Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 330

Lizzie Ashworth: The Lawn Guy

Hi Delilah Fans!

Finally some fall weather! Love these nights when I can sleep with the windows open.

Thank you to those who commented on my September post about falling in love with a gay man. Apparently I’m not the only one who has gone through this. Back when this happened to me, homosexuality wasn’t an open topic. Young people had many reasons not to face the truth about their sexuality.

At that time, men who didn’t realize they were gay tried to be ‘normal’ by dating girls and even falling in love with girls. That’s what happened to me. Today, thankfully, being gay isn’t as terribly stigmatized as it was in the past. Gay men and women are more likely to think about their sexuality early on and come to terms with their true inclinations. Thus many fewer women are left with the fallout that comes from a first love who turned out to be gay.

For myself, as I said in my September post, the four-year love affair I had as a teen led to permanent issues in my self-esteem. What I learned then can’t be fully unlearned, that I wasn’t enough of a woman to drive his passion, that if I had been more flirty, more buxom, he would have wanted me more. I fully understand that nothing I did actually had anything to do with his final realization that he was gay. That doesn’t undo four years of thinking something was wrong with me.

No doubt the experience for him was even more traumatic.

So thanks for listening and sharing your thoughts with me.

And now for something entirely more entertaining! Here’s an excerpt from a new short story, “The Lawn Guy.” This work was inspired by a new anthology Delilah is working on about blue collar men. Are these guys too sexy for their shirts or what?!

Lizzie Ashworth’s “The Lawn Guy”

I stand at the window, dodging out of sight when the mower loops at the far end and starts heading back toward the house. It’s pure self-indulgence, watching him with the wind blowing his hair, his sweaty back gleaming in the sun. His back muscles do amazing things when he leans.

Why I’m torturing myself, I don’t know. I’m helpless here, a hundred other things I could be doing, and I can’t do any of them. I want him on top of me.

Is this pathetic or what?

I have the best mowed lawn in the neighborhood. Best trimmed bushes, best raked leaves, best mulched flowerbeds. I owe it all to Justin Younger, damn him.

Damn his amber eyes and crooked smile and a roughhewn face that belongs in the movies. Damn his enthusiasm about random things like the broken limb on the old elm, the turtle stuck under the back fence. I tell myself that’s why I hire him.

It’s a lie. I hire him because I’m infatuated. I’m slack jawed at the window watching him park the mower and stride across the yard with a rake. If I’m not careful, I’ll be wiping drool off my chin. How do men become so beautiful?

There’s one thing about becoming widowed. You get a paid-for house and supportive friends and time to relax.  If you’re lucky, you get left with enough money to hire your yardwork done. All that’s supposed to help make up for losing the man you meant to spend your life with, the man who’s gone. I’m so lucky.

I feel something stirring in me, something dangerous. When I watch Justin, I feel like I might explode. Everything is fucked up.

I’ve dusted every shelf, rearranged the contents of every cabinet. I can tell you exactly what part of which drawer you’ll find the tape. I tidy up whether I need to or not. It’s what I do, dusting, organizing, making sure every single thing in this house is in perfect order.

I know the clinical stuff. I’m seeking control. Control over things that happen for no reason and destroy lives. I find myself standing in places for long periods of time, like I’m waiting on something. Like David’s going to come walking through that door all smiles and I’ll fly into his arms. My hands will grab those lean muscles that curve down his back, and never let go. My hands still feel him.

I’m waiting for my life to come back. But all I can do is manage minutia and stare out the window at the one man who interests me. It feels wrong, like I’m being unfaithful to David. It doesn’t help to remember that David is never coming back.

I think this guy interests me because I can see his bare chest, his wide shoulders, his energetic response to the world. Men do that, respond energetically to the world. As if with their own hands they could move mountains and battle lions. It’s what I loved about David. It’s what got him killed.

~~~

Last night I dreamt about Justin. He was over me. I can’t get it out of my mind.

He smelled like sunshine and cut grass. His skin smoothed under my fingertips. He was gentle, slow. I woke up wet between my legs.

That’s just fucking great.

~~~

“Thought you might need a drink,” I say. I hand Justin a tall glass of iced tea with condensation running down its sides. My heart is beating in my throat standing near him.

He squints up at the sun, takes the towel from his waistband, and wipes his face and neck. I watch his shoulder flex. His chest gleams. I watch his throat move as he drinks. He slides the cold wet glass across his chest.

I’m desperate to touch him. This is sick. How did my life get so out of control?

“Thanks, Ms. B.” He sizes me up. “Did you want me to deal with that broken limb today?”

I look up at the old elm. A big limb broke in a mid-summer storm and it’s been up there dangling. “I’m worried about you climbing up there. Maybe I should hire a tree service.”

He laughs. When he laughs, lines crease his cheeks. I thought he was late twenties, but maybe he’s a bit older, maybe mid-thirties like me. He gives me this look of authority.

“Five minutes.”

I watch him climb the tree. I’m helpless down here wringing my hands. Does my homeowner’s policy include liability?

Hell, I’m old before my time. Everything terrifies me. The chainsaw whines and sawdust drifts down and I can’t watch.

Five minutes and the chainsaw comes down on its rope and then the limb is coming down on its rope and then Justin climbs down. He slides down the last few feet and lands right in front of me. Plants his boots hard on the ground. Breathing hard. Sweating. Grinning at his success.

He leans toward me. I think he’s off balance and grab his arm. He looks at me and I jerk my hand away.

“I told you,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I worried anyway.”

“If I can’t do something, I’ll tell you. Trust me.”

Is he saying more than he’s saying? I want to read between the lines. He tugs off his leather gloves, stuffs them in his rear pocket, and touches my cheek. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

“You worry too much,” he says, peering down at me with an expression of…I don’t know. “You have sawdust on your face.”

Read the rest of this story.

Only 99¢ at Smashwords.

About the Author

Lizzie Ashworth has been through career, marriage, kids, and even ran her own cafe, but writing has always been her secret love. She has authored eight novels and several short stories which explore the intimate nuances of human relationships. She likes to show a process in her stories where discovery or acknowledgment of sexual pleasure or desire is key to character development. Hidden away on a remote woodland hilltop in the Arkansas Ozarks, she accepts advice from her hound dog Weezie and her cat Esmeralda. When she’s not slamming words, she enjoys cooking, gardening, and the Pacific coast. Sunrise and sunset provide her favorite moments, the magical twilight between two worlds when anything seems possible.

A Little Taste of Halloween Pleasure — Zombie Love! (Contest — 3 Winners)

Dear Readers and Friends,

Yes! Not the sexiest title ever, I’m sure, but you might be surprised. I wrote this shorty several years ago for a collection entitled Love, Lust and Zombies, which took forever to publish. I’ve been itching ever since to share it far and wide, because honestly, it’s one of my favorite pieces. And at just $0.99, I’m hoping you’ll give it a try. The story has an air of dread and sadness. My daughter read it and said it made her cry. Which can be a good thing, right? I usually go for smiles and laughter, but once in a while, I do like to go straight for the heart. And yes, there’s plenty of sexy, too.

Do you love the cover? My sister, Elle James, did that for me. I love, love, love it! I’m lucky to have her! If you get a chance to read Zombie Love and love the story like I do, let me know!

Have a great weekend!

Available Now! Zombie Love!

Get your copy here!

Contest

Comment for a chance to win!

Winners will get their choice of a short story.

And if you haven’t read my shorties, check out the full list here!

Here’s just a sampling…

  

Sharon Hamilton: I love patches!

I just came back from a book signing in Valley Forge, and, as usual, the hit of my table wasn’t my books or my writing, it was my patches.

I’m not sure how I got started buying them, but I’ve done it so many times, Amazon keeps showing me new ones I cannot live without. I use them to award to people who buy multiple books from me at an event, or sometimes just to award to an avid fan who stops by to say hi and already has all my books. Or just because I feel like being generous.

It creates quite a buzz at the table and we do attract attention.

Tonight at Kym Grosso’s launch party, I even gave away some Sugar Skull duct tape and stickers, in keeping with the theme.

Sometimes our guys and gals overseas can wear some of them. Most the ones I buy, like the ones I show here, not so much. Lots of my friends ride motorcycles and have them all over their jackets. I just like looking at them, and probably will make a nice display of them, right next to the police, firefighters and paramedic patches I’ve been collecting over the years. And why not.

We ladies (and gents) like to have fun, right? What’s life without a little kinky humor now and then. Sort of goes along with my Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3 navy blue condoms and my pink Stimulus Package ones.

Sharon’s new release, Love Me Tender, Love You Hard is in the brand new launch St. Helena Kindle Worlds, based on the small wine country town of St. Helena. Autumn In The Vineyards, Marina Adair’s book that is the basis for this World, is airing as a Hallmark Movie on Saturday October 8 at 9 PM on the Hallmark Channel. Enjoy!

Sharon Hamilton

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http://www.authorsharonhamilton.com

Goodreadsà http://bit.ly/2doKUEU

Join my group: http://bit.ly/2czpjUB

Erika Kelly: A Simple Melody

Do they still make Love’s Fresh Lemon? Because sometimes I think I get a whiff of it—and bam, I’m back in my pale blue Dittos, the hot sun on my head, and a tube of strawberry Lip Smackers in my hand. Scents are like that, though. They take you back to a vivid moment in time.

Music, for me, is even more evocative than smell. A simple melody has the power to alter my mood—engraving its memory on me so that every time I hear it I return to that emotional place. I love that—the power of a song.

I first felt the impact when I was ten years old. The movie Friends by Lewis Gilbert came out, and the moment Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s title track came on, I got slammed. That soundtrack unearthed all the nascent feelings of yearning and want, the fierce craving for romantic connection I couldn’t even begin to understand at that age. And the funny thing is I don’t remember the movie at all. I don’t remember the actors or the story. It’s the music that stayed with me.

Music informs every book I write. No matter how well I map out the plot and character arcs, I can’t catch my groove until I figure out the tone of the story. And it’s almost always music that reveals it to me.

Years ago, I was several revisions into a book I couldn’t quite feel. I had all the details worked out, as I always do, but I was only skimming the surface—couldn’t quite pierce the skin and get inside the story. Until I heard the soundtrack for Elizabethtown by Cameron Crowe.  60B (Etown theme) plunged me into the reflective and nostalgic mood of my story world.

I’m not a fan of pop music, but A Thousand Years captured the tone for my new release YOU REALLY GOT ME. Sure, Christina Perri wrote it about Twilight. And, no, you won’t find vampires in my contemporary romance books—although, hey, vampire rockers? That could totally be a thing. But it wasn’t the lyrics that fit my book; it was the tune itself. The yearning, the want, the passion. Even now, two years later, hearing that song whisks me right back into the world of that book, with Slater and Emmie and the guys. Which, you know, isn’t a bad place to be.

While I always have music playing when I write, I can’t listen to anything with lyrics. First, I can’t stop myself from singing along with it. But, also, lyrics tell stories, and I’m a reader. I have to pull up a chair and listen.

I envy the way lyricists can tell a story in a few stanzas, deliver an emotional punch in a line or two. The song You Love Me by Kimya Dawson does exactly that. Personally, though, I seem to need more elbow room—like a whole stadium to accommodate my one hundred thousand words—to tell my own stories. Hey, it’s an emotional journey—it takes time to make it authentic!

So, basically, for as much as I love music, I’m locked out of the process of making it. I can’t sing, I can’t play an instrument, and I can’t write lyrics. But the artists who can? They rock. I wish I could do it.

If I could, I would’ve written these three songs that pack the emotional wallop of the best romantic fiction. Tell Her This by Del Amitri is filled with regret and longing. It’s about a man who can’t get past his own demons (STAND BACK—romance writer coming through—I can fix him!). And You Just Forgot by Mindy Smith kills me every time I hear it. This girl is hanging onto a love long past its end date. I can totally fix her problem! Just give me a hundred thousand words and access to the man she loves. And then Wicked Game by Chris Isaak. Is this guy not the classic bad boy hero? Do NOT make me fall in love with you because you are going to tear my heart out…just like my mother who left me/ex who cheated on me/babysitter who abused me. I got this—just let me at him!

Now, of course music isn’t just about connecting with deep emotion and creating a compelling mood. It moves me in other ways. Ways that make me get up and shake my booty. Can you sit still when Jump Around by House of Pain is playing? Yeah, didn’t think so. How about Insane in the Brain by Cypress Hill?

And sometimes songs serve no other purpose than to turn your frown upside down. Like Be Okay by Oh Honey. I won’t believe you if you say your heart didn’t soar just a teeny bit with that one. And Thunder Clatter by Wild Cub. You’re smiling right now, right?

I can’t carry a tune, and I can’t play an instrument, but music has had a profound impact on my life and my work. I’ll bet you feel the same way.

What songs move you? Do any in particular stick with you, reminding you of an important time in your life?

From the award-winning author of the Rock Star Romance books comes a sizzling new series about the O’Donnell siblings. The pull of wild love is irresistible.

She’s had enough drama in her life.

Nicole O’Donnell is more than ready for the fresh start college offers. After a lifetime of trying to help her alcoholic mom and ex-boyfriend get sober, she’s finally learned her lesson: people don’t change. They certainly don’t change for her.

He can never leave his drama behind.

Thanks to his mom’s substance abuse issues, Dylan McCaffrey’s persona non grata in his hometown of Gun Powder, Colorado. So when he scores a free ride to the top university in the country, he’s determined to make something of this fresh start. But his mom has always relied on him, and she’s not handling his absence well at all. If he can just keep up his grades, pay her bills, and come home every break, he might be able to pull off this opportunity.

True love won’t be denied.

No matter how determined they are to steer clear of each other, their combustible connection explodes, especially when Nicole offers Dylan the one thing he can’t bear—hope. Once he has a taste of it—and the irresistible force of her—there’s no going back.

But when he falls too deeply, when he loses sight of his priorities, he might just lose it all.

You can get MINE FOR NOW here: http://amzn.to/2cIopY6. 10% of pretax income for all Erika Kelly books goes to the Semper Fi Fund. It provides immediate financial assistance and lifetime support for wounded, critically ill and injured members of the U.S. Armed Forces and their families, directing urgently needed resources to post-9/11 service members. I hope you’ll check them out: https://semperfifund.org/

Social media contact information:

http://www.erikakellybooks.com/

https://twitter.com/ErikaKellyBooks

https://www.facebook.com/erikakellybooks/

https://www.instagram.com/erikakellyauthor/

Sukie Chapin: Debunking the Crazy Cat Lady Myth (FREE READ)

When I was a kid, my favorite stuffed animal was a lion. As a pre-teen, my favorite YAGA t-shirt (dating myself *ehem*) had a lion on it. One of the first chapter books I read was Born Free, the big cats are the first thing I visit at any zoo, and when my daughter was ready for her big girl bed, guess who found an antique iron bed with lion heads? That’s right, this girl.

I, Sukie Chapin, am a crazy cat lady. Maybe not what you imagine when you hear the term, but it fit, nonetheless.

Oh, yes, I have a domesticated fur baby, too. Her name is Posie, and she’s a wonderful pain in my butt and the best writing buddy a girl could ask for. But my first love is the big cats, the exotics, the lions and tigers and cheetahs, oh my!

The term crazy cat lady carries a certain connotation. Single lady, maybe getting up there in age, perpetually in pajamas, curlers in her hair, surrounded by a myriad of cats and not much else. Sometimes I think it’s used to hurt. And I’m not okay with that. I say be proud of what you love, whether that’s cats, coffee, or good books. Wear it as a badge of honor.

So when a group of writers began toying with the idea of a Crazy Cat Lady series, playing on the stereotype and showing just how incorrect it is, I pounced at the opportunity. Right up my alley, folks. But part of me wondered if we could do it justice. Would we fall back on the outdated and inaccurate depictions of feline aficionados?

But I’m so proud to say that we didn’t. Most of the authors who contributed to the Crazy Cat Lady Anthology are crazy cat ladies themselves. And you know what? We’re all as different as our stories are from one another. And our heroes and heroines reflect that. We have kickass, strong heroines who know what they want in life. Each loves their life with their cats, but the cats aren’t the only love in their life.

When I say that there’s something for everyone in the Crazy Cat Lady Anthology, I mean it. From sweet to steamy, big cats to small, suspenseful to laugh-out-loud funny, even a shifter or two. Whatever tickles your fancy, we’ve got a taste of it.

And the best part? You can get it in your hot little hands on Tuesday, October 11th. Just around the corner, y’all.

And the even better bestest, best part? We had so much fun writing our stories and putting them together that we decided to make a freebie as well. Wooing the Cat Lady in Your Life is your one-stop-shop for dating rules and tips for cat ladies. It’s pretty awesomely hilarious, if I do say so myself. So follow this little linky, and get your copy today. For FREE!

Freebie Link – Wooing the Cat Lady in Your Life: https://www.instafreebie.com/free/5I7pI

The Crazy Cat Lady boxed set lets 9 new purr-fectly wild romance stories out of the bag. We hope you enjoy these paw-some tails from New York Times, USA Today, & other authors.

Amazon US – http://bit.ly/CCLAmzUS

Amazon AU – http://bit.ly/CCLAmzAU

Amazon CA – http://bit.ly/CCLAmzCA

Amazon UK – http://bit.ly/CCLAmzUK

iBooks – http://bit.ly/CCLiBooks

Nook – http://bit.ly/CCLNook

Kobo – http://bit.ly/CCLKobo

Goodreads – http://bit.ly/CCLGoodreads

Okay, guilty pleasure admission coming in three…two…one: I completely love hearing about other people’s fur babies, so leave me a comment and tell me about yours! The quirkier, the better!

Tarina Deaton: Relationships

I can’t start things off without thanking Delilah for this opportunity. For a debut author, getting to guest blog on a well-known, established author’s blog is a BIG deal. So, HUGE thank you!

I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I spent more than a few days trying to come up with something to blog about. I finally asked another author what I should talk about and she said share what people are saying about your book. Well, you can go read the reviews for yourself, so I won’t rehash that, but one of the things that keeps coming up in reviews is the relationship between my heroine Bree and her best friend Denise. So I’m going let you in on some of the inspiration that drove Bree and Denise.

Bree and Denise met in Iraq while deployed…just like me and my best friend — we’ll call her Sue (no, that’s not close to her name). Sue is badass. Seriously. If Special Forces had been open to women when she was younger, she’d have kicked all their asses. There is a lot of Sue in Denise. We were trailer mates for more than six months. We saw each other at our best and our worst and we came out the other side stronger for it.

She is my heterosexual life mate (kudos if you get the Jay and Silent Bob reference). We’ve already planned it out — when I retire, I’m going to build a house on part of her five acres and we’re going to raise our kids village style.

Bree and Denise’s friendship is as important to the story in Stitched Up Heart as the relationship between Bree and the hero, Jase. So with that, here’s one of my favorite scenes between Bree and Denise:

“Uh huh. You’ve got it bad, sister. I’ve never seen you like this. Not even when we got tasked to that SEAL team for two months in Jalabad.”

Bree stared off into space. “Mmm…that was good times.”

“My point is you’re completely distracted by Jase.”

“I know.” Bree folded her arms on the stall door and rested her chin on them. “He’s only been gone a few days. It’s ridiculous. I feel ridiculous and I don’t know what to do. I’m being all… what’s the word for it?”

“Girly.”

“Girly!” Bree snapped her fingers and pointed at Denise like she had just solved the world’s energy crisis. “How do I quit being all girly and emotional?”

“Don’t look at me. I haven’t done girly since I went through puberty. I’m void of emotions.”

“You do emotions,” Bree said.

Denise lifted the latch on the half door and entered the stall. The dog’s tail thumped on the ground as Denise knelt next to her head. “I do some emotions, none of which are girly emotions. My emotions usually involve fireballs and razing insurgent strongholds to the ground.” Denise pat the dog on the head and checked the water and food bowls.

Bree quirked her mouth. “Valid point. Either way, I need to figure out how to quit doing them.”

“Why?” Denise asked.

“Why?” She opened the door for Denise. “Because I don’t want to be girly. I don’t want to moon over some guy and lose who I am in the process.”

“Who says you have to lose yourself?” She swung the door closed and checked the latch. “Why can’t you figure out a way to be who you are and still fall in love with Jase?”

“Um, first, no one said anything about being in love.”

Denise gave her that look again.

“Fuck.” Bree drew the word out as she groaned. She hated it when Denise called her on her bullshit. It was easy to avoid the truth without her around. “I can’t. It’s way too soon.”

“Not according to Gran it’s not,” Denise pointed out.

“Okay, Gran lived a fairy tale. We know that’s not how life really works.”

“Says whom?”

“Says everyone except Gran. Hell, even Elsa said you can’t fall in love with someone you just met.”

“You’re referencing animated characters again.”

“Hello? Fairy tale?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Whatever. You love my face.”

“At the moment, I want to high-five your face,” Denise told her.

*~*~*

I hope you read Stitched Up Heart and at some point call your best friend and say, “Listen to this, it’s so us!”

Thank you for having me!

Tarina

Stitched Up Heart

As an Air Force medic, Bree Marks saw the worst the War on Terror had to dish out. Now a physical therapist, she uses her experience to help other veterans heal from their physical wounds; while she battles her own emotional damage.

Blaming himself for his best friend’s suicide, former Army Ranger Jase Larken, retreated from life. To honor his best friend’s memory and assuage his guilt, he started an outdoor adventure company to help veterans with PTSD.

Bree had better things to do than catch her cheating fiance in bed with another woman. Jase is something better – for a night at least. For the first time in years, Jase wanted more. When he finds her again, he doesn’t give her another chance to run.

Jase’s protectiveness grates on Bree’s independent nature. She’s dealt with her fair share of alpha-male, door kickers and doesn’t need one telling her what to do now. But as a new danger emerges, Bree and Jase must face their pasts, before someone’s obsession with Bree destroys any chance they have of a future.

Add it to your TBR: http://bit.ly/2bRg3fa

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Close Encounter of the Carnal Kind

Just letting you know about a new-old release that’s out tonight! This is a story that appeared in a now defunct publisher’s anthology several years ago. And the story exists in the same universe as Warlord’s Destiny. It’s been reedited, spruced up, and is now ready for prime time…if prime time censors allowed alien naughtiness…

Close Encounter of the Carnal Kind

Etienne Lambert, a Cajun ex-soldier fresh from the horrors of the war in Iraq, discovers that he’s an alien when an alien woman arrives at his door to take him home. When he resists, she kidnaps him. He soon learns he is the last potent male in the royal line of their planets, and it’s his duty to return to sire the next generation of the ruling caste.

Marika is a fightership commander who has succeeded where all the mages, seers, and trackers have failed. She has found her planets’ last hope for salvation! When the future king demands that he start work immediately on the primary mandate of his rule—to sire children—she can’t refuse his command.

Get your copy here!

Enjoy an excerpt…

Etienne leaned forward, cuddling his beer between his hands, letting the silence wrap around his jangled nerves. Here in the swamp, in a hunting cabin filled with happy memories, he hoped to finally shrug off his soul-deep sadness. He loved his brother and family, but he didn’t want to invite them into the dark place he’d been forced inside ever since Tekrit.

Arnaud had left half an hour before, frustrated and hurt. Etienne knew it, but couldn’t reach out to his brother, not yet. Maybe a few more days of staring out at the green, wet world around him would drown the memories of the sun-baked dirt that drank his buddies’ blood like a thirsty sponge.

He needed time to fit back into his old life. He snorted at that thought—like he’d ever really fit in to begin with. Taller by a foot than his brothers and pale-skinned to their olive, he’d often wondered if he hadn’t been traded in the bassinet at birth. And he’d never been satisfied with what life offered him in the bayou—which was why he’d enlisted in the first place.

A twig snapped nearby, and Etienne froze. As if he’d never left Iraq, time slowed, and in one long moment he realized the crickets had stopped their raucous chirping, and the owls no longer called to one another—he had a visitor.

Etienne eased from his chair, ignored the cane, and slid into his cabin. The gun, already loaded with shot to pepper any reporter’s ass, stood next to the door. He reached for it.

Footsteps crunched closer then climbed the wooden steps just as he swung back around with the shotgun cradled in his arms and stepped forward to block his doorway. But the woman who strode toward him wasn’t like any reporter he’d ever seen. She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever encountered.

Her smile was tentative as she stopped directly in front of him. Her gaze widened as she stared upward for one long moment. Then she drew in a deep breath, lowered her gaze, and knelt at his feet, pressing her forehead against his thigh.

Etienne felt a frown furrow his forehead, wondering what the hell was going on. He tried to nudge her away, but she grasped his calf and clung, speaking softly, the words guttural and lilting at the same time. Definitely not English. Not like anything he’d ever heard in his travels.

When she rose, her eyes glittered with moisture, which she quickly blinked away. This time the smile she flashed was joyous.

Etienne’s suspicions roused, and he glanced out into the darkness, wondering whether he was the butt of a joke and not liking it one damn bit. Was Arnaud responsible for this?

The woman in front of him was fresh-faced, her expression too open and innocent-looking to be real. His glance raked over her body. She was clothed from her neck to the tops of her shiny brown boots in a skin-hugging material that looked soft as suede leather, as soft and golden-brown as the large eyes she raised to stare up at him.

Color crept over his cheeks as he realized he’d stood frozen in place, transfixed by the woman’s beauty. Beautiful or not, innocent or not, she didn’t belong here. “Cher, you can turn right around and go back where you came from,” he said, the words coming out less harsh than he’d intended.

She smiled and started to speak again, and then rolled her almond-shaped eyes. She lifted her fingers to her ear and tugged at the shiny stud stuck in her left lobe. “Sorry ’bout dat. I forgot to turn on my translator,” she said in a Cajun accent.

Not a reporter, not with that accent. And yet, not from around her by the tone of her skin. Etienne sighed and propped the shotgun beside the door. “All right, who put you up to this? Arnaud?”

She shook her head, which shivered her long, dark hair around her shoulders. “Didn’t Jacques tell you?” she asked, her expression falling. “He was s’posed ta give you a message.”

His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t seen him since I returned. But you can tell him: thank you very much, but I’m not interested—however attractive you are, cher.” He turned to reenter his cabin.

A small, slim hand clamped on his forearm. “But you don’ understand how important dis is—”

Etienne shrugged her off, ignoring the plea in her doe-like eyes. “Look, I’m sure you’re very good at…whatever it is you do—”

“I’m da best!” she said, eagerness shining in her face. “Dat’s why I’m here.”

“Fucking hell! I can’t believe he thought I needed a whore,” Etienne muttered under his breath.

“A whore?” The woman’s face screwed up with a look of confusion. “Wait, I think I’m not translatin’ dat word correctly.”

“This is a joke, right?” Etienne blew out the breath he’d been holding since she appeared. “He sends you in that space costume, and you’re supposed to do what? Give me a ride?” His eyes widened, and he jerked back a little. “You’re not expecting to probe my ass, are you?”

“Only if you won’ surrender your sperm, Sire,” she said, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I can assist you…” Her voice trailed off, and she nibbled at the edge of her full lips.

“I just bet you can,” he murmured, wondering why he was fighting this so hard. The woman was a knockout. She was tall and slim-hipped, with small, round breasts. Any one of his old buddies would have given a month’s pay to slide between her thighs.

As he appraised her attributes, her nipples beaded beneath the soft, thin leather. “Perhaps you need a little foreplay ’fore you gimme your semen?” she asked, with a flirty tilt of her head. She straightened and thrust out her chest, but the effect was robbed of vampdom by her girlish smile. She was one hell of a confusing, yet alluring, package.

Jacques knew what he was doing. If she’d carried the odor of the streets on her, he’d have sent her on her way in a heartbeat.

Etienne felt his anger waver. Her skin was creamy-pale without a hint of tan, her pores so fine he knew her cheeks would be as soft as a baby’s. He wondered if the rest of her would be as soft. This close, he could smell the fragrance clinging to her skin—like almonds mixed with a musky floral scent that tugged at his cock.

The woman shifted on her feet as he stared, and then squared her shoulders. “We’ll never know until we get dis done.” She reached for the fly of his jeans.

“Wait a minute…” His hand closed over hers to halt her.

She looked up, a question in her guileless gaze.

“Where the hell did he find you, sweetheart?” he murmured, staring down at her. A dimple dented one cheek. A damn dimple.

“Oh, I found him.”

Her grin was childlike, and it angered him that she was playing with him. “Was he drunk when you fed him that line about surrendering his semen?”

She tilted her head to the side, her smile faltering. “Line?”

Etienne swore beneath his breath, patience at an end—restraint beyond his control as angry anguish exploded inside him. He gripped her waist hard, pulling her toward him. If his uncle thought a prostitute would prod him from his blue funk, who was he to argue? He certainly hadn’t managed on his own. Maybe this was what he’d waited for…

Her mouth opened around a startled gasp, which he breathed in as he sealed her mouth with his.

But her lips didn’t move beneath his. When he opened his eyes, he found her wide-eyed gaze staring back at him. He pulled his head back. “Kiss me,” he said, his voice gruff. “This is what you came for, isn’t it?”

“I came for your sem—”

He didn’t want to hear her story again and slammed his mouth down to shut her up.

This time she pressed back, sliding her lips beneath his. Her kiss was soft and tentative, drugging to his jaded senses. Her breaths came quick and excited, puffing into his mouth. Despite the fact, or perhaps, because she wasn’t very good at kissing, an electrical charge of heat pulsed throughout his body, tightening his loins.

Etienne groaned and pulled her body flush with his, grinding his cock against the soft cleft he found between her legs.

Her hips jerked then pushed forward, finding his rhythm, sliding her sex against his as she moaned into his mouth.

With her breasts mashed against his chest, his shaft riding her mons, Etienne drank from her lush, feminine mouth. The softness trembling against him soothed and excited his soul. He hadn’t known how badly he needed this—needed her—until this moment. He sank into the kiss, spearing her mouth with his tongue, sweeping inside like his body ached to burrow into her sweet flesh.

But she wasn’t the answer to his problems—she wasn’t even here because she wanted it. Good old Uncle Jacques had sent her.

Etienne realized he was only fighting himself. He’d wanted solitude to lick his wounds, but his family seemed to understand that deep down he needed to be touched.

This woman’s soft hands were as good as any. At least she wouldn’t be expecting him to spill his guts. He broke the kiss and pushed her back. “Go ahead,” he said, releasing her hand. “Take my semen,” he bit out, bitterness licking the embers of his anger into flame once more.

She swallowed, looking a little frightened by his anger. If she was scared, fuck her. This was what she’d been paid to do.

Eyeing him with caution, she flicked open the snap at the waistband of his jeans. Then she drew down his zipper and knelt in front of him to ease his jeans past his hips.

He wasn’t wearing any underwear, so his sex pushed into the widening gap until it sprang free. The warm breeze blowing over his flesh and the woman’s intent stare did the rest. His cock quickly filled and rose.

Etienne sucked in a deep breath and raised his hands to brace himself within the doorframe as the woman bent over him.

She licked her lips. “I’ll make dis quick.”

“Don’t rush on my account.” Now that he’d decided to enjoy his “gift”, he wasn’t in any hurry.

The woman cleared her throat, opened her mouth, and swallowed the head of his cock.

Etienne groaned and his toes curled inside his boots. The sensation of her hot, moist mouth drawing on his sex was so exquisite it hurt.

Her gaze never left his as she drew back and licked around the soft head. The sight of her pink tongue darting out to lap at him tightened his groin. She followed the ridge all the way around then licked down his length, caressing him with firmer strokes as she went.

Etienne gritted his teeth as she took her time, priming him. Her head dipped, and her dark hair shimmered in the moonlight as she worked his flesh.

She returned to the head and suctioned it into her mouth, her eyes closing as her lips drew hard, her cheeks hollowing with the effort. Then her hands glided up his thighs. One cupped his balls, already drawn taut and close to his body. She kneaded them gently with her palm and fingers, rolling and tugging until he pulsed his hips, beginning the drive toward release. The other hand circled the base of his cock and squeezed, twisting up and down his shaft.

A throbbing started in his injured leg, interrupting his upward climb, and he eased his weight to his good leg then clamped one hand on the back of her head to encourage her to take more of him, deeper into her throat.

Her jaw opened wider, and her teeth skimmed his length as he pushed his cock along her tongue until he butted the back of her throat. With his body wound tight as a coil, he closed his eyes and let his head fall backward, groaning as she dipped and bobbed faster—sliding down him, sucking hard on the upstroke. Christ, she had a talented mouth.

Just as he was ready to let her sweep him along in a frenzied tide, the hand cupping his balls slid farther back, her fingers tracing the cleft of his buttocks.

Before he could utter a protest, one finger eased inside his ass, tunneling then manipulating his prostate. With a shout of protest mixed with anguished release, his hips bucked, and his body exploded, come jetting inside the woman’s mouth.

Etienne bit back a curse and pumped twice, weak thrusts now, his body trembling in the aftermath. He curved his fingers around the wooden doorframe and opened his eyes to glare down at the woman. “My ass was off limits.”

Her lips pursed, and she reached for the belt cinching her small waist, pulling a small vial from beneath it.

While he watched, furious, she spat his creamy come into the vial, and then held it aloft and tugged her ear. She murmured something unintelligible, and light glimmered around the small bottle before it flickered and blinked out. When the light disappeared, so did the vial.

Etienne blinked. “What the hell?”

The woman rose and tugged up his pants, but he shoved her hands away and finished the job, tucking his cock inside. All the while, his gaze never left her.

As soon as the snap of his jeans closed, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside the cabin and into full light. “What the hell just happened?”

Her gaze met his, her chin raised in defiance. “I sent your sperm ta my ship. We need ta know if you’re potent.”

“Ship?” His mind skipped over that detail for the moment to return to the one blaring a warning in his mind. “Why the hell do you need to know I’m not shooting blanks?”

“If you’re potent, Sire, I’m here ta take you home.”

Sire? “My home is here. I’m not going anywhere.” He raked his hand through his hair, still rattled at seeing his come disappear into thin air. Perhaps Uncle Jacques hadn’t been drunk after all.

“Sire, if you’re potent, you must return ta fulfill your destiny.”

“And what might that be?” he asked, half afraid to hear the answer.

Her wide-eyed gaze filled with dreamy fervor. “To assume the mantle of kingship and lead our forces in the war against the Gracktiles.”

He snorted, wondering what rabbit hole he’d just fallen into. “Is that all?”

She bit her bottom lip and shrugged. “Oh, and to beget the next generation of our ruling caste…”

Etienne eyed her clothing. A uniform of some sort, no doubt. He noted her poreless skin, her perfect features. Aliens weren’t little and green. They were seductively beautiful. And now they had his come. A flash of some emotion, maybe excitement mixed with a little dread, filled him. He hoped he wasn’t sterile.

Feel Good Song – Hold on Forever

Love the feel of this song. Always makes me feel dreamy. Rob Thomas’s voice has always done it for me. And doesn’t he look so much better than he did in his final scene on I, Zombie? Enjoy!

Flashback: Controlled Burn (Contest–Three Winners!)

What a treat to wake up this morning without wondering where I need to be or which kid I need to watch. Not that I don’t love them all, but it’s nice to be back in the saddle (er, in my padded executive chair in front of my desk). October will be busy, busy, busy! I hope I can keep up with the pace I’ve set for myself. If you see me out there tweeting or posting on Facebook, don’t be shy about nagging me to get my stories done! If you checked out yesterday’s post, you know what I’ll be working on. I shared covers for three different stories. Which story are you interested in reading the most?

Comment for a chance to win. There will be three winners!

One will win her choice of a Cowboys on the Edge story!

  

The other two will get their choice of a short story.

And if you haven’t read my shorties, check out the full list here!

Controlled Burn

This flame doesn’t need a match…

One high school prank gone wrong shouldn’t define the rest of Carly Lohan’s life. But setting fire to Caldera Canyon isn’t something townsfolk will ever forget. As the last part of her final act of restitution, she’s among the group of volunteers assigned to keep a prescribed burn of underbrush and grass from “running over the rim” into the ranches ringing the park.

Local rancher and volunteer firefighter Jeremiah McCord doesn’t trust the reformed firebug anywhere near the canyon’s controlled burn. Determined to keep her on a short rein, he’s everywhere she is, watching her. His distrust and determination sparks a plan for some sexy revenge—one that will get them both too close to the flames.

Get your copy here!

Carly wasn’t unaccustomed to hard work, but she’d never before used a pitchfork. The cowboy who’d set her on her task had called it a “shit fork”—before clearing his throat and explaining the implement was smaller than a regular pitchfork so that the balls of horse dung didn’t fall between the tines.

After mucking out the stalls, she’d forked a mini-mountain of horse manure and straw into the center of the barn. Now she was pitching load after load into the wheelbarrow so she could wheel it out and add it the larger mountain of dung behind the barn. Dung that was used in Mayra’s garden.

Before today, she’d never given much thought to horses, and she’d never had an aversion to the smell, but a day of forking poop had altered her view forever. Or so she told herself. She knew she must be a sight in her dirty jeans and tee. She’d forgotten to take off her gloves a time or two and used them wipe sweat from her face. Meaning she had to have some smeared on her cheek.

But she didn’t dare stop. Not and have the high-and-mighty Jeremiah shaking his head. The night before, he’d been so sure she’d balk at his list of chores. Little did he know, but she was used to hard work. Her foster families had made sure of it.

Still, she’d never mucked stalls, and the repetitive motions had tightened the muscles at the small of her back, and her upper arms until they felt bruised.  Pausing to stretch, she reached high, letting the hem of her shirt rise. The slight breeze blowing through the open barn doors wafted against her belly and felt almost luxurious.

“Looks like we’ll make a cowboy out of you yet.”

Carly dropped her arms and glanced over her shoulder. She’d missed Jeremiah at breakfast. Mayra told her he’d been up before dawn, as was his custom, to check on the herd. Carly hadn’t seen him since dinner the night before and dreaded their next encounter.

While her mind was made up to detest the man, her fickle body responded with a wave of heat that swept her cheeks and prickled her nipples. No man had a right to look that good when he was that dirty. “The cowboy who showed me how to muck out a stall asked me what I’d done to piss you off.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “And what did you say?”

“That I’d burned three hundred acres of hay and an expensive bailer. He said that’d do it.”

He gave his signature grunt.

Even though she’d told herself that morning she must have imagined its appeal, she still felt the pull deep in her core.

“You should take a break,” he said, his voice sounding gruff.

“Why? I’m not done.” Did he think she’d jump at the chance to not finish?

“The sun’s out, and the air’s warm in here, Carly. And it’s time for lunch. Someone else can finish up.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll have to bathe again.”

He came closer and picked a piece of straw from her hair. Then he rubbed her cheek.

An action that shocked her to her toes.

“I think you’ve picked up more than a little dirt,” he murmured.

Because she was nervous with him standing so close, she laughed. “I have shit on my face. You can say it.” She swept a hand toward his own dirty clothing. “I’ve been mucking stalls, what’s your excuse?”

A smile stretched across his face.

The first she’d ever seen. Her stomach flipped.

“I chased a calf into an arroyo. He got separated from his mama. Took some doing to get him up on the horse with me.”

“I’d have loved seeing that.” And she meant it. The thought of him chasing a calf on horseback—well hell, now she was romanticizing the surly cowboy.

One dark brow arched. “You would have loved seeing a calf getting the better of me?”

“Yeah.” Feeling breathless because he was still standing close, she had to remind herself he was only being polite. That he’d likely come to see whether she was still hard at work. She moved away to lean her fork against the barn wall. “I better go shower, or Mayra will light into me.”

“I better hit the shower, too.”

Walking away, Carly pursed her lips and blew out a hot stream of air. Him being civil was tough enough on her libido. Now she had the picture of a naked, wet Jeremiah in her head.

Not wanting to track manure through the house, she took off her boots at the door before entering and making her way up the stairs. She headed straight to the shower with its lovely shower head that poured water like a soft rain over her head and never grew cold no matter how long she stood beneath it.

But eventually, she acknowledged her hunger, turned off the water, and then reached for a big fluffy towel. At that moment, she realized she’d forgotten to bring along clean clothing.

No worries, Jeremiah had likely finished his shower long ago and was already digging into his meal. She opened the door and padded toward her bedroom.

Just as she was reaching for the knob, she saw another door open, just past the staircase.

Jeremiah stepped out into the hallway, his hair wet and looking cool and clean in his chambray shirt and Wranglers.

Before she could push open the door and jump inside, she watched his head turn.

His gaze trailed from her sodden hair, dripping on her shoulders to the towel she’d knotted between her breasts. “See you downstairs,” he said, his voice thick, and then he strode quickly to the staircase and out of her sight.

She opened her door, entered, and then sagged against the cool wood. Would she ever catch a break with the man? First, he’d rubbed horseshit off her face, and then he’d caught her looking like a drowned rat.

She must be the most unappealing woman he’d ever had the misfortune to have under his roof—even if only for a few days. For once, she wished she had something stylish in the closet to pull out and wow him with. Then maybe he’d see her as something other than some white-trash nuisance.

Although she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d deal with anything other than his annoyance and mistrust. Just the thought of him ever showing any masculine interest made her heart stutter and her palms sweat.

No, she was better off to never entertain those thoughts. Jeremiah was way out of her league, and too much history existed between them—all of it bad—to think that a little spark of attraction might catch fire.

A Personal Note, A Glance Back At September, & A Look Toward October

Dear Readers and Friends,

Thanks to everyone for your emails and Facebook messages sending prayers, blessings, and good wishes for the recovery of my 96-year-old grandmother who broke her back and the 7-year-old who went through a second surgery to replace her cancer-riddled tibia. Both are doing well. Grandma’s in rehab, but we hope to have her back home very soon. Colleen came home this afternoon. Both still have a long recovery ahead of them, and everyone at the Devlin homestead is hoping for a very calm and boring October.

I’m also hoping to get my many works-in-progress restarted. But have a look at what I did manage to get out the door in September, and what I hope to share in October.

A Glance Back At September

Before We Kiss

Uncharted SEALS, Book 6

Navy SEAL, William “Wiley” Coyote, should have known his “piece of cake” assignment would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz.

A general’s daughter, Poppy Shackleford, isn’t some spoiled daughter of a man made famous for defeating insurgent forces. She’s endured her own tragedies–the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, and the loss of her fiancé after he sustained wounds in Iraq. Not from the physical wounds that claimed his legs–he took his own life. His death is why Poppy is involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helps disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances. Which is why, despite the current threats against her father, she’s on this cruise, assessing the ship’s ability to accommodate the soldiers, rather than sending a surrogate.

However, the first threat doesn’t come from terrorists with an ax to grind. Mexican banditos stop her tour bus heading toward Mayan ruins to shake down the passengers for their money and belongings. When one snaps a picture of her, he soon figures out there’s a much bigger payday. She knows she’s going to be kidnapped, but she doesn’t know someone is on that same tour bus who has her back.

Wiley’s unconventional takedown of her would-be kidnappers exposes the fact her father didn’t honor her wishes to fly under the radar. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, Wiley’s moving into her suite for the rest of their time at sea to keep her out of harm’s way.

Get your copy at Amazon!

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Stepbrothers Stepping Out: With His Rock Band

When a social media star decides to surprise her rocker stepbrother while he’s on tour, she’s the one shocked…then seduced…by two sexy rock gods…

Get your copy at Amazon!

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A Look Toward October

I can’t wait to share these stories with you! Cross your fingers that no more catastrophes hit. You’ll see a sci-fi adventure, a lovely, warm-bodied zombie story, and a hot-as-hell Texas firefighter tale!