Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 488

Sneak Peek at Dragon’s Desire

If you missed the blog tours announcements on my HOME page, here’s where I’ll be today:

*  Guilty Indulgence

*  Delighted Reader

*  Black Hippie Chick’s View on Books and the World

Tons of prizes are at stake! If you’ve missed a few stops, be sure to circle back to all the links on the HOME page. No prizes have been awarded yet!

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I have so many irons in the fire right now. I won’t list them now. You’d be bored, and I’d start to feel panicked. So instead, I’ll share a little excerpt from something coming your way in August. It’s been ready for release for a while, but there hasn’t been a good time for me to upload, so I’ll wait a few weeks. Enjoy the excerpt. This is the only glimpse into the past. The rest of the book takes place in the present.

Dragon’s Desire

Ragged wisps of clouds crawled across the face of the full moon, lightening then darkening the barren precipice. Local villagers called it The Dragon’s Atoll. The bürgermeister had given him directions, told him when to begin the climb, warning him the atoll only existed during the full moon before it disappeared for another hundred years.

An hour earlier, the knight had climbed the rocky precipice and now hid behind a stone pillar, sword drawn. He listened to the soft sobs of the girl the villagers had chained to the pillar according to rules handed down for a millennium, or so the elders had said. She was their sacrifice, their gift to the winged demon to pacify its hunger and spare them its wrath.

The knight had silently scoffed at their fear. He didn’t believe in dragons or demons. At least, not mythical beasts. He’d seen enough in his travels to Palestine and back to know evil existed. True evil resided in the hearts of greedy, bloodthirsty men.

Still, the purse filled with gold the villagers offered him to slay the dragon and rid them of their curse convinced him to remain where he was.

“I shall die,” the girl whispered, “savaged by the beast.”

“You won’t die,” he whispered, casting her a sideways glance. “’Tis only a tale.”

“You weren’t raised on tales of the horror. Do you think they are only stories told to frighten children?” she said, her voice rising toward the end.

She was a comely thing with golden hair and gentle curves. He’d fought shock and disgust when the old men had cut her clothing from her body to leave her nude. The night was chilly and the sound of her teeth clacking as her body shivered had him reaching for his cape. If they were bound to wait together, she needn’t freeze.

Come morning, he’d lead her from the mountain and deliver her to her father, the bürgermeister who’d hired him, safe and sound. He stepped around the pillar and bent over to slip the cloak around her.

Instead, she shook her head. “You mustn’t.”

“You are cold.”

“I’ll not be the reason my village suffers.”

He sighed and dropped the cloak, trying not to let his gaze slide down her naked frame but failing. Her nipples were ruched, the tips drawn into tight buds on her round, firm mounds. “How were you so unlucky to be chosen?” he asked quietly, leaning his back against the gray granite rock so he looked out across the atoll rather than at her.

“A lottery of maidens is held. All our names are entered.”

His lips twitched and he shot her a glance. “And how do the villagers know you are truly virgin?”

A frown drew her pretty brows together. “The midwife examines all the women.”

“If you knew you risked this fate, why did you not lie with a man to render yourself unfit?”

“Because as awful as this fate is, ‘tis worse to cheat the dragon. Every family guards the virtue of their daughters to spare the village a terrible fate.” Her eyelids closed for a moment. When she opened them again, tears threatened to overflow the lower lids. “You shouldn’t be here. My father was wrong to try to end the curse.”

“You would sacrifice yourself willingly?”

“I have a younger brother, cousins, friends.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to see them harmed.”

“What exactly happens when this beast appears?”

She swallowed hard. “He devours the virgin.”

The knight grunted, disbelieving. Why did fairy tale monsters always seek a virgin’s flesh? “It’s likely only feral pigs or wolves you should fear.”

“No wolf or pig would devour a woman whole.”

“How do you know this?”

Her indrawn breath shook. “There is never bone nor blood, hair nor flesh remaining. The creature opens his mouth and swallows his offering in a single gulp.”

Compassion rose and he grasped her cold hand. “I will protect you, whether from dragon or pig. No harm shall come to you.”

“I wish I could believe your vow.” Her eyelids drifted closed.

A sound came from above them. At first, he thought the fluttering must be the wings of a large owl. As the flapping drew close, his heartbeat slowed and pounded louder, a steady thumping to match the beat of the large wings stirring the air.

“Hide!” she whispered, staring upward, her expression tightening with fear.

Body tensing, he ducked behind the pillar, tightened his grip on his sword, and searched the air above. Again, the clouds masked the moon, sending everything into pitch darkness.

A deep, resonant thud shook the ground as a large shadow settled onto the atoll.

The girl whimpered, and her chains rattled against stone. “No, no.”

The knight sprang from around the rock to stand in front of her, sword raised.

A loud, angry roar pierced the silence, hot breath gusting in the knight’s face. The clouds cleared and moonlight shone on a large elongated head, silvered the scales covering the creature he faced—a dragon indeed—with a wingspan that eclipsed the width of the atoll. Those wings flapped, producing gusts of wind so strong he was pushed back against the girl whose chilled body leaned into his as she sobbed. Sweet Mother Mary, his sword seemed a puny weapon against the great beast.

Another roar rent the air. The knight recovered from his shock and struck out with his sword arm, stabbing toward the creature’s chest. A tree-trunk thick limb batted it away with a clatter, and then another limb, fisted, slammed against his chest, toppling him to the side.

Breath whooshed out with the hard thud, and he landed on his back. Before he could regain his breath and think to roll away, a heavy foot pressed against his belly, holding him to the hard ground. For a moment, fear froze his mind.

With the knight helplessly restrained, the dragon turned his head to the girl. He sniffed the air around her. Its tongue flickered out and licked her breast, her belly, then flickered out again to stroke between her legs before retracting between jaws filled with ragged, gnashing teeth. Thrashing her head, the girl screamed and flattened herself against the pillar, but to no avail. The creature moved closer and lowered its head. She shut her eyes, but the dragon nuzzled her cheek. Her eyes opened to peek at the beast then widened. The pair stared for a long moment. Slowly, her body grew lax, her eyes vacant, and then she whimpered and craned her neck to rub a cheek against the dragon’s head.

If there were dragons, there must also be magic at work because the woman’s expression warmed, her eyelids dreamily drifted downward as her head fell back.

Again, the thick tongue struck out and licked her cheek, her neck, then trailed lower until it disappeared between her legs, which she willingly parted. Her body bowed, shuddering as the tongue pushed upward, disappearing as his large snout burrowed between her legs.

The knight shook his head, grabbed the hard-scaled leg, and tried to shove it away. He’d promised he’d save her. Like other promises he’d made, to children cowering under beds as crusaders pillaged their houses, he was helpless to halt what was happening.

But what was happening? No violence occurred, no rending of flesh, and from the way the woman moaned and undulated, she felt only pleasure.

The woman shuddered then gave a faint cry and slumped against the rock, held upright only by the iron manacles encircling her wrists.

The dragon snorted, retracted his tongue, then leaned away from the woman to gaze down at the knight.

The former Templar who’d rejected the pope’s edicts, who’d decried God for the horrors he’d witnessed and participated in, realized in that moment, he’d been wrong all along. Real devils walked this earth.

If he’d had breath, he’d have prayed for his soul, because he was sure he was about to meet his death.

However, the dragon trembled. The foot clamped to the knight’s belly lifted and fell away. In a slow move, the dragon curled inward and the scales began to fall like shards of glass to shatter into dust on the ground around him.

The knight froze, knowing he could reach for his sword, but curious now to understand what was happening to the creature, because the beast diminished in size. Wings flung upward then melted down into shoulders clothed in skin. The large crenellated head bowed between smooth shoulders, then reshaped.

At last, a man, naked as the woman hanging on the pillar, rested on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Turning his head slowly, he looked to the knight. “Are you harmed?”

Against a dry throat, the knight swallowed. “I am not.”

The man lurched upward, toward the woman. “We must remove her. Have you something to cover her body?”

“A cloak,” the knight said softly. “You do not mean her harm?”

“I required her virgin blood. But not her death.” He flung out an arm, pointing toward the sword lying on the ground. “You’ve a sword. I am defenseless. Do you mean to kill me?”

“Is that what you wish?” he asked, surprised. The creature could have killed him in his former form, and yet now, seemed defeated.

“If it means that I will never cause another fear, then yes, it is what I wish.”

“The woman showed no fear once you…licked her.”

“She saw me as I am now. Not the beast. It was just a bit of magic to soothe her.”

The knight climbed slowly to his feet and gazed down at the man, fully human so far as he could tell. “Are you man or demon?”

“I am cursed,” the man ground out, lips curving downward in disgust.

The knight, who had weathered horrific battles, felt a pang of recognition for the guilt shining in the other man’s eyes. Something in the tenor of the dragon-man’s voice touched his heart. Instead of bending to retrieve his sword, he reached down his hand—not to slay the dragon, but to help him to his feet.

Guest Blogger: Lynda Kaye Frazier

A Quick Note: The She Shifters Blog Tour and Fournicopia Blog Blitz continue!

Up for grab are a ton of great prizes. Be sure to hit Megan Slayer’s blog

and Seductive Musing today for yet more chances to win! ~DD

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What Robs You of Your Time to Write

My intentions to stay on track are great or that’s what I like to tell myself. Time management is a balance. A precise schedule that holds everything together. But there are days when no matter what I did nothing worked out and these days would run into weeks. I had to find out what was robbing me of my time so I made a list.

What took up time in my day.

Work, eating, cleaning, feeding animals, laundry, e-mail, blogs and sleep. By the time I got home, cleaned up, ate and worked on e-mails I was exhausted. In my head I had hours during the day to write. Why wasn’t it working out in my real life?

I found an article and it talked about writing out a time log. Spend a few days and jot down everything you do.  It worked out great and showed me how I was wasting so much time.  So I decided to share.

Preparing and writing your time log

You don’t need to keep writing a time log permanently. It is sufficient to do it for 3-7 days.  When you write a time log, make sure you don’t miss even the minor activities. Don’t let your time wasters hide there. Take a sheet of paper and divide it into columns listed below.

Time
Activities
Scheduled
Interrupted
Urgent
People (involved)

Then continue with activities you would normally do that day. On the way, update your time log. Do it either every time you switch to a new activity or at some short time intervals, like 10-20 minutes. Add entries to your “Time” and “Activities” column, and try to put marks like “Yes” or “No” in the “Scheduled”, “Interrupted”, and “Urgent” columns. Where relevant, make short notes on what people you spend time with too.

When you have your time log written, you can move to the most important part, the analysis. Review your records and try to get answers to the following questions.

What percentage of your time is spent in each of the      different areas of your life? How is it divided between Work, Business,      Family, Recreational, writing?
What percentage of your activities are important?
Are urgent?
What people you spend more time with?
What percentage of your activities go as planned?
What are main interruptions?

Then think of possible adjustments and action steps. For example:

Are there any activities you can cut back on?
Is there anything you can delegate or simplify?
Can you save time by grouping related tasks, like      shopping?

Once you see everything you do on paper it will amaze you on how you can add a little more time to your writing.

My time is better spent now on getting my book ready for its release.

  Rescued from the Dark

Set to be released end of 2012

Published through Black Opal Books

What if you woke up from a nightmare, trapped in a world of darkness, with no memory of how you got there? Rescued from the Dark is a passionate, gripping story about FBI agent, Jason Michaels, confronting his duty to his country, and struggling with his feelings for a woman with no memory of their love.

Undercover Agent, Jason Michaels, infiltrates the terrorist cell and risks everything, even his life, to save the FBI intern who stole his heart, then walked away. Once Mercy wakes from her coma Jason struggles with the fact that she does not remember what happened, but anguishes with the idea that she believes their unborn child belongs to her ex. Jason soon realizes the terrorists vow to get her back to claim their secrets locked in her memory, no matter what the cost.In a race against time, Jason and Mercy struggle to fight their attraction, and put their differences aside, as they launch a manhunt to save their country and each other.

  Lynda Kaye Frazier

http://lyndafrazier.blogspot.com

www.lyndakayefrazier.com

Facebook- Lynda Kaye Frazier- Author

Twitter- lynda_kaye

Writing is my passion, Reading is my Love

Guest Blogger: Teresa Noelle Roberts

Fox’s Folly is a first in a couple of ways. It’s my first male-male book, though I’ve written a few m/m short stories, including one that was published as standalone ebook. It’s my first prequel. It’s the prequel Foxes’ Den (Duals and Donovans: the Different 2), which is why, though Fox’s Folly is a Duals and Donovans book, it doesn’t have a series number. And it’s the first book an editor specifically sparked me to write.

At the time my Samhain editor, the fabulous Linda Ingmanson, accepted Foxes’ Den, which is a menage involving a married male couple—witch Paul and fox shape-shifter Tag—and the kitsune they both come to love, she said she’d love to see a book about how Paul and Tag met. At the time, I wasn’t sure how they’d met, only that it had involved some element of danger and, given Tag’s character and his connection to the god Trickster, probably some element of oddness. I let the idea stew in the back of my mind for a while and then it came to me. Las Vegas! They meet in Las Vegas, where they’re both fish out of water. Donovan witches are very connected to nature and not very connected to the more materialistic aspects of mainstream human culture. Duals (my take on shape-shifters) simply don’t like cities, where their animalsides feel confined and they’re more likely to have trouble from the repressive Agency. But what if Paul and Tag had to be in Las Vegas for some good reason? Say, to catch a magical serial killer?

And so the book was born.

PS: Stop by my blog, http://www.teresanoelleroberts.com, and leave a comment on the CONTEST! Win a Copy of Fox’s Folly for—you guessed it—a chance to win a copy of the book.

What happens in Vegas lasts forever…if you’re lucky.

A Duals and Donavans story

Las Vegas is the wrong place for an inexperienced witch like Paul Donavan. But he has no choice; his family owes a debt of honor to a half-fae casino owner, whose guests have been dying under mysterious circumstances. The normy police haven’t connected the dots between the deaths, and the owner has called in his marker.

When Paul literally runs into fox dual Taggart Ross, the instant, powerful attraction between them bristles with red flags. Not only should there be no sparks between him and this “hillbilly with a tail,” the fact is a dual couldn’t have committed murder-by-magic. But until he’s got proof, caution rules.

Tag’s own suspicions are on high alert. Magic killed his favorite uncle, and Paul, who senses Tag’s dual nature way too easily, should be a prime suspect. Except Tag’s libido responds to the witch in a way that shouldn’t happen.

Whatever this thing is between them, the raw sexual energy feeds a power that becomes their best hope of drawing out the killer before he, she, or it strikes again. Until love gets involved, and things get real complicated, real fast…

“I think we’re here for the same reason. Does the name Randolph-Macon McNeil mean anything to you?”

“One of the five people who’ve died under mysterious circumstances lately at the Excalibur. Sixty-two, professional gambler, fox dual…” He spoke dispassionately, as if reciting facts from a report. Then he paused, and a look of horror crossed his face “Was he family, Tag? I’m so sorry…”

“My uncle. I’m here to find out who the fuck killed him and take him down hard.”

“No, you won’t. We will.” Paul’s voice was soft and professorial, but something in his tone made the words ring in the air with the force of an oath before the gods.

“Really? Do you mean that?” Tag tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but that wasn’t the fox way. He was tough, tougher than most, but he’d loved his uncle.

And he hated to admit it, but he needed all the help he could get. He’d gotten into this figuring he’d find the killer and then call in reinforcements, but if Uncle Randolph was the fifth victim, and a fae had asked for help dealing with it, Tag needed magic, not just muscle. “Really?” he repeated, feebly aware he should be saying something wittier but unable to make his brain work at proper speed.

“Really. I got drafted to do this. For you, it’s personal. Hearth, heart and home fuel magic. We’ll be stronger together than we are alone. And you look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

The next thing Tag knew, Paul’s arms were around him.

Damn, Paul could kiss, and his hands, even when they weren’t touching anywhere Tag would normally consider an erogenous zone, sent heat through Tag’s body. Maybe it was magic, or maybe the guy was just that talented. At this point, Tag didn’t care. All he really cared about was seeing how long they could go without thinking about dead people and just focusing on sex, or at least the yummy preliminaries to sex.

Tag was fumbling with the buttons on Paul’s dress shirt—too formal by comparison to what everyone else seemed to wear in Las Vegas, almost silky under his hands although it was cotton—when someone knocked at the door. “Housekeeping always shows up at the worst times,” Paul muttered before throwing himself into kissing Tag so thoroughly that Tag forgot not only the persistent knock on the door but the day of the week and the reason he was in Las Vegas. He was working up to forgetting his name when the door opened, and a man walked into the room.

Guest Blogger: Ann Jacobs

About men—my favorite characters in erotic romance

There’s erotic romance written for women about men, and erotica written with an eye toward attracting male readers.

What’s the difference? Somebody asked this question on a list recently and I had to think seriously about the answer.

I’ve given it a lot of thought and come up with an answer based on the fact that I write a good many of my erotic romances with male protagonists. These heroes drive the external story lines—that is, the plot is driven by what they want, why they want it and what is preventing them from reaching their original goals. In many of my books, much of the story is shown from the hero’s point of view rather than the heroine’s, even when the heroine is the protagonist.

So why don’t the hero-driven books I write fit the requirements of a line called “Erotica for Men?” One would think on the surface that male readers would gravitate toward my hero-driven books , but this isn’t necessarily true.

Why, you ask?

Because, when I write a hero-driven book, I create his character with the idea of luring my female readers to fall in love with him, and this doesn’t necessarily mean male readers will identify with this man who’s more a woman’s ideal of what her lover should be than a man’s thought about what he sees or wants to see in himself.

In contrast with erotica written for male readers, my heroes tend to be more understanding of their lovers’ emotional ups and downs. They behave, in other words, the way most women readers would like their fantasy men to act—not the way their real-life lovers likely do.

In a nutshell, erotic romance/erotica written for male readers presents male characters as men see themselves, female characters as men fantasize them to be. Books written to appeal to female readers are just the opposite—heroes the readers would love to find but don’t expect and heroines they can identify with.

That’s my take on the subject. What do you think? Like and post on my Facebook page and you may win a download of your choice of my seventy-some-odd ebooks.

Ann Jacobs

http://annjacobs.net

Like me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AnnJacobsAuthor

Follow me on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/authrannjacobs

LOVERS’ FEUD, book 1 of my Caden Kink series, new this month from Ellora’s Cave

A Question…

The winner of yesterday’s One-Day-Only Contest for a free download of any Lone Star Lovers story is…Jennifer! Jennifer, be sure to email me with your choice of story!

Since I didn’t accomplish a whole lot last week, I’m skipping my Sunday Report Card. Too depressing!!! Instead, I’ll offer you a question…

If you could become fully enlightened instantly on any one subject,

which subject would you choose? Think Neo entering The Matrix .

What “plug-in” app would give you the most satisfaction?

Snippet Saturday: We are Family (Contest)

I’m on my way this morning with my sister, Myla Jackson, to attend the Diamond State Romance Authors meeting. Another kind of family meeting from the one you’ll read below! The Logans lives change from this pivotal moment when they come to a decision as a group. Has your family ever had one of those “pivotal” moments?

Post a comment today and win a free download of your choice of Lone Star Lovers stories!

“A FOUR-GONE CONCLUSION is a prime example on how a novella should be written; fast and fun, touching characters that pull you in and a story that is completely fulfilling.”
~ 4.5 Cherries, Long and Short Reviews

One devilish night…or a chance at heaven?

Sam Logan’s foster sons have a bad rep in Two Mule, Texas. Most of it earned. When it becomes clear they don’t plan on giving up scootin’ after ever pretty pair of boots in town anytime soon, he issues the one thing he knows they can’t resist: a challenge. Find a wife.

The oldest, Johnny, is actually grateful. He’s had his eye on Mean Ellie Harker for a long time, and Sam’s challenge is the kick in the pants he needed to ask her out. Except before he can make his move, his brothers kidnap her right out from under his nose. Now, instead of being one question away from victory, he has to compete for the woman of his dreams.

Ellie thought she’d be a dried up old spinster before Johnny finally untangled his tongue long enough to ask for a date. But instead of teaching him better uses for that tongue, his brothers have whisked her away to the ranch. At first she’s furious…then intrigued when she starts to wonder what it might be like…

Warning: Four handsome cowboys. Four choices. Would it be a single sordid night or a chance at heaven as she savors every luscious inch of the Logan brothers?

“It’s time you boys found yerselves a wife.” Sam Logan made his pronouncement then waited, watching the four younger men seated at the table from the corner of his eye. He didn’t have to wait long for his words to sink in. They exploded in the room with the force of a silent grenade.

Johnny’s jaw closed with a snap, and he laid his spoon down on the scarred oak table. His black winged brows drew together, nearly meeting over his dark eyes as he raised his head.

Sam suppressed a smile. That look could make the toughest hombre gulp, but Sam wasn’t the least bit concerned. Johnny tended to look mean when things changed. His oldest boy hated any kind of change.

If any other man had said what he had, Johnny would have cussed under his breath and aimed a piercing, silencing glare. However, he respected Sam, trusted him as much as he could anyone. That trust and respect were the only things that kept his butt on the bench beside his brother Killian.

For his part, Killian’s eyes narrowed. The corners of his lips twitched. Likely he was amused by Johnny’s reaction and didn’t want to let him off the hook too quickly, but was already lining up all the reasons why Sam’s idea was ludicrous. He was quick that way.

Sam calmly ladled the hearty stew he’d made into his mouth and let his gaze roam to the twins. Jason was coughing into his napkin while Mace gave him “helpful” taps between his shoulder blades.

Mace caught his stare and grinned. “A wife, did you say?”

Sam grunted, ignoring the one word that had caught his son’s attention. “This is the third time this week we’ve had stew,” he murmured. Not to change the subject, but to point out a glaring fact.

“I like stew just fine,” Johnny muttered.

“This house misses a woman’s touch.” There, he’d said it. Sat the big gorilla in the room right at the dinner table. Impossible to ignore.

“Gracie can’t be replaced,” Killian said softly.

The permanent ache next to his heart echoed that truth. Sam nodded. “She’s gone. Three years. I miss her every day. Know you do too. But life goes on. You’re men now. You have an obligation. Ranchin’s a family business. Y’all need families.”

Johnny cleared his throat. “No disrespect intended, Sam, but you didn’t get sons the old-fashioned way.”

“Not because Gracie and I didn’t try. And in the end, we had no regrets. We both loved you all like you was our own.”

“So, you’d rather saddle us with—”

Sam aimed a quelling stare. “Think I felt like Gracie was a noose around my neck?”

“No sir, but…” Johnny’s hands fisted on the tabletop. “Hell, how’re we to find someone like her?”

Sam understood what he meant. Gracie’s passing had left a hole in all their hearts. The boys had loved her. Took to her the very first day he’d brought each of them home. Gracie had been born to be a mother, and she’d showered them all with the things they’d needed most—acceptance and unconditional love.

“Boys, Gracie wasn’t born a rancher’s wife. Truth is, she didn’t know a bull from a cow and damn near poisoned me with the first meals she cooked. But she learned. Find a woman willin’ to learn, one you kin love and who’ll love you back.”

“You said, ‘a wife’.” Mace wasn’t gonna let that slip of the tongue go.

Sam shook his head and gave the twins a faint glimmer of a smile. Those two could always see the humor in any predicament. “Thought I’d give you two options. I know one can’t piss without the other goin’ too. And there are damn few single women to go around these parts. ’Nough said?” When all of them nodded, he cleared his throat. “I’ll be out of town for the next four days. Auction in Abilene. The house is yours.”

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Be sure to check out the snippets on these other authors’ blogs:

Megan Hart:Read in bed!

Leah Braemel

Jody Wallace

Eliza Gayle

Mandy M Roth

Lissa Matthews

Mari Carr

McKenna Jeffries

Myla Jackson

Taige Crenshaw

Shiloh Walker

HelenKay Dimon

Lauren Dane

TJ Michaels

Guest Blogger: Sidney Bristol (Contest)

The Four Year Rule

Hello! And thanks to Delilah for hosting me today!

Excuse my excessive use of exclamation points today, my book just came out this morning and I’m pretty excited. I mean, I know as an author I’m going to be excited about every book, but this is my first book in my first series, and it’s about something I really love.

Tattoos.

I know, looking at me you’d never guess I like a little ink, would you? I knew at a young age, probably around fourteen, that I wanted tattoos. Thankfully I did not share this almost certain knowledge with my parents. They’re still reeling from a very recent revelation that I have tattoos. And by recent, I mean they found out about a month ago, and I’ve had them since I was twenty-one.

There’s something about tattoos, the expression of art and personality on one’s very skin that’s always fascinated me. I knew from an early age what I wanted my first tattoo to be, but at about sixteen, I recognized that I was young and stupid and prone to making rash decisions. Somewhere in that time period I came up with a rule.

The rule.

The four year rule.

It’s simple really. I have to want a tattoo for four years before I get it. My reasoning has always been that if I can settle on an image for four years with only minor tweaking, it must be something I really want and will be happy with in the long run. A big part of this is also getting an artist who can not only execute what I want but also bring it to live on the skin.

To date I’ve gotten five (or seven depending on who you ask) tattoos. With the exception of one, the four year rule has held steady. The one that was not planned in detail was planned in spirit. I don’t suggest people get matching tattoos or names typically, but my brother and I did get matching tattoos located on our under arm. A very sensitive place!

So what tattoos do I have? I have what’s called a backpiece, one big tattoo that stretches from my hips to my shoulders. A half-sleeve, which is a single tattoo that goes from my shoulder to just above my elbow. My sibling tattoo that’s about the size of my palm. In the picture above you can see my two pair of tattoos. I have Hebrew on each shoulder, and in the hollow on each shoulder I have half of the claddagh. Each tattoo means something. I’m a fan of doing tattoos that mean something or tell a story. It’s always fun to be approached by a complete stranger interested in the stories on my skin. I guess in a way, ink was the first medium in which I published a book.

I have quite a few in the works for the future. I want to get my left half-sleeve done, and a smattering of smaller tattoos, only two of which have met the required four year rule. So who knows, maybe next year I’ll be sporting some new ink?

So what about you? Do you have tattoos? Do you like them? Do you want them?

Tell me about your tattoo dreams! One commenter will win an ebook copy of my book, Under His Skin.

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Sidney Bristol

It can never be said that Sidney Bristol has had a ‘normal’ life.  She is a recovering roller derby queen, former missionary, and tattoo addict. She grew up in a motor-home on the US highways (with an occasional jaunt into Canada and Mexico), traveling the rodeo circuit with her parents. Sidney has lived abroad in both Russia and Thailand, working with children and teenagers. She now lives in Texas where she splits her time between a job she loves, writing, reading and belly dancing.

Website *~* Twitter *~* Facebook

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Under His Skin, So Inked #1, Pricked Series   Ellora’s Cave | Barnes and Noble | Amazon

A woman who doesn’t believe she deserves love…

Toe-curling kisses and enough sex to fill a weekend were all Pandora wanted from a fling with her teenage crush. She’s never forgotten how he played the knight in shining armor to her damsel in distress. She’s ready to say thank you in several naughty ways, so long as she can walk away when it’s over with her heart intact.

A man moving on from tragedy…

Brian has no intention of allowing the feisty tattoo artist to leave him after one taste. He hasn’t had enough of her inked curves. The packaging might have changed, but Pandy is the woman he hasn’t been able to excise from his memory. He’s ready to put together a new life, one that includes her. But he’s not the only one vying for her attention. Someone else wants her, dead or alive.

Pandora swirled the glass of Tuaca and downed it in three gulps. The smooth brandy slid down her throat and sent warm fuzzies coursing through her body. She couldn’t get drunk fast enough.

“Hey.”

A weight settled against her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut, chanting, No, no, no!

“Why aren’t you up there getting ready for the awards?”

She turned on the stool, keeping one hand on the bar for balance. She should never have allowed the girls to dress her up in the first place. The red wiggle dress fit her like a second skin, and the underwear served only to annoy her. She’d never understood garters.

At least focusing on that distracted her from what Robert had done this time.

“We were

disqualified,” she said, slurring her words only slightly.

Brian’s jaw dropped. If she had the coordination, it would have been the perfect opportunity to kiss him, but she didn’t trust herself leaning that far forward.

“What? How?”

“I drew the tattoo on you. I didn’t make a stencil first.”

“That’s bullshit.” The way his eyes flashed and arms flexed as he clenched his hands into fists made her a little hot. Then again, there wasn’t anything about Brian that didn’t turn her on. What would her ex-fiancé think if she told him it had been Brian she thought of when they’d had sex?

“Yup. I said that too. The rules are written all vague and shit. Robert and the West Coast Shop assholes pressured the organizers. All of us who drew instead of tracing are disqualified.” If she was able to string that many words together and slur only a little, she wasn’t drunk enough. Turning to the bar, she signaled the bartender for another.

Brian wedged himself between her stool and the next. “There’s got to be someone you can complain to.”

As she reached for her new glass, Brian picked it up first and sniffed.

“That’s mine.” She made a wild grab for the glass.

He caught her wrist, making a shackle of his fingers. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Have not.” Releasing her hold on the bar, she made another attempt to snag the brandy.

Brian lifted the liquor out of her reach and forced her other arm up while trying to grab her flailing appendage with his fingers. She pitched forward, sliding off the barstool. Her heel fell off the rung and her skirt trapped her legs. Stumbling forward, she winced, already seeing herself sprawled across the floor. Instead, she planted her face directly into Brian’s chest. He wrapped his arm around her waist, squeezing her against his untattooed side.

She wasn’t drunk enough not to want to wither and die from mortification. Placing her hands against his shoulders, she shoved. But she might as well have been pushing a brick wall for all the good it did her. Brian pivoted, putting the bar to her back, and leaned against her. She could feel his hips and the bulge of something else.

“Let go of me,” she growled.

He turned his face away and downed her drink.

“Hey, that was mine.”

Setting the glass on the bar, he wrapped both arms around her. Though she’d been up close and personal with him the day before, that had been in a professional situation. Without alcohol. Slightly inebriated and plastered against his lean chest was a new experience. The urge to lift her chin and kiss his jaw, suck his lips and thrust her tongue into his mouth was strong. She hadn’t been able to put the fantasy of him to rest, but neither could she bring herself to close those final few inches and make it a reality.

Over his shoulder, she glimpsed Butch take the stage, microphone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to announce the winners.”

Ducking her face, she pressed it to his shoulder. Her back ached from spending yesterday hunched over Brian’s tattoo. She had a tension headache, and now her stomach rolled from the brandy.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she muttered into his t-shirt.

He said something she didn’t hear and took her hand. As Butch began acquainting the audience with one of the smaller contests, Brian led her through the press of people crammed into the ballroom. Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, she didn’t question why she was following him. It was nice not to have to sit at the bar by herself. She hadn’t yet been able to face the other girls after her public disqualification. Escaping with Brian was preferable to the alternative.

Exiting from the ballroom-turned-bar, she sucked in a deep breath and squinted in the bright lights of the lobby. Brian kept a firm grasp on her hand, leading her across the foyer to a comfortable nook with contemporary leather lounge seating built against the walls. He pushed her down onto the edge of one of the couches and hovered.

Pandora cradled her face in her hands, her elbows two painful points digging into her knees.

“Can I get you anything?”

“A beer? I’m not drunk yet.”

“I think you are. How about some water?”

“This is tipsy, not drunk.”

Where the ballroom had become stifling with the press of bodies and the pulsing music, the foyer was cool and the music at least muted. She wanted to drink away today, but it would require a greater amount of alcohol than she’d consumed to do more than make her a little loose.

Her gaze focused on Brian’s worn Converse, the way each shoe sported twin worn spots behind the rubber toe where the shoe would crease when he knelt.

“Hey.” The shoes creased and his right knee hit the ground.

Sighing, she straightened and pushed her hair over her shoulder. She’d curled it for nothing. “I’m fine. A little dramatic, but I’ll be okay.”

“Pandora, Pandora, fly away home.”

She whipped her head around and glared at Robert, flanked by her former coworker Juan and a man she didn’t recognize. He had his thumbs hooked into his belt and glared at Brian. She hated how often Robert said her name.

“Fuck off, Robert.” Her voice lacked the heat, the fiery quality of her hatred for him. It took effort to be that mad, and she was beaten down enough not to care.

“Slumming for a new boyfriend, Pandora?”

Her blood boiled. Shoving to her feet, she took two steps toward Robert, jabbing her finger at him. “What? Or go back to being with you? No thank you.”

“Hey.” Brian stepped in front of her, blocking her view. “Back off.”

She peeked over Brian’s shoulders. Robert’s face had transformed from his typical, cocky grin to full-on crazy. His eyes glinted, the pupils larger, his nostrils flared and color high in his cheeks. All he needed was a vein popping out of his forehead to complete the picture. She’d seen him like this before, and he’d demolished a Vespa because it was in the spot where he usually parked.

“Or what?” he said in a low voice that had goose bumps breaking out down her arms.

Looping an arm around Brian’s chest, she pulled him back. She didn’t know what Robert would do, but he was crazy and getting into it with him was not how she wanted to spend the night.

“Let’s just go, please?” She pressed her front to his back, her hand splayed over his stomach. She wasn’t tipsy anymore.

He flattened his hand over hers, rubbing his fingers across her knuckles.

Robert turned his head to acknowledge someone calling his name. Pandora took advantage of the distraction to grab Brian’s hand and lead him to the bank of elevators. She pressed the button and allowed him to push her into the first available lift. She tottered to the far wall, grabbed hold of the bar mounted at hip height and faced the glass. She liked to watch the ground drop away suddenly, as if she were flying. At the first pull of gravity as the elevator rose, her stomach rolled and protested.

“You okay?”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded. “Yeah.”

Leaning back, her back hit his chest. Brian paused and she thought he would step away from her, but he wrapped his arms around her waist. Allowing her eyes to shut intensified the disorientation, but Brian steadied her.

“You can’t antagonize him like that.”

His breath was warm against her neck. “You did.”

“Yeah, well I almost married him. For some reason I get away with fighting with him. I think he likes it. But you? I think he would go berserk.” She knew he would. Though she hadn’t seen it happen to a person, Robert was one small step away from making that leap.

“You were going to marry him?” The disbelieving growl surprised her.

She looked over her shoulder, wanting to soothe her hero. “I was in a bad place the last year I worked for him. I’m not proud of who I was then, and I regret every second I was engaged to that deranged, self-centered dipshit.”

His features relaxed and he leaned against her. Their breath mingled, scented with vanilla and brandy. She could kiss him right now. He squeezed her hip and circled her waist with his other arm to splay his hand over her stomach. The press of gravity lessened as the lift slowed to a stop.

“Where are we going?”

She shrugged. “I already checked out of my room.”

“This is my floor. Come on. I can get you some water.”

They walked hand in hand down the hall, with its pretentious gold-plated sconces and busy patterned carpet. They could be any couple returning to their room together for the night. Brian led her into one of the rooms not far from the elevator, swiped his card and pushed her in ahead of him. The darkness swathing the room was comforting, easier on her eyes. Even when he flipped the lights on, bathing the room in a muted glow, it was better than the harsh glare downstairs. Besides a suitcase sitting on the desk, there wasn’t any evidence he was staying in the room.

“How you feeling?”

She turned to face him. It was like being eighteen again and going back into the piercing room to make out with him, only this time it was actually Brian. As if to remind her it wasn’t a dream, his hand brushed her arm.

Flinching away from the touch, she headed for the armchair next to the window and sank down in it. The curtains blocked out all but two lines of light at the top and bottom. Closing her eyes, she tried not to listen to the rasp of his jeans as Brian walked across the room, following the path she’d taken but much slower. She could hear his breathing and smell the cologne that had rubbed off on her skin the day before. Dropping her head back against the chair, she dug her fingers into the armrest to give them something to do.

Brian was not Robert. He wasn’t like the guy kicked out of his band. He wouldn’t hurt her, at least not physically. But neither was he the kind of guy that dated a girl like her.

Large hands grasped her knees, his thumbs swiping over the fishnets that were already slicing into her toes.

“Hey.”

The gentle word might as well have been a command. Prying one eye open, she looked at him kneeling in front of her.

He appeared serious and stark without the long hair. He’d aged, and not in a bad way. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit.” She massaged her temples.

“Want some water? Something for a headache?”

“All of the above?”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “You got it.”

He left for a few moments, then came back with a glass and a package of pain relievers.

“Thanks.” She downed both, folding her hands around the glass. She held it in her lap and stared at it to keep from looking at him. “I should go back downstairs. The girls will be looking for me.” She pushed to the edge of the seat until her knees bumped his chest.

He put a hand on her thigh. She could feel the pressure from each individual finger through the sateen skirt. “Do you think Robert’s going to give you a hard time again? You don’t have to go. You can stay here for a bit.”

Lifting her gaze to his face, she searched him for some sign, some intangible something she couldn’t name. One side of her mouth hitched up and she put a hand against his arm. The muscles tensed under her fingertips. He might be scarred, but he was a strong, virile man. “Was this your plan? Get me up here and see where it goes?”

“What?” He snatched his hand back and she missed the reassuring weight of him immediately. “That’s not what this is about.”

“I’m kidding. Bad joke.” She squeezed her temples with her fingers.

He shook his head, the scowl still firmly in place. “Fuck. If I could go back and erase what happened to you, I would.” He leaned forward, planting his hands on the armrests and invading her space. “I wish I could, because I want to kiss you, but I feel like trash for something I didn’t even do. If that’s not screwed up, I don’t know what is.”

Her heart kicked into double time. A spike of adrenaline overrode the pain between her ears.

She sat up a little straighter. Licking her lips, she whispered, “So kiss me already.”

His face hovered near enough she could see the every eyelash ringing his eyes, the thin scar on his brow and his chipped front tooth. “The problem is, I don’t want to stop with kissing you. But you’re drunk.”

She laughed and draped an arm over his shoulder. “Not really. I had a buzz, but it’s gone.”

New Call for Submissions: Sex Objects (super alpha stories!)

Please pass this along to all your writer friends out there! ~DD

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Sex Objects: Hot He-Man Erotic Romance for Women

Editor: Delilah Devlin

Publisher: Cleis Press in Fall 2013

Deadline: October 1, 2012 (although sooner is better!)

SEX OBJECTS: HOT HE-MAN EROTIC ROMANCE FOR WOMEN is open to all authors.

Editor Delilah Devlin is looking for hetero “super alpha” stories for a romantic erotica anthology tentatively entitled: SEX OBJECTS: HOT HE-MAN EROTIC ROMANCE FOR WOMEN.

What is it about heroes like Superman, Iron Man or Thor that revs our engines like no other? Is it the suit? The manly physique? Or is it the courage they display, wading in where others fear to go, to save the damsel, the city, the Earth?

Are there real-life heroes who inspire the same lustful fascination? Kickass iconic heroes who enter danger zones in the name of duty, honor, country—or maybe love—who conjure images of hard, chiseled bodies, deadly glares and camouflaged features?

Sex Objects will seek stories that satisfy the reader who craves the romantic idea of that “super alpha” man. The stories will be contemporary. While traditional themes are likely to be featured, writers are encouraged to imagine greater in order to create tales that, while featuring this iconic hero, may also surprise.

Imagine the Navy SEAL sent on a suicide mission; the damaged Army Ranger home from war; the para rescue team member jumping into frigid waters; a SWAT team member entering a human trafficker’s den… These “super alpha” heroes can be military members and based in far-flung places around the world or the smoke-jumper living next door. Then imagine the romantic possibilities of being held against that massively muscled chest by a man whose mission is to protect and serve…

Published authors with an established “super alpha” world may use that setting for their original short story.

The stories may be as kinky or vanilla as the writer wants—but a deep sensuality should linger in every word. Exotic locations and scenarios are welcome. Keep in mind there must be a romantic element with a happy-for-now or happy-ever-after ending. Strong plots, engaging characters and unique twists are the ultimate goal. Please no reprints. We are seeking original stories.

How to submit: Prepare your 1,500 to 4,500 words story in a double-spaced, Arial, 12 point, black font document with pages numbered (.doc, NOT.docx) OR rich text format. Indent the first line of each paragraph half an inch and double space (regular double spacing, do not add extra lines between paragraphs or do any other irregular spacing). US grammar (double quotation marks around dialogue, etc.) is required.

In your document at the top left of the page, include your legal name (and pseudonym if applicable), mailing address, and 50 words or less bio in the third person to sexobjectsmanlyerotica@gmail.com. If you are using a pseudonym, please provide your real name and pseudonym and make it clear which one you’d like to be credited as. Authors may submit up to 2 stories. Delilah will respond in January 2013. The publisher has final approval over the stories included in the manuscript.

Payment will be $50.00 USD and two copies of the published book upon publication.

About the editor: Ms. Devlin has published over a hundred erotic stories in multiple genres and lengths. Her published print titles include Into the Darkness, Seduced by Darkness, Darkness Burning, Darkness Captured, Down in Texas, Texas Men, Ravished by a Viking, and Enslaved by a Viking. Her short stories are featured in Zane’s Purple Panties, and Cleis Press’s Lesbian Cowboys, Girl Crush, Fairy Tale Lust, Lesbian Lust, Passion, Carnal Machines, Dream Lovers, Lesbian Cops, Best Erotic Romance, and Girl Fever. She is published by Atria/Strebor, Avon, Berkley, Black Lace, Ellora’s Cave, Harlequin, Kensington, Mischief, Running Press and Samhain Publishing. In Fall 2011, she debuted her first anthology with Cleis Press, Girls Who Bite. In 2012, Cleis Press releases She Shifters and Cowboy Lust.

Direct any questions you have regarding your story or the submission process to Delilah at sexobjectsmanlyerotica@gmail.com.

Brand New Contest…and a Question!

Sorry I wasn’t here yesterday. I’ve been under the weather with a mother of a headache. But I’m back now!

The winners (by random number generator) of The Pretty Pendant Contest are…Karen Roma and Mary Preston! Congratulations, ladies! Be sure to hit the link and choose a pendant. Then send me your choice and your mailing address so I can get your prizes mailed!

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The Fugly Bottle Contest

What can you win?

This bottle is so hideous I almost hate giving it away! I have a thing for oddities, and all my friends know it. So when this one popped up in her consignment shop, Christi knew just who would want it!

It’s from Bolivia, is a real bottle with a cork stopper, and has real cowhide around the back. I imagine it’s the face of a Chupacabra. Don’t you just have to have it for your very own? Or doesn’t your mother-in-law need this resting on her mantle?

How can you win it?

Post a comment on any blog posting until the contest ends. Each entry counts as another chance to win!

This contest ends July 31st!

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The Question

Have you ever “drunk-dialed” or “butt-dialed” someone and said

something you wished you could take back?

Guest Blogger: Sabrina York

What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing On A Bookshelf Like This?

Wow. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that line.

And usually from my own mouth. To myself.

Yes, I admit it, I talk to myself.

As an erotica author in an ultra-conservative world—living as it were, a double life—you can see why I might turn to myself for companionship. Why I might occasionally wonder—why erotica?

The fact of the matter is, I love it. And not just because I get to think about sex all day and research sex all day and Google sex all day and pin sex-a-licious pictures of hot men on my Pinterest page all day—although there are perks.

I LOVE erotica because it is a genre within which almost all other genres fit.

I’ve written lots of other genres—romance and women’s fiction and sci-fi and fantasy. I am so all over the map that a very successful writer friend once sat me down and said, “Sabrina, dear. Pick one!”

The thought appalled me. I didn’t want to pick one. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my natural life in Regency England wearing gloves up to my elbows and sitting through wretched dinners with overblown Barons who spat in my soup when they sputtered.

I liked visiting, though.

What I really wanted, more than anything, was to write a Regency Romance. And then move on. Maybe a Medieval legend. And then a Viking adventure. And then an epic fantasy. And a mythological fairy tale. A creepy sci-fi or a sexy space opera. A pirate yarn.

Have I mentioned I have ADD?

The problem with being this kind of flibbertigibbet as a writer is that readers have silly little things called expectations. And unmet expectations will KEEL you as a writer. You gotta write what your readers want or they will stop buying your books. There are plenty of other authors out there just panting for the opportunity to please them.

Trust me, I’ve Googled them all.

The fact of the matter is, in the publishing world we are not selling books as much as brand. And to have a brand you have to have an identity, something that consistently satisfies your customer. Brand consistency (in content and quality) on an author’s part will equate to brand loyalty in a customer. If your identity resembles Sybil’s, you may have a problem keeping your customers happy. Folks you beguiled by your sweet soft romance may take umbrage when your heroine shows up in clown makeup with a butcher knife in her hand and starts jabbing your hero.

Sadly, my friend was right. You cannot write all over the map…at least not under the same pen name with the same brand.

Unless you stumble upon the illusive unifying brand.

“What the hell is that?” you may ask, especially if you studied marketing, because it’s a concept I just made up.[i]

A unifying brand is a brand that supersedes and saturates all other brands. It is an element of a product that successfully translates to like products and links the diverse threads. So while I write erotic romance as Sabrina York, I don’t lose my identity if I sneak over to Ellora’s Cave’s Shivers line and write a horrific erotic horror featuring an alien plant with very disturbing reproductive habits…or over to the Aeon line and write my sexy space opera. Readers will follow me. And hey, I may pick up some new readers who like my writing enough to follow me back to Asgard.

Sabrina York is my brand, my identity. Erotica is my unifying brand.

What my readers expect when they buy one of my books is sizzling sex and lots of it. They want twists and turns and characters that are going to make their heart flip-flop and make them get all restless. They want something that’s gonna make them stop reading and hunt down some double A batteries or a man or a kitchen whisk or something.

They don’t care if the action happens in Regency England, on a pirate ship in the Caribbean or on a barren moon in the crab nebula.

So how did a nice girl like me end up on a bookshelf like this?

Because on this bookshelf, I can be everything I want to be, and still be me.

Also, I love to write about sex.

Keep it hot, baby!

Sabrina

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Sabrina York is an award winning author writing for Ellora’s Cave. She specializes in writing hot, funny romances with lots of steam, but has been known to wander down the dark path and flirt with alien sex and BDSM. Her debut novel, Adam’s Obsession, released to rave reviews followed quickly by the second book in this duet about a pair of tormented, sexy brothers, Tristan’s Temptation. Pushing her Buttons, winner of the 2011 Distinguished Novella Award, is coming soon.

Connect with Sabrina on Twitter at @sabrina_york or on Facebook. If you’re feeling brave, check out her naughty postings (definitely NSFW) on Pinterest. Of course, you can always check out coming books or read an excerpt at www.SabrinaYork.com.

Contest: Sign up for Sabrina’s newsletter to enter her contest to win a sexy pair of rhinestone handcuffs at www.SabrinaYork.com. Drawing Date: September 1, 2012.

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Check out Sabrina’s newest release, Rising Green. Forget happy endings and get ready for steamy erotic horror that will shock you even as it turns you on.

 

Chaos erupts for the members of a scientific expedition on a remote island in the Pacific when the team’s botanist, Sage Green, is impregnated with the spores of an alien plant form. She’s always been the crew’s Ice Princess, but now something’s changed. Now, something is driving her, raging through her, compelling her to screw every man on this desolate rock. Again and again and again.

What the very appreciative men don’t realize is that each illicit interaction, each hedonistic comingling, will take its toll on them as well. And no one can survive the torturous pleasure unscathed.

 

Rising Green Excerpt

Copyright © SABRINA YORK, 2012

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

From the middle of the thicket, a thick stalk topped with a bulbous bud rose. It was reminiscent of Pinguicula grandiflora, but instead of purple it was a blood-red hue with bright-yellow streaks.

Sage set down her rucksack and pulled out her sample kit. Carefully, she sliced several cuttings into vials and dropped them into the sack. Then she pulled out her camera. She started with several long shots and then moved closer, stepping carefully on the leaves and vines for a tight shot of the flower. Its petals were tightly folded with a waxy velvet sheen. They shimmered in the weak sunlight. Smelled like poppies.

She stepped closer. Stroked.

It was silky-soft.

As though reacting to her touch, the petals began to curl back, unfurl. Sage stared in fascination as the stamen was revealed, long and thick, bright yellow and heavy with pollen. A swollen pustule throbbed at its base. She leaned closer, pulling her camera up for another shot.

And the bud exploded.

In a great puff, it ejaculated a cloud of tiny seeds. A thick haze surrounded her. Seeds crawled up her nostrils and clung to her lips. Her hair was dusted with them.

“Shit,” she said under her breath as she backed away. Coughing and sputtering, she brushed the spores from her shoulders, her chest.

A strange flutter danced through her belly, followed by a wave of dizziness. Her vision blurred and weakness washed through her. Her thighs trembled and she stumbled, unable to negotiate her own feet. Fighting unconsciousness, she dropped to her knees.

And then she fell into the embrace of a soft bed of leaves.

 

She awoke to a dream. A misty, murmured haze.

Struggling to rouse herself out of the muddled cloud, she shook her head. The infinitesimal motion made her reel. She closed her eyes against the miasma, the exotic thrill skating through her. Her heart beat, distinct thuds pounding in her ears among a rushing tide.

Somewhere through the haze, she sensed movement. She wasn’t sure if she was moving or if the world moved around her. She felt as though she were floating, suspended, lighter than air.

A soft, questing tendril stroked her ankle. She tried to look at it but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move at all.

The tendril tightened and another licked at her, on her other ankle.

A nip, gentle and oh so soft. Warmth blossomed at the spot, blossomed and rose within her until it flooded her being. A feeling of excitement—and impending doom—swamped her.

The tendrils at her ankles twined slowly, making their way up her calves. With each pass, they nipped again and the warmth expanded. A vague awareness of myriad movements captured her attention. Other tendrils twined slowly over her body, everywhere. They were on her face, her torso, her abdomen. They crawled and curled under her shirt, questing.

One of the tendrils found a nipple. As the soft, furred vine passed over the sensitive tip, it pebbled. The tendril froze. Returned. Made another pass.

Sage moaned and tightened her muscles, trying desperately to move away. But she was frozen, frozen in place, a statue.

A sacrifice.

 

[i] Technically, I did not make up the term, I just made up what it means.