.com

http://www.heathercbrown.bravehost.com/

http://www.nobleromance.com/BrowseListing.aspx?author=40

http://www.jasminejade.com/m-709-hc-brown.aspx

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3251580.H_C_Brown

http://www.amazon.com/H.C.-Brown/e/B003P0BCZE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

http://www.manicreaders.com/HCBrown/

 

 

Next blog: http://giannasimone.blogspot.com – Don't forget to visit Gianna's place for the next stop.

 

It's Alive! And Here's Sarah Ballance!

I'm delighted to welcome my first guest on the Noble Romance Authors Blog Tour – the wonderful Sarah Ballance.

A full-time author and mom, Sarah writes romance and romantic suspense from a spot suspiciously close to the setting of her second novel, RUN TO YOU – a sexy beach-inspired mystery with a murderous plot.  She and her husband of nearly 14 years (he calls them "long, LONG" years) have six young children together, all of whom are adorable when they're asleep. The aforementioned husband oversees the household each evening so Sarah can write, further demonstrating his commitment to the cause by volunteering to help her research "the good parts."  (She's never had to ask twice.)

Welcome to the blog – can you tell me a little bit about how you came to be a Noble author?

Sheer luck!  I wrote nonfiction and had no plans of ever taking the leap into fiction.  All it took was me telling someone "I can't" for me to realize I would, if nothing else than to prove myself wrong.  Six months later I'd finished my first novel, and after some basic research I chose to submit to Noble.  My screening process started and ended with the fact that I couldn't dredge up anything negative about them, and that was enough for me at the time.   Fortunately they meet my newer, much more informed standards as well, LOL.

My theme for 2011 is music. Is music important to you in your life and your writing?

It somewhat surprises me, but yes, it is.  Music is linked to every one of my stories in ways I can't explain.  It breathes an energy into me that I can pour into my work, building a near-tangible connection between myself and my characters.  I don't think I could write without it.

Do you have a song that sums up the situation or relationships of any of your characters? (feel free to post if there are no copyright restrictions) Do you listen to music while you write? Or have you ever been inspired by a piece of music to write a story?

I'm not sure how this happened, but each of my stories has a theme song of sorts.  The words themselves aren't always related to the plot, but the song catches the spirit of the work.  By the time I'm deep in a manuscript, the song is so intertwined with my words that it feels like an old friend – one of the uber-inspiring variety, LOL.

What songs do you consider especially romantic?

I guess I'm showing my age, but I love 80s country.  My husband and I dated to a lot of that music (although even at the time they were the "old songs") so all it takes is a note and I'm back to those first feelings of love.  It doesn't even matter what the song is about – it's all there when I think about him.  I also like the 80s "hair" bands – Bon Jovi, Motley Crue, Guns N Roses, Poison … who knew they'd ever be considered romantic?  LOL.  It's just that awesome feeling I get.  Love it!

What songs get you in a sexy mood?

Any song I love will do it.  Once I'm in a music-induced stupor of happiness, anything goes.  (Or, uh, make that almost anything. Don't want to give the H any more ideas … he's had plenty on his own!)

Places to find Sarah Ballance:

Website

Blog

Facebook

Twitter

Mattie James can't pinpoint exactly when she lost control of her life, but the moment she decided to take it back made the front page of the local paper. Desperate to dodge the fallout— and the tabloids—she jumps at the chance to spend an off-season week in a tiny resort community by the sea. Making the trip with her ex-lover is a complication she can live with; coming face to face with a dead woman is not.

The last thing Sheriff Wyatt Reed expected to find on the storm-ravaged beach was a beautiful blonde with a jealous sidekick, but one look at Mattie left him wanting more. Their first date takes an ominous turn when he gets the call that a woman was found murdered. With a killer on the loose and a troubling lack of suspects or motive, Wyatt has to put his feelings aside to focus on the case. But his vow not to become personally involved is shattered when he discovers Mattie's life is on the line, and this time the truth leaves her with a deadly choice . . . and nowhere to run.

BUY LINKS:

Kindle | PDF, EPUB, MobiPocket, or Microsoft Reader formats

Thanks so much for having me!  Readers, you can continue the Noble Authors Blot Tour by clicking here to check out Justine's interview with Cherie – or, to be sure of being entered for the grand prize, just push the button!

April is the Bloggiest Month

April is here, and that means the culmination of months of fervent behind-the-scenes organising by nine Noble Romance authors – including me. The Noble Romance Authors Blog Tour begins on Tuesday, and it's well worth following because…

You can read interviews and articles by Cherie de Sues, H C Brown, Bianca Sommerland, Indigo Skye, Sarah Ballance, Gianna Simone, J S Wayne, Mindy McKay and me every Tuesday and Wednesday throughout the month.
Each author is offering a prize to a selected commenter with every post they write (in my case, a copy of The Choirmaster, but there is all kinds of other swag).
Each week, extra prizes of $20 Amazon and AllRomance vouchers are up for grabs.
At the end of the tour, those who have followed are entered for a grand draw of an Eden Fantasys voucher worth a lot of money, though I can't remember exactly how much.
Also available is an exclusive anthology, Red Roses and Shattered Glass, featuring stories from six of the Noble Authors, including me. Isn't it lush?

My own story in this lavish piece of decadence is called Consorting, and I have a preview for you here:

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing so low he almost fell forward. "I trust my gift pleases you."

"Not bad," said the Queen, running her hands over the tiny pinpoints at her breasts and groin. "Highly inventive, I must say. Your jewellers are worth their weight in gold." She giggled at her own joke. Jovan joined in, rather falsely.

"Oh, yes, they are, Your Majesty, and all this wealth could be at your disposal, if I please you today."

"Ah, yes, you were going to please me, weren't you? Enchanted hands, wasn't it?"

Jovan held up the items in question, their fingers long and white and glittering with jewelled rings.

"These exist solely for your pleasure, Your Majesty," said Jovan, performing extravagant ballet moves with his arms. "Step forward, precious lady, and allow me to demonstrate."

Precious lady. He pays the nicest compliments. Lucasta came into his range, stepping nearer until their toes touched and her mouth almost brushed his ruffled lace collar. The Prince's arms flexed around her, and at the place where the hands landed – just beneath her armpits, she felt a throb of instant bliss.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, burrowing against Jovan's chest and clinging on to him for support. "Enchanting!"

"I should say the same thing," he whispered into her ear. "You and I will complement each other. We are beautiful, tasteful and cultured. I will be an ornament to your court and an adornment for your arm."

"Oh," said Lucasta, who was a little bemused by Jovan's enthusiastic self-objectification. "But what of love?"

"Love? Let me show you."

Pulsating handprints of ecstasy covered Lucasta's body, heating her skin until it was pink, sending its messages of arousal and lust to her blossoming clit. The diamonds began to feel sharp and unpleasant against her tender flesh and she wriggled a little, wanting to divest herself of the elaborate costume and treat her covered parts to the magic of Jovan's hands.

"Undress me," she murmured, lifting a leg and hooking it around his hip, pressing her crotch against the princely bulge in his silky britches. "Lay your hands on my nakedness."

Jovan slipped the golden straps down her arms and let the close-fitting bodysuit jingle down her legs, leaving the Queen royally nude and craving more of his touch. She leant backwards on the card table, opening her thighs, thrusting up her breasts, her face contorted with lustful greed.

"Touch them! Do it!"

The magic hands descended on her breasts, rendering the nipples stiffer and more engorged than Lucasta could ever remember them. She began to wail, gyrating her hips, rubbing her legs up and down Jovan's well-made thighs, reaching forward to release him from his britches.

"Lower, lower," she panted, feeling the fingers trace hot paths of flame up her inner thighs and then find her innermost place, thumbs braced at her outer lips, ready to cast their spell on her. One pad pressed into her clit and two fingers presented themselves at the entrance of her virginal channel, ready to enchant it, ready to enslave her.

Enslavement!? That isn't what I want! If he penetrates me, I will be undone.

Fancy reading on? Then follow the tour for chances to win, or instructions for how to buy. All the relevant info is here at the Blog Tour Blog: http://nobleromanceauthorsblogtour.blogspot.com/

 

 

1888 Part 13

An illicit rendezvous in church…

 

"Have a care on the step, Florence; there is ice and you may slip."

 

Florence leaned yet more heavily on her father's arm as they ascended the steps outside the church they attended every Sunday.  The January slush had hardened into February ice and Florence wondered if they would have one of those famous episodes when the Thames froze over and one could ice-skate across its surface.  Unlikely, she supposed, as this had not happened since her grandparents' day, but a Frost Fair would be lovely, and so romantic.  She imagined skating arm in arm with Alex across a polished sheet of ice towards the dome of St Pauls…their cheeks would be tingling and she would lean into his tall tower of warmth and they would laugh, oh how they would laugh…

 

She tripped delicately up to the Smythson family pew – only Papa and her today; Mama remained indisposed – while various of the servants, including Molly, found places among the congregational masses.  Florence found the church service itself dull, but she always relished the opportunity to scan the worshippers and take note of their attire and demeanour.  Who was fashionable?  Who had a new pelisse?  How did her hat compare to those of the other great ladies in the family pews?  She sat back with a little sigh of satisfaction on ascertaining that she, Florence Smythson, was still the fairest of them all.  The lugubrious tones of the Reverend washed over her, intoning something about the meek inheriting the Earth…and then she caught her breath and had to bite down on her lip to prevent an exclamation breaking through.

 

Two pews back on the opposite side of the aisle, a familiar head of tousled blond hair, the owner's cool blue eyes staring directly at her with one eyebrow slightly raised.  Alex!  He put one hand to the dark green beret he was wearing, then feigned a mopping of his brow.  Florence took note of his whispered excuses to the people about him and watched him edge out along the bench, giving her one long look of unmistakable meaning before disappearing along the transept towards the porch.

 

Florence waited until the end of the Lesson, kicking at the hassock impatiently with one daintily-booted foot, then she turned to Sir Rupert.

 

"Papa, I feel a little faint.  I may go and take some air."

 

"Floss, are you sure?  Should I come with you?"

 

"No, no, I will find Molly.  She will take care of me.  Do not miss the sermon on my account, I pray you."

 

Florence did not wait for any further demurring on her father's part, but instead flitted nervously up to the great oaken doors at the back of the church and through them to the cool sanctuary of the porch, where Alex stood flicking languidly through a Book of Common Prayer.

 

"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive," quoted the young man sonorously.  Then he laughed and put the book aside.  "And am I lawful and right, sweet Florence, to thus inveigle you from your righteous worship?  Or is it the most flagrant of iniquities?"

 

Florence gasped, twisting her fingers and needing to lean back against a table piled high with hymnals for support.

 

"I have never seen you here before," she managed to blurt.

 

"I have never before had cause to be here," he replied lightly, his full lips quirking into a flirtatious smile.  "To the great despair of my family, I am not a regular churchgoer.  And if I were, this is outside my parish.  But now, Florence, you are my church, and my parish, and my eternity."

 

Florence, flummoxed, could think of no other response to this than a high-pitched laugh.

 

"You…you speak out of turn," she faltered, struggling to locate a conventionally acceptable reaction to such sudden and ardent words of love.  "We are barely acquainted."

 

"Oh, in the terms of the world only," he said, striding over to Florence and towering over her, his face florid with passion.  Florence could scarcely resist when he took one trembling hand in his.  "But our souls, Florence…are they not acquainted?  More than acquainted – they are intimate.  They are divided twins, which have wondered alone for so many years.  Do not tell me you do not feel it, Florence – or why would you have followed me out here?"

 

"I…oh, I do not know…"  Florence fought her desire to accept his words, to drink them in and give herself to him then and there, for all time.  She knew it would spell social ruin to behave with such impropriety, for herself and her parents.

 

"You do know, Florence."  Alex smote his brow, then gathered both her hands to his chest, and spoke low and quietly.  "You know it in your heart, even if your head protests.  I will give you this choice.  You can turn away from me and stay forever in your arid constraints of decency and dullness.  Or you can arrange to be in the grand hall at the Natural History Museum on Thursday next at 3 o'clock."

 

"But how can I…?" began Florence in dismay.  How could she ever slip away and meet a man?  It was impossible!

 

"Love finds a way," Alex assured her, one finger on her lips.  "Love is clever like that."

 

He bent and kissed the top of her head, then he looked around to make sure they were unobserved and dropped the briefest of kisses on to her lips.

 

Then he was gone, away down and out to Mayfair beyond.

 

Florence reeled, still leaning heavily on the table, her heart in a thunderous steeplechase.  Was that real?  Had that just happened?  Surely she was dreaming.

 

A timid voice called her back to Earth.  "Miss, are you well?  Do you need me to help you back home?"

 

"Molly, don't fuss, I'm perfectly all right," snapped Florence, her breathing still somewhat uneven.  "I shall come back in with you now."

 

The rest of the service passed indistinctly, surging in and out of the troubled girl's consciousness when the babel in her head quieted for brief moments.  She knew she had invited this in her daydreams, but now it had happened – so soon, so unexpectedly – was it really what she wanted?  The congenial connection they had forged at the supper had fed her fantasies, it was true, but Alex's declarations seemed too precipitous to be quite convincing.  Could he mean what he said?

 

And if he did, could she honestly say that she reciprocated his violent affections?  Did she have the strength to deny her father and renounce her name and be but sworn his love?  Was her true desire, after all, to settle down after the Season with that very chinless Lordling, the prospect of whom, she had found so derisory before?  Or could she follow her heart and become his, take on his love and name…but what was his name?

 

She stole a sidelong glance at her father, singing lustily along to 'O God Our Help in Ages Past', and thought she would break his heart.  As for her mother….well, she may never again leave her bed.  But was true love and deathless passion not worth this price?

 

She sighed gustily, but at the same time she fingered the Book of Common Prayer she had slipped into a pocket of her cape.  The one his fingers had flipped through.  Oh, he had held her hand…his lips had touched hers….she almost swooned afresh at the remembrance.  Surely this was a chance that would never come again?

 

 

Three Ways to Win

If you'd like to celebrate spring with a spring in your step and a tango twinkle in your eye, there are three ways to win a copy of my Lust Bite, Honeytrapped, at the moment.

Way one is to comment here by next Sunday.

Way two is to leave a comment at Erotica For All, mentioning your favourite type of dance – details are here.

Way three is to enter the competition at The Romance Reviews, open until Tuesday – look here.

I love the new cover art packs Total E-Bound are producing to promote their titles – there's a lovely bookmark too.

Have a lucky week.

1888 Part 12

Short but sinister…

 

The sight was a bewildering one, and not what Annie had been expecting.  She had thought the room would at least contain a bed, but there was none.  Instead, something akin to the operating table she had once seen at a public trepanning in the London Hospital; long and narrow with thick leather straps to restrain the body.  Beside it, a tray of metal instruments, glinting where the gaslight caught them.  Her stomach knotted horribly; they were sharply evil-looking.  Perhaps now was a time to call off the deal – even twenty guineas might not be enough for whatever ordeal her mysterious client intended to put her through.

 

But then the short Frenchman broke into her fearful thoughts.  "Just look zis way, Annie," he coaxed and she stared anew at the odd contraption he was operating.  A large wooden cabinet with a cupboard-like adjunct at the front from which two thick glass eyes stared, one on top of the other.  The part with the eyes was hinged so it could be opened, but Lord knew what might be inside the thing.  The Frenchman was fiddling with a small lever at the side of the cupboard attachment, moving it slightly forward and backwards and squinting into a hole at the side, all the while tutting and shaking his head in a fuss.

 

"What is that, Sir, if you please?" Annie asked nervously, but before the Frenchman could reply, The Toff and his nameless employer stepped out from behind a screen.

 

"Annie, it is time to begin."

 

 

A Taste of Springtime Honey

The vernal equinox is upon us, presaging all that is fresh and green and new, including my fresh, green new release from Total E-Bound, Honeytrapped. It's a Lust Bite, so a tender morsel of around 11K words on the subject of failed detective work and scorching tango teachers and how the twain meet.

Here's an excerpt:

"Okay then," he said, all businesslike and brisk. And hot. And masterful. And suggestive. And the sexiest thing in the whole world, no, no, no. "Let's start at the very beginning. By the way, ten pounds should cover it."

"Bargain!"

"Glad you think so. Good. What we start with, Tilly, is the frame."

Her spine tingled at the way he spoke her name, then the tingle sparked into a full frisson once he took her right hand in his and lifted it to his shoulder level, bringing it out to the side of their bodies, which were pulled suddenly close as Norman's left arm enclosed her upper back.

More than a frisson now, more like a full-scale shiver, as their chests met and their abdomens pressed together, as far as they could given the height differential.

"It's called the abrazo - the embrace," said Norman, his voice filtering down from somewhere above Tilly's head, which was less than an inch from his firm shoulder and the glorious scent of aftershave that clung to his neck. "In Argentine tango, the hips don't meet. The man has to give his partner the freedom to follow his every step. Perhaps freedom isn't quite the word – because I'm afraid that you, as the woman, have no say in how the dance goes. It's a macho dance from a macho culture. You may need to leave any politically correct baggage at the door. At least until the dance is over."

Tilly could hear the smile in his voice, but the weight of his hand at her back, and his tight grip on her gave her the strange feeling that he revelled in being able to exhibit his unashamedly masculine side. And who could begrudge him that, when it was such an attractive spectacle?

"I can see that you're about a foot shorter than me," he murmured, using his body to make subtle adjustments to her stance so that she felt like a poseable doll. "But that needn't be a problem. Now really, what you have to do first of all is familiarise yourself with the rhythm. I'll take you through it."

Without warning, his hips launched them into a series of steps, deceptively simple at first, but then mutating into unexpected complications that meant Tilly got her toes stepped on rather heavily.

"Ouch! It's because you're making me go backwards!" she complained. "I hate not being able to see where I'm going."

"I'm steering. You don't have to see. You just have to feel. Later, when we get to the stage of locking eyes, you will have no choice."

"I don't have that kind of…soul," objected Tilly plaintively. "I don't feel stuff. I have to see it."

"Ohhh, nonsense," crooned Norman, and his tone was so shockingly seductive that she had to close her fists, clinging on to him tighter than ever in order not to lose footing. "I think you have the pulse in you. I mean, you do have a pulse." Jokingly he moved one thumb down to that point in her wrist that jumped and raced. "Rather a quick one. The dance is exciting you. So that means you do have that kind of soul."

It's not the dance, it's you, you great lummox!

Get on your dancing shoes and get your hot copies here.

 

1888 Part 11

Florence falls foul of Lord Hunter-Fox

"Heavens, Molly, you are excessively dull today!"

The maidservant startled, pricking her finger, and whipped her head around to where her querulous mistress sat, dangling a poetry book between thumb and finger.

"I'm sorry, Miss, I was miles away.  Did you need something?"

"A little society, Molly.  Something to take my mind off….its preoccupations.  Really, everything here is so tedious I think I shall scream."

Florence's coral lips were twisted in an ugly pout.  Molly knew this mood and resigned herself to indulging it, until luncheon at least.

"Perhaps we could make a plan, Miss.  About meeting Miss Jessie again?"

Florence's lips uncurled, indicating amenability to this suggestion, but then she held up a hand for silence as the jangle of the doorbell interrupted them.

"Is it the third post, do you suppose?" she whispered, straining to hear the unctuous tones of the butler, Brandon.

She was incorrect in her surmise, but her heart began to thump with cruel alacrity when the door swung open and the butler opened his mouth to announce a visitor.  Even crueller, though, was the flattening blow to her spirits when his words were not those she had hoped for.

"Lord Hunter-Fox, Madam."

"Oh, send him away, Brandon," she said petulantly.  "If he is here to see Papa, he should know that he is at the office.  Is the man a complete blockhead?"

Brandon retired discreetly as the visitor himself strode into the room, fixing Florence with a steely glare.

"Oh!" she flustered, realising that he must have heard her unmannerly words and feeling her usual irritating impulse of fear in his presence.  "It is rather impolite to just barge in like that, you know.   Brandon should have told you – Papa is not here at present."

"I am perfectly well aware of that, young lady.  My call was of a social nature, to invite you and your parents to spend a weekend at Fawkelands next month."  The stiffness of Lord Hunter-Fox's tone disguised his underlying fury only poorly.

"I see," was the only response Florence could muster.  A weekend at Lord Hunter-Fox's country estate would be purgatorial but she could hardly turn the invitation down.  "Thank you."

"Perhaps a long weekend in the country might go some way to improving your manners, Florence," rebuked the peer, stalking over to her and plucking the book from her fingers.  Florence threw herself sulkily back in her chair, noting the leap of his eyebrows and steeling herself for yet more of his imperious disapproval.

"Swinburne?  Quite unsuitable for a young lady."  He flipped through the pages, settling at one almost halfway through and intoning a verse in his distinctive rich baritone:

"Would I not hurt thee perfectly? not touch

Thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright

Thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light?

Strike pang from pang as note is struck from note,

Catch the sob's middle music in thy throat,

Take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these

A lyre of many faultless agonies."

Florence looked away, flushed at being caught out in this way.  It was true that she had found some of the poems provocative, and sometimes a little disturbing.  They did seem rather concerned with, well, physical love and pain, often both together.  She had never considered that there could be a meeting of the two concepts and found it strange.  She had been wondering if she would have the courage to discuss the less…decent…stanzas with Alex, but in her heart of hearts she hoped that the subject would not arise in conversation.  Unseemly as it was, there was something perversely exciting about it, and she would die of mortification if anybody found her out.

Lord Hunter-Fox paused for a beat or two, swallowing, before finally asking her in his lowest of low tones, "Do you consider this appropriate reading material?"

"What I choose to read is not your business," she muttered defiantly, not quite able to match the spirit of her words with eye contact.

"I shall be showing this to your father, since presumably it is his!" threatened the Lord, drawing himself up to his full height.  "It is not my place to instruct him how to deal with it, but if you were mine, Miss…."

"Well I'm not yours!" exclaimed Florence, jumping to her feet, finally stung to action.  "And thank Heaven for that!"

She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Molly quickly lowered her eyes, covertly watching the stunned Lord Hunter-Fox.  His eyes narrow, his jaw sternly set, she thought she discerned two words, no more than whispers, escape his lips.

"Not yet."