Cheyenne Blue's Blog, page 10

The good, and the very good (and the not so good)

This week is one where I wish there were twice the hours to play around with (or, alternatively, that I am Borg and don’t need to sleep, just regenerate every few days).

It started off with two fantastic, amazing things: Ireland voted overwhelmingly to approve same-sex marriage, and Eurovision.

Ireland is one of “my” countries. I lived there for nearly seven years, I love its quirks, its way of beating around the bush, its humor, its happiness. And now I love that it became the first country in the world to vote in same-sex marriage by public referendum.

Onya, Ireland! I feckin’ loves yis.

Then of course, it was also Eurovision weekend, and this made me nearly as happy as the Ireland vote. What’s not to love about Eurovision, and this time, Australia was an entrant. Oh the joy, the alcohol, the woe. It was all shades of amazing. And hey, Europe, we did okay. Want to invite us back next year?

Unfortunately, after that the week went downhill. Not in a really terrible curl up and cry sort of way, just too much shit going down, and a certain business in Colorado that I would like to smash into a million small pieces. I’m lucky I have good and true friends in Colorado able and willing to deal with them on my behalf. But the rest of the week has been too little sleep and too much to do.

In amongst it all though, I managed to finish editing a Harper Bliss novel, finish editing a short story submission of my own, and submit a couple of shorts to anthologies. Not too shabby, eh?

It’s now a long weekend for me, and I’m going camping. Just me, and my beloved, and a few bottles of red wine. Oh, and the final stories for my upcoming anthology “First” to edit.

First anthology

This week, I got to do two of the nicest things connected with editing an anthology. Submissions for my second anthology with Ladylit Publishing closed a couple of weeks back, and since then I’ve been fine-tuning my selections, and sending my final choices to Ladylit for publisher approval.

It’s not simply a matter of selecting the best stories. It’s like a patchwork quilt: you can’t have too many pieces of the whole that are similar, the same color, the same pattern, or with a phoenix on a yellow background. You need variety. In anthology terms, it means that if I’ve got two stories with one theme, I’m unlikely to take a third. Even to have two with similar themes means both stories have to blow me away. It means if I have 12 stories written from a first person POV, I’ll be giving more consideration to those written in second or third POV.

Even then, the “best” stories may not make it. I love working with new writers, particularly first-timers (and I’m happy to say there’s a couple of first timers in “First”. Appropriate, eh?) but if it comes down to two stories I love, and one slot left, then if all other things are equal, I’m going to take the story that means the least work for me. Editors are lazy beasts when it comes down to it. I rejected, with some sadness, two stories for “First” that I loved. The themes were good, the writing fresh, but they was simply too much work involved in polishing them for publication.

But the first thing I did this week that is one of the best things about anthology editing, was sending out acceptances. I love that!

The second thing is I’ve started fiddling around with the Table of Contents–ordering the 16 wonderful stories that will grace the paper and pixels of “First” in September. If selecting stories for an anthology is like choosing the patches for a quilt, putting those stories in order is like choosing the thread and stitches to bind them together. Ordering stories for a varied reading experience, mixing up POV and theme, the overtly romantic and the bittersweet, the witty and the lyrical. The tough and the tender. And of course, in an erotica anthology, vanilla sex and kink, fast and furious and romantic.

I’m not ready to share this TOC just yet, but be sure that when the order of stories is finalized, you’ll read about it here. In the meantime, I’m back to reading, editing, and pondering.

Happy times!

Lisabet Sarai on Channeling the Cat

Today, I’m pleased and proud to welcome Lisabet Sarai to my little corner of the blogosphere. I’ve been enjoying Lisabet’s steamy stories for years, as well as including her story “The First Stone” in my Lammy and Goldie nominated anthology “Forbidden Fruit: stories of unwise lesbian desire”.

Lisabet is talking about her new release “The Eyes of Bast” but also she is talking about something also close to my heart. Cats.

Take it away, Lisabet!

It’s almost a joke – the common association between authors and cats. I haven’t done a systematic survey, but I would estimate that at least 75% of the authors I hosts as blog guests mention feline companions in their bios. I’m no exception. I currently have two cats who traveled with us from the United States to southeast Asia ten years ago, and who have settled in quite comfortably.

Of course, many famous writers were renowned for their close relationships with their felines. Colette, Papa Hemingway, Jean-Paul Satre, Ray Bradbury… the list goes on and on. The inspiration for my erotic writing career, Portia da Costa, is a huge cat lover – that’s one of the things that forged a bond between us.

Many explanations have been offered for the feline-author affinity. A cat doesn’t need to be walked, so we can spend our time at our desks as opposed to trucking around on the street scooping up their business. Cats are mysterious creatures with many layers of personality – rather like effective characters. Cats have an elegance and precision of movement we writers might use as a model for our prose. Many authors have cited their felines as sources of inspiration. Noted Canadian writer Robertson Davies once said “Authors like cats because they are such quiet, lovable, wise creatures, and cats like authors for the same reason.”

The other day, I was suddenly struck by a new theory. I was thinking about the fact that so many authors report hearing “voices”. “I just listen to my characters, and write down what they say,” one of my guests commented. Writing sometimes feels like something driven from outside, beyond our conscious control. Well, what if that’s true?

What if it’s not our characters who are dictating the story? What if it’s our cats?

Ridiculous, right? But Mr. Toes sits behind my monitor most days I’m writing. He pretends to be asleep, but if I should get up for a bathroom break or a drink of water, he stirs and gives me a look, as it to say, “Where are you going? The story’s not done yet!”

I grew up with cats. I grew up writing fiction. When I went off to college and then grad school, I left the felines behind, and although I wrote lots of poetry during that period, I didn’t pen a single story. Then I met my husband, a confirmed ailurophile, and filled my life with felines once more. Next thing you know, I was a published author.

Ever tried to write when your cat was sick? Tough to concentrate on the tale, isn’t it?

And wouldn’t this explain why our characters are larger than life? Why they have so much vitality, such powerful passions, such intense adventures? How could a mere human imagine such creatures? Cats, though – they have superhuman abilities. Just ask them.

Of course to really test this, we’d all have to get rid of our felines and then see if we could still write.

That might be informative. It might restore our self-respect. But it’s simply too painful to contemplate.

If I’m channeling my cats, I’m okay with that. As long as they don’t want their names on the cover.

Meanwhile, I’ve finally written a story in which a cat has center stage. “The Eyes of Bast” is a shifter tale with a difference. Read on to learn more.



Trust your heart. Follow your dreams.

Shaina Williams’ grandmother bequeathed her that wisdom, along with a old pendant from the Islands, carved from an ocelot’s tooth. When instinct tells Shaina to visit the feral cat trap she’d set in Central Park, she listens to that inner voice, She discovers she’s caged a magnificent black tom, but the cat inexplicably vanishes after she tends to his wounds. Seeking the errant feline, Shaina encounters instead a handsome stranger whose slightest touch sets her body on fire. As the day dawns after a night of ferocious passion, her mysterious lover is forced back into his true shape – the tomcat she’d rescued.

Born a cat, Tom was transformed into an unwilling shape shifter by a sorceress who craved a human plaything to satisfy her perverse lusts. Centuries old and irresistibly powerful, Delphine Montserrat will stop at nothing to find her runaway familiar. Shaina vows to do whatever is necessary to defeat the vicious but seductive witch and save the man she believes is her soul mate – even though it might mean losing him forever.

Here’s where you can purchase “The Eyes of Bast”:

Totally Bound

All Romance Ebooks

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

Add on GoodReads

Check out my exclusive interview about the book at Totally Bound!

Follow my blog tour, April 27th through April 30th:

Monday 27th April Erzabet’s Enchantments

Tuesday 28th April Crystal’s Many Reviewers

Wednesday 29th April Archaeolibrarian

Thursday 30th April Sapphyria’s Steamy Book Blog

Three of Hearts: Erotic Romance for Women

If you read a Kristina Wright story, you know you’ll be getting a well-written, arousing as hell, quality story. And she’s a fantastic editor as well. Any anthology with her name on the cover as editor will be chock full of amazing stories (My favorite? Possibly Steamlust: Steampunk erotic romance)

Her latest anthology is Three of Hearts: erotic romance for women put out by Cleis Press. I’m proud to say it features one of my stories “What Happens in Denver”.

When co-workers, Gina, Drew, and Paul, are snowed in at Denver Airport, they think themselves lucky to snag the last hotel room. Except it is exactly that: one hotel room.

You can read an excerpt from “What Happens in Denver” below. And of course Three of Hearts: erotic romance for women is available from Amazon and all the usual outlets.

Gina trotted in his wake with Drew, their luggage wheels clacking briskly over the tiled floor. Outside the terminal, the snow blew horizontally, stinging her cheeks even underneath the canopy. Somehow Paul already had a taxi, his bag in the trunk, himself in the front seat gesticulating to the driver. Gina slid into the rear seat with Drew, and the taxi pulled away, snow tires gripping the packed snow. Drew shifted restlessly beside her, his fine woolen suit pulling tight over heavy thighs. Gina watched his hands, clenching and unclenching on his leg. Fine hands for such a solid man. Long fingers. Attractive fingers. Drew seemed agitated. Eager to get home no doubt. She wondered if he had a lover back in Indianapolis.

The hotel foyer was busy, but Paul shouldered his way to the desk, and returned in a few minutes.

“Third floor,” he said.

Paul found room 303 and opened the door. Light spilled across the counterpanes of the two queen beds, eerily harsh from reflected snow. “There’s a problem,” he said. “This is our room.”

Gina looked around. It was the usual clean but nondescript hotel room she stayed in all the time. Bright counterpane over white duvet cover. Standard wooden desk with lamp and hotel information laid out in soldier rows underneath the mirror. Flat-screen TV aimed somewhere between the two beds.

“It looks fine,” she said.

Paul smiled slightly. “I think you missed the emphasis,” he said. “This is our room. One room for all three of us. It’s the last room.”

She didn’t want to look at either of them. Bad enough that she had to share a room with colleagues, but if there were winks or swiftly hidden smiles it would make things worse. A drink after a conference was one thing; this was another level, another rise in the slope to intimacy. There was a flash in her head of Drew’s long fingers tapping patterns on his leg during the taxi ride. If it had been the two of them, alone in this hotel room… She suppressed a smile.

When she glanced back at them, their expressions were blank. It gave her confidence. “We’ll manage,” she said briskly. “Is there a pullout bed?”

Paul’s expression eased slightly in the face of her breezy acceptance. “No. They’re already taken.”

“Then we’ll toss for the floor.” Digging in her bag, she produced three quarters. “Odd one out gets the floor.”

Gina and Paul tossed heads, and Drew tails. He pulled a face. “I’ll live.”

Movement gave her a focus. She checked the wardrobe, pulling out spare pillows in plastic wrap and two blankets.

Drew regarded her gloomily, then switched his gaze to Paul. “You better spring for a decent dinner, boss.”

The hotel bar was crowded, not only with guests, but with many travelers and their luggage. Paul found them seats at the bar, and pulled over the menu. “I suggest we get our order in; they’re bound to be busy.”

His words were prophetic. Three glasses of wine later, and Gina’s world took on a muted ethereal quality. Her colleagues were sharp-focused against a background of pattern and color. She could have been anywhere; the edges of her reality stopped at their corner of the bar. When the food finally arrived, she found she wasn’t hungry, and merely picked at the assortment of chicken wings and other fried snacks. She sipped on another glass of wine and watched the men gnaw on the chicken, dunk fries into catsup. But the conversation ran free, and she matched their tall tales with her own. Some were even true.

When they finally made it back to their room, all she wanted was to get her head on the pillow and sleep. The wine made her head spin, and she tucked a hand in the crook of each of their arms and let them lead her in. She claimed the bathroom and emerged soon after in the long T-shirt she slept in. Ignoring Drew’s mutterings about the floor, she slipped into the far bed and turned her back to sleep.

When she woke, an hour or a few later, the moonlight shone through the window that none of them had bothered to cover with the drapes. The silver light illuminated the room, softening its austere look, turning edges to shining silver. The room overlooked the freeway, eerily deserted in the moonlight, the snow falling softly blurring the edges between dream and reality. There was little sound; merely the distant hum of heating. And then Gina heard the soft intake of breath, the rustle of sheets in the next bed. She lay quiet on her back, eyes open into the silver air. A murmur, the slow drag of sheet over skin, a gentle creak as someone shifted position. Carefully, she turned her head to the left. There in the next bed, Drew and Paul lay together, their lower bodies underneath the sheet, their arms entwined. Kissing, their lips meshing, blending, then parting for a breath, before returning to sup at each other’s mouths. Their upper bodies gleamed with starlight, highlighting the contrast between sharp fingers and bulky curved muscle. With a rustle of sheet, Drew moved over on top of Paul and bent his head to taste again.

Her short intake of breath sounded loud in the room. Gina closed her eyes, wishing she could take back the sound. They were so beautiful. Their bodies melding, Drew’s golden furred body against Paul’s leaner, darker one. But the men had frozen at the sound. The room hung poised in the moonlight, a tableau of spiraling passion etched in the silver light.

Gina swallowed, and her mouth opened to say, “Sorry,” or “Please do carry on,” or “Don’t mind me,” and she gripped the sheet, prepared to turn her back to them, to give them what privacy she could, when Paul stretched out a hand, over the space between the two beds.

“Join us,” he said.

She could have said no. It would have been easier to smile, turn away, even to leave the room and sleep on a couch in the bar with other travelers. But her hesitation gave the men confidence.

Drew raised up from Paul and fixed her in his gaze. “Join us,” he said in echo of Paul.

Blue Woman Stories Volume 3

 

It’s out! Blue Woman Stories Volume 3: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue is now available.

Here’s the direct link from Amazon which you’ll need as they’ve applied the No Logic Adult Filter for this one.  Or, as always, buy direct from Ladylit.

Want a free copy in exchange for an honest review?  Email me on cheyenne at cheyenneblue dot com and I’ll send you one.

Blue Woman Stories Volume III: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue

I’m very proud to announce that the third mini-collection of my very best lesbian erotica is now available from Ladylit.  Like Blue Woman Stories Volume 1 and Volume 2, this third volume, Blue Woman Stories Volume III: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue contains five stories gathered from my oeuvre since 2000.

An Irish tourist meets a biker in Las Vegas, a young nurse learns more than medical procedure from an older colleague, and in A Story About Sarah, an indigenous woman recalls her long-time lover. From an Australian mining camp, to the fells of England, Blue Woman Stories Volume 3 contains five more compelling stories of lesbian love from Cheyenne Blue.

Here’s the table of contents:

A Story About Sarah

Irish Abroad

Nurse Joan

Carrowkeel

Run, Jo, Run

You can purchase Blue Woman Stories Volume III: collected lesbian erotica of Cheyenne Blue direct from Ladylit.com, Amazon or the usual suspects.  (coming any moment now from Amazon etc)

CHEYENNE BLUE’S erotica has appeared in around 100 erotic anthologies since 2000. Her best lesbian stories are now available in the Blue Woman Stories collections published by Ladylit. She is the editor of Forbidden Fruit: stories of unwise lesbian desire also from Ladylit, and has edited short stories through to novels. Under her own name she has written travel books and articles, and curated anthologies of local writing in Ireland. She has lived in Europe and North America, but now lives and writes near the beach in Queensland, Australia. You can find her on Twitter and Goodreads

The Running Writer (and Three of Hearts)

I’ve often compared running and writing.  They’re both things I love to do, they’re both mostly solitary pursuits, and require setting your mind to a task and not stopping until it’s done.  Both can be done pretty much everywhere, and need minimal equipment.  A body. A mind. Running shoes. A laptop.  The bells and whistles of wicking socks, a running watch that takes my heartbeat, and a MP3 player are like writing software, books on the craft, and a glitter pen that writes in turquoise:  very nice, but not essential.

In most stories and in most runs, there’s a point at which I want to stop.  “No more,” I think despairingly, “I can’t do this any longer.”  And in most stories and most runs, if I can get myself past that point, the end is worth it.  The satisfaction of completing a story knowing I’ve told something good.  The joy of completing a run when I didn’t think I could run that far or that fast.  (Running ’til you puke is a whole ‘nother topic). And in the long haul of training, or a writing career, there’s times in both when I’ve thought, what’s the point of continuing? I’ll never get faster, no one will ever want to read this.   But getting past those mental blocks brings great rewards.

My running days either seem to be over or on a very long hiatus, which makes me sad (and fatter).  I’m getting on. Bits of me hurt, some of them quite a bit, when I run. But my writing career continues.  Through highs and lows, changes of direction, diversions for shiny new things, fantastic new experiences and people, a few crocks who want the world and offer nothing (a bit like a long run in miserable weather).  But now, like running in Ireland in winter, life intrudes and it’s harder to make time to write.  I’d rather sit on the deck and drink wine (and who wants to slog out in the dark and damp of an Irish winter?)

So I’m approaching my writing as I did my running.  I’m a bit of a geek for numbers. I’d be bouncing around the roads if I managed to chop 5 seconds a mile off my pace.  I’d set out to run 5km, or 10km, at a 9 minute mile pace or an even pace.  And those little goals of numbers in my running log were my reward and got me out there the next day.

I’ve always avoided being a slave to word counts, but now I’m trying it. My writing calender is pretty full at present.  I have three short stories to write for CFS, First my second anthology for Ladylit Publishing to organize and edit. Pretty soon, I’ll have another novel sent to me to edit.  But I want to find time to write a sequel to a novella that isn’t even published yet (but will be, probably in June). So, to fit this in, something I really want to do, I’ve set an in-stone word count: 1,000 words/day every day until the end of March, which with what I already have, will see me to completion of first draft by the end of March.

People may scoff at the low number.  I don’t care. Some people scoffed at my running goals but I did it and It Was Good. Hell, yeah! And the discipline of meeting that daily number drives me on, knowing I’ve set an achievable goal.  Just like my 5km race pace (PB of 26.02 in case you’re wondering.  Not elite, not even speedy, but pretty damn good for me.)

What’s more, I know I’ll do it.  I slogged to the end of a half marathon. I ran faster than I ever thought possible in a couple of Great Ireland Runs.  Being a runner improved my writing, and being a writer improved my running.

In just a minute, I might have to go out and see exactly how much things hurt when I run.

In other happy news, after a long, long wait, Kristina Wright‘s super-sexy anthology Three of Hearts: Erotic Romance for Women is out from Cleis Press.  I’ve been looking forward to this one for a long time.  Can’t wait for my copies to arrive, but I see from the Table of Contents that my story, What Happens in Denver, is in the excellent company of Giselle Reynarde, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Axa Lee, Kathleen Tudor, Kristina herself and many, many more, including an introduction by Maestro, Alison Tyler.

Lammy Finalist – Forbidden Fruit

One of the bad things about living in Australia (okay, the only bad thing apart from Tony Abbott) is that stuff generally happens when you’re asleep.  Like today.  I woke at 5.00am, reached for the phone, and learned that Forbidden Fruit: stories of unwise lesbian desire is a Lambda Literary Award finalist in the lesbian erotica category.  That woke me up better than coffee.

I’m thrilled.  For myself, for Ladylit Publishing, and especially for all of the wonderful contributors whose stories grace the pages and pixels of Forbidden Fruit.

You can read the complete list of finalists across all categories here.

Congratulations too to the other finalists in the lesbian erotica category, R.G. Emanuelle, Andi Marquette, and Diana Cage.  I’m also very happy to have a story, Tomato Lady, included in R.G. and Andi’s anthology All You Can Eat.

Updated: Call for Submissions: First (working title) lesbian erotica

I’ve been receiving some fantastic submissions for First.  Thank you to all those who have already submitted.  For those who are still considering submitting, please read on.

The CFS hasn’t changed, but I’m receiving a surfeit of stories where the “first” is a first lesbian experience, or a first sexual experience of some kind.  I will definitely be using some of these (and indeed, I’ve already received some that make me catch my breath in a good way), but I’m particularly looking for stories that focus on a first that is not a sexual first, and not a lesbian first.

I want stories.  I want first times.  And I want lesbian sex in the context of that first time.  See below in the CFS for some examples.  Make me catch my breath.  Thrill me with your inventiveness.  Use a historical event, a futuristic scenario, or a contemporary scene that readers can identify with.

I will never forget my first (and only) parachute jump.  It was years ago, but the fear that consumed me as I crouched in the doorway of the plane, with only 10,000 feet of air beneath me is something that stays vividly in my head.  The deafening noise of freefall.  The utter silence  when the canopy opened. And the euphoria when I landed safely was one of the most intense highs I’ve ever experienced.

Tell me a story like that.  Make it sexual.  If you can, I want it.

I look forward to reading your stories!

First (working title)

Editor: Cheyenne Blue (www.cheyenneblue.com)

Publisher: Ladylit Publishing (www.ladylit.com)

Deadline: 24 April 2015

Payment: US$40.00 plus a copy of e-book and paperback

Rights: First worldwide digital rights and print rights.

Cheyenne Blue is seeking fictional stories of lesbian passion about first experiences. While I will be including stories of sexual firsts, including first lesbian encounter and first experience of a particular sexual act, I am especially after stories that look beyond this with imagination and flair. I would like to see stories where the sex happens as an integral part of another first, whether it’s the first day in a new job, the first time overseas, breaking the law, or skinny dipping. How about a first experience of sex in zero G in space, or a near death experience on the battleground of a past war? Show me the marvel, wonder, joy, and pride of new experience, the accomplishment, or even the fear or despair. I welcome stories of emotional firsts: the first time in love, the first time that hate translates to sex, the first time with a new partner after a break up.

Above all, I want strong, complete tales that are more than just a sex act. This is not an anthology of true confessions, so stories do not need to be written in first person. For examples of the type of stories and writing I’m looking for, check out my previous anthology, “Forbidden Fruit: stories of unwise lesbian desire”.

Please note the usual no-nos apply: no incest / underage sex / rape / necrophilia / bestiality / scat. No poetry please.

Preferred length: 2500 – 5000 words

Unpublished stories strongly preferred, although a couple of reprints might be used. Reprints must be solely owned by the author.

US English. Please submit a double-spaced Microsoft Word document, using a 12-point serif font, such as Georgia or Times New Roman. One inch margins. If using a pen name, include both real and pen name on the manuscript.

Send your story as a .doc or .rtf file attachment to Cheyenne Blue at firstantho@gmail.com. Please include “First” and your story title in the subject line.

In the body of the email please include your legal name, pseudonym, a short bio, and previous publication information if the story is a reprint.

Established authors welcomed, newcomers encouraged. I look forward to reading your work.

All submissions acknowledged within 3 days and acceptances notified by 1 June 2015.

About the editor: Cheyenne Blue is the editor of “Forbidden Fruit: stories of unwise lesbian desire” also from Ladylit, and has edited short stories through to novels. Her erotic fiction has been included in approximately 100 erotic anthologies since 2000. Under her own name she has written travel books and articles, and edited anthologies of local writing in Ireland.

Nasty Business by Lisabet Sarai

Once again, I’m pleased to welcome Lisabet Sarai, who is here to tell you about her romantic BDSM novel, just released from Fireborn

All’s fair in lust and business

 Ruby Maxwell Chen, lovely and ruthless CEO of a huge British business empire, is used to getting her way. When she encounters the strangely charismatic American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn’t finally met her match.

From the trendy clubs of London to the Hollywood Hills, Ruby and Rick compete for ownership of a strategic factory in Malaysia. Neither has any qualms about using sexual wiles to smooth the path to success. Neither anticipates that their mutual attraction will turn into something far more intense and difficult to control.

As their struggle for dominance escalates, they draw their employees and associates into their outrageous power games. The stakes could scarcely be higher, as Ruby and Rick play for the ultimate prize: a night of total physical surrender.

Read an excerpt:

Bravo.” A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. “I’m extremely impressed.”

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and a bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. “I gather you were spying on me and my admirer.”

“Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau.” He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. “You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline.”

“Hardly,” I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. “I am just beginning to explore the possibilities. But,” I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, “I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners’ desires to yield to my power.”

“I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him.” He pauses and searches my face. “But, do you know what I want?”

Truly, I have no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

“Tell me what you want,” I purr. “I’m feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request.”

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

“I want you to take me home with you,” he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

“You seem most enthusiastic,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “But why should I allow you into my personal space?”

“Because you want to,” he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. “And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage.”

He’s right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I’m more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

You can buy Nasty Business from these sellers:

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Nasty-Business-Lisabet-Sarai-ebook/dp/B00SCC1E7G/

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Nasty-Business-Lisabet-Sarai-ebook/dp/B00SCC1E7G/

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nasty-business-lisabet-sarai/1113839670?ean=2940150065840

Kobo: http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Nasty-Business/book-wzClXgU5Nkur0outFSsAZw/page1.html

All Romance Ebooks: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-nastybusiness-1732100-354.html

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