Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 509

Guest Blogger: Myla Jackson (Contest)

Voodoo Anyone?

Haven't you dreamed of owning a Voodoo doll of your boss, or competition to stick pins in and make them suffer? Or were you ever in love with someone who didn't love you and wish you had a potion to make them fall in love with you? I love to explore the possibilities Voodoo offers.

New Orleans Voodoo can find its origins in the ancient religions, rituals and beliefs of Africa and Haiti, add to it the healing arts the Native Americans, folk magic of Europe and a touch of Catholicism. People used it as a way to explain and deal with life. It has been used for good and evil, to heal and destroy.

It's a rich part of the culture of New Orleans history and many parts of the south and provides a great basis for a series of stories grounded in New Orleans and the Atchafalaya Basin.

I based two of the stories I'd written on the use of Voodoo. NIGHT OF THE JAGUAR which is part of the MOONSTRUCK anthology with my dear sister, Delilah Devlin, and please help me launch the release of THAT VOODOO YOU DO today!

THAT VOODOO YOU DO is part of a collection of stories the Allure Authors dreamed up and will ultimately package in an anthology available in print. For now the stories are sold individually in e-format under the series titled Alluring Tales: Night Moves.

Check out the other Alluring Tales anthologies available in print, one of which is on sale now for only $1.99: Alluring Tales: Awaken the Fantasy at Amazon.com!

THAT VOODOO YOU DO

Weaving the right spell…

Determined to convince a rich heiress that the land she just bought should be left undeveloped, panther shape-shifting brothers use a little Voodoo to abduct her and bring her to the swamps to woo her to their side of the bayou.

Trapped in an unfamiliar world…

Catherine Boudreaux struggles to escape before she falls victim to the bayou's allure and the magic the brothers weave over her.

Warning: Two hot panther shifters, one sassy heiress and the bayou will never be the same…

Buy at Amazon

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Buy at All Romance eBooks

That Voodoo You Do

by Myla Jackson

Catherine Boudreaux slid into the back seat of the limousine, dead tired and sick of all the push and shove of a night out in New Orleans.

James Roland, her so-called date, dropped in next to her, slobbering drunk, with hands and arms like a freakin' octopus. Even before the chauffeur closed the door, James's fingers ran over her body, slipping beneath her dress straps to pinch her breasts.

Sharp pain pierced her nipples. "James, no." She pushed him away only to have him slide back, pressing her down against the leather seat.

"Come on, baby, you know you want some of this." He rubbed hard ridge beneath his fly against her thigh, while sticking a wet, disgusting tongue into her ear.

The man worked out. He had a nice body, but he was arrogant, obsessive and annoying. Not to mention, he was stronger than she was and using that strength to his advantage.

"What part of no did you not understand?" she asked, struggling to stay ahead of his groping.

"Your lips are saying no, but your body is telling me yes."

"I don't know what translation you're using, but you've got it all wrong." She shoved both hands hard against his chest. "Let me up now, or I'll have to get violent."



"Yeah, baby, I love it when you talk tough." His fingers squeezed harder on her nipple and his tongue dug deeper into her ear.

Her body stiffened. Catherine only wanted to go home and sleep off a migraine quickly growing in proportion to the amount of gymnastics she performed to evade James.

"Come on, let's do it here." James ground his pelvis against hers, his head descending to claim her lips.

Catherine turned her face from his kiss, his wet lips sliming her cheek. "I'm not in the mood."

"Come on, don't you want to celebrate your purchase?"

"I'll celebrate in a bubble bath." Which sounded sadly more interesting than James.

His hands slithered down her body, cupping her pussy through the thin fabric of her dress. "That sounds like fun."

"Alone." Catherine slapped away his hand.

"You worked hard to acquire that tract of swamp land, imagine all the oil you can pump out of it." He shivered. "I get chills just thinking of all that money you'll add to your family fortune."

"Yeah. So what's that got to do with pawing me?" She planted a palm against his forehead and leveraged away his face.

"You and me, we're made for each other. I can help you invest all that lovely cash in the stock market. You'll be even richer."

Invest? Catherine went still beneath James. "Is that why you asked me out? You want to manage my money?"

"Hell, yeah." He planted a slobbery kiss against her chin, reeking of scotch. "Who wouldn't want to?"

Catherine sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Why did she think this would be any different? James was handsome, well-built and…just like every other man she'd met since she'd inherited her grandfather's billions. They all wanted only one part of her—the part that included her bank account.

She fumbled for the intercom button on the door and jabbed it.

James shoved a hand into the slit of her skirt, his fingers hooking the elastic of her panties, ripping them over her hips.

The window behind the driver's seat slid downward. "Yes, Miss Boudreaux?"

"Stop the car," she demanded, straining against James's weight.

"Hey, shut the damned window," James shouted, flinging his shoe at the driver. "We're about to do some serious fucking."

"Like hell we are." Catherine brought up her knee sharply between James's legs, hitting his sweet spot with as much force as she could leverage. "Just in case you didn't get the message, I said no."

James screamed like a girl and fell over onto the floor, clutching his crotch.

In the middle of New Orleans traffic, the vehicle screeched to a halt. The chauffeur, dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt, black tie and mirrored sunglasses, opened the back door.

Catherine sat up quickly, straightening her dress to cover her naked breasts. "Etienne, please escort this gentleman to the curb."

"Etienne had a family emergency and wasn't able to perform the remainder of his driving duties tonight," the chauffeur announced. "I'm his replacement, Lucien."

"Whatever," Catherine waved a hand. "Get this man out of here."

With a groan, James grabbed for her calf. "Catherine, don't play hard to get. I was only teasing."

"Get out, James." She kicked at his hand, her high heel connecting with the man's cheekbone, leaving a long, jagged scratch.

James grabbed his face. "Bitch." When he reached for her again, Lucien yanked the offensive man by his feet, dragging him from the limousine and onto the sidewalk. Once James was outside the vehicle, the chauffeur assisted the man to his feet, and dusted him off, with a great deal of civility, even retrieving the shoe James had flung.

Then Lucien closed the car door.

Catherine punched the lock button as James lunged for the door handle. He yanked on it and then pounded both fists against the window. "Catherine Boudreaux, you'll pay for this!"

She leaned back against the seat, rubbing her fingers over her sore nipples, feeling like she'd already paid for it. Her hand fell to her side landing on a soft fabric pouch. Had it fallen out of James's pocket? Catherine switched on a reading light and studied the object. If she wasn't mistaken, this was a gris gris pouch, the kind the Voodoo shops sold by the thousands to gullible tourists.

What was James doing with it? Trying to weave a little love spell?

Catherine snorted. Not happening. She rolled down the window, about to throw the pouch at James.

Before the window slid down, the limo pulled out into traffic. "Are you all right, Miss Boudreaux?" Lucien called through the open dividing glass.

She stared into the rearview mirror, expecting the mirrored sunglasses, instead she fell into the driver's deep gold eyes reflecting back at her. He had black hair and equally black brows, his skin swarthy and tanned.

Yum. Something primal stirred deep in Catherine's body.

"Where to, ma'am?"

With the gris gris clenched in her hand, her head pounding as if natives beat tom toms in rhythm with her pulse, Catherine's eyes blurred and she dragged her gaze from the handsome driver. Her head fell back against the seat. "I don't care…take me away."

"Anywhere in particular?" he asked.

"An island out in the middle of nowhere." She closed her eyes, willing the pain to ease from her temples. "Someplace where people like that creep James can't find me would be nice."

"I know just the spot," the chauffeur murmured.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Stay tuned for these other exciting Alluring Tales: Night Moves

November 8th

Myla Jackson

THAT VOODO YOU DO

Using Voodoo and passionate persuasion, panther shape-shifting brothers woo an abducted heiress over to their side of the bayou.

November 15th

Cathryn Fox

WAVES OF SEDUCTION

When a mermaid saves a drowning man she unleashes a tidal wave of passion that could destroy her very world.

November 22nd

Vivi Anna

ENTANGLED IN DARKNESS

Returning home after a tragedy, a woman finds herself entangled in a century's old murder mystery, and caught between two physically and emotionally different men who may have been involved.

November 29th

Sylvia Day

BLACK MAGIC WOMAN

Can a darkly sensual warlock make the switch when his beloved familiar finds her dominant nature awakened by the lure of black magic…?

December 6th

Sasha White

HIGHLAND HEAT

A Highlander who was trapped for centuries enjoys the carnal freedoms of the modern world when he finds the reincarnation of his soul-mate…and her husband.

December 13th

Lisa Renee Jones

WICKED WEREWOLF NIGHT

A witch after his secrets. A werewolf after her pleasure.

December 20th

Delilah Devlin

DRAGON'S DESIRE

An ancient dragon sends a loyal knight on a quest to find a virgin to ease his curse. Who knew a virgin would be so hard to find?

To learn more about the Allure Authors please visit http://www.allureauthors.com

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In honor of the release of THAT VOODOO YOU DO I'm giving away a box of books by:

Sherrilyn Kenyon

Joss Ware (signed)

Linda Wisdom

Madeline Hunter

Leave a review on Amazon or Barnes and Nobles and send me a link where you left the review and I'll enter you in the drawing. I'll draw a winner and post it to my website contest page on November 30th to give everyone a chance to enter.

Thanks for helping me launch

Myla

A Question… (New Contest!)

The winner of the Autographed Book Contest is named at the bottom of this post!

I have three things to talk about today. Bear with me—you might like something I have to say.

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The "I'll Change My Name to Wendy or Tammy" Contest

First, I am starting a new contest today, and it will end next Tuesday, November 15th! There will be more than one winner—but only if you are willing to be Wendy or Tammy for a day. Scratching your head? I have this stack of autographed books that I made out to the wrong person. It has grown to four. There's a copy of Girls Who Bite, Veiled Alliance, Un, Deux, Trois, Ménage!, and Darkness Captured. So I will give away four books to four people—if those four are willing to be Tammy or Wendy (the names I put in those books by accident!) for a day! Okay, so I'll scratch through those ladies' names and add yours, before I send, but it's more fun the way I put it. Or maybe just more confusing. Anyway, I will be rid of the stack, and four lucky people will have a signed book!

What do you have to do to win one of these four books?

Post a comment—here or on my Facebook page.

And remember, the Promo Ho Contest is ongoing! Check the Contest page for details!

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While I'm Away…

This week I've given over control of my blog to a great list of guests! On Thursday, I'll be heading to Altus, Oklahoma where my sister, Elle James/Myla Jackson, and I will be conducting a workshop for writers. Friday night is a booksigning, so if you're in the area and want to know how you can meet us, just drop me a line! Anyway, I have guests lined up starting tomorrow. Take a look at the lineup!

Tuesday — Myla Jackson

Wednesday — Dani Worth

Thursday — Mahalia Levey

Friday — Sharon Hamilton

Saturday — Me, with a Saturday Snippet

Sunday — Cerise Deland

Monday — Jasmine Haynes

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The Question…

If you were on an African safari, what would you absolutely

have to see for the trip to be complete?

The winner of the Autographed Book Contest is…Ilona! Ilona, congrats! Send me an email to arrange delivery of your prize!

Sunday Report Card

The week started off gangbusters. I wrote a short story in a day, then I went back to work on the Western that's very, very late to Samhain. I already have a release date—January 31st—so I really do have to get that one finished very shortly. I also began work on the novella for the new Alluring Tales effort. It's got a dragon, a knight, and a virgin. Yum!

The week started well, but by Thursday, I was covered up with family things. We've added to the household in the past few months. I'm sandwiched by elderly and very young people, and although I'm usually terrific at tuning it all out, it's been kind of impossible to do that lately. Can I say that I never really knew my family was certifiably insane? Yup, a big ole blue streak of schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, a variety of personality disorders and depression. I could literally write a book about this odd, dysfunctional family. It would be a true "dramedy". Naturally, I'm the most normal person here.

Yeah, I know. All I can say is it's a good thing I have a sense of humor. Now I just need to find that door I thought I didn't need for my office and re-install that sucker.

And at last, after many years of dragging my feet, I'm going to divorce my Irish man. It's sad, but we have been living apart for quite some time. Our relationship, actually, has never been better, because we only speak occasionally to talk about all our nutty relatives—he has plenty on his side too. He thinks I'm disconnected from reality (Duh! Writer!?), but I know he's a narcissist. It's a friendly divorce. No dogs to cut in half. He has all the dogs; I have my Betta fish, Drago, and the feral cat that adopted me when I stood outside under a full moon. I figured it was a sign I should keep her.

Anyway, I'm rambling. It's NaNoWriMo month and I have tons of words to write to catch up. These ones don't count!

Today's the last day to enter the Autographed Book Contest! Be sure to post a comment to enter. Muah!

Snippet Saturday: Setting

Setting is about more than where or when a story takes place. An author strives to place the reader in this other world and immerse them inside it. This is the prologue from Ravished by a Viking, where I introduce Eirik who is making a very grave mistake, one that launches his brother Dagr on a daring mission to rescue him, and which continues in the next story, Enslaved by a Viking. The last line of this excerpt is what "seals the deal" so far is Fatin is concerned. Enjoy sinking into the setting with New Iceland Vikings!

"With the intriguing meshing of the past with the future this was an engrossing read…"

Top Pick!, Night Owl Reviews

"A steamy and fascinating adventure…"

Romance Reviews Today

"Clash of cultures, clash of myths, clash of powerful personalities…how many authors can bring out on paper the excitement and more-than-willing suspension of disbelief that old fashioned adventure stories once brought us?…a wonderful, action-packed, emotional roller-coaster of a read."

Alien Places

What a Viking wants, a Viking takes.

When his younger brother goes missing, Dagr, Viking warrior and Lord of the Wolfskin Clan, will do whatever it takes to get him back. But nothing could have prepared him for Honora—a feisty, intelligent woman who is nothing like the women of his world—women who are content to serve their men in all things. Drawn to her despite her recalcitrant nature, Dagr is determined to show her who's boss both in bed and out.

When the two enemies-turned-lovers join forces to find Dagr's brother they are thrown into a rousing adventure full of danger, intrigue and erotic abandon. Can their passion truly unite them or will their different worlds lead to destruction for them both?

Eirik Ulfhednar glared into his opponent's reddened face and adjusted his hand, just a slight movement to improve his grip, and then bore down with all his might. The muscles of his forearm and bicep burned. A spike of adrenaline seared his blood.

Harald, who had boasted his prowess over drinks, didn't seem so confident he'd win this contest now. His lips pulled away from his teeth in a feral snarl, but his bushy red brows rose, betraying his surprise that the man in front of him, so much younger and more privileged than he, hadn't already crumpled.

A smile eased up the corners of Eirik's mouth, and he narrowed his eyes. He would prove he was every inch his brother's equal and deserving of respect from the crew at the mining camp. Respect that they'd denied him since his arrival that afternoon.

However, respect had to be earned from these fierce, rough men. An accident of birth didn't grant an Ulfhednar, a Wolfskin, any special favors inside this clan. Further, Eirik's status wasn't helped by the fact that the last time he'd visited the camp, he'd been a gangly teen with blemishes on his face, tagging behind his elder brother.

But Eirik wasn't a boy anymore. This challenge was a good place to prove it.

Without a hint to warn his opponent, Eirik opened his jaws and yawned, then squeezed harder around Harald's huge fist and slammed it into the table.



The crowd surrounding them roared. Large, meaty hands slapped his shoulders in congratulations. Eirik gave Harald a chagrined smile and stood to reach over the table and offer his hand.

Harald shook his head, scowling, looking none too happy to have been bested, but he gripped Eirik's wrist. "You won fair. Only other man who ever bested me was your brother."

Prideful pleasure warmed Eirik, and he wondered why he'd been so resistant to return to this rough camp. He'd thought he wouldn't enjoy it. That the journey itself would bring back hurtful memories of his father. However, his brother had been right about his needing to learn more about his heritage than just the art of battling like a Norseman. His brother was right about most things, and it was time for Eirik to accept that fact.

He let the crowd draw him toward the sleeping quarters of the mining camp's longhouse. Blue-gray light gleamed through the curved ice-block walls and ceiling where "windows" had been cut in the animal skin lining. Although it was nearing time to sleep, daylight rarely waned in this region of New Iceland.

The smells of roasted animal and a pot of savory stew permeated the longhouse since no vents were cut to allow them to escape. A chimney had no place in the ancient structure, built in the time their ancestors had first arrived on this cold planet.

"Tell us of your journey," Harald said, taking up one of the stools set around the crude fire pit. Chunks of the precious ore the miners cut from the earth deep beneath the icy crust lay nestled in the bottom of the pit, emitting an eerie glow and warmth that tempered the cool, wet chill lingering in the air.

With the melodic sound of water dripping from the walls nearest the pit and the earthy smells of the men around him, Eirik relaxed, ready to spin a tale worthy of the brother to their clan-lord, for he'd traveled to this frigid outpost without the comfort and safety of a tracked snow-eater by land. He'd come the more direct route, by ice-skiff, over the frozen waters. A feat made even more bold by the fact his father had been lost, no trace ever found, during a similar trek to this mine which lay farthest from the Wolfskin's seat of power.

"It was a harrowing journey," Eirik began, pausing as a beaker of mead was handed to him.

"Did you see serpents?" one of the men asked, a hint of awe in his voice. Few dared travel the open frozen sea. They fished near the shores, but rarely ventured over deeper water because of the monsters lurking there.

Eirik nodded and leaned forward. "A pod of the beasts trailed after me from Skuldelev all the way here. Streaks of blue, green, and bright flame shot past me, gliding close beneath the surface of the ice. They circled, closing tighter and tighter. But I let out my sails and skimmed past their death spiral."

"Did any of them break the surface?" Harald asked. "Did you see their horned heads?"

"I never looked back." A lesson he'd learned from his brother when he'd first taught Eirik to sail.

If you look back, little brother, you risk losing your nerve. Always, always keep your eyes on your destination.

"But the winds favored me. The bastards pounded the ice behind me with their huge heads." He gave the men a sly smile, relishing the attention. "The breaks only added a little lift to speed me along."

Soft laughter surrounded him. Outracing the monsters who ruled the seas wasn't a sport. The consequences of one mistake could end in an agonizing death—dragged beneath the ice to an underwater berg-cave to be ripped apart and devoured by the pod.

Which was why so few dared. However, Eirik had a long tradition to uphold. The lords of the Wolfskins were fearless; neither the cold nor formidable odds could conquer them. Hence his mode of travel and the bearskin cloak sitting on his shoulders. Even the miners wore the Outlanders' deep-space clothing which insulated better against the freezing temperatures. Eirik wore garments crafted in the old ways by the women of his clan. Boiled wool undergear and a thicker wool shirt; bearskin chaps tied around his wool trousers. Thick boots made of several layers of cowhide encased his feet.

Yes, his toes were cold, but he could still feel them. If he'd taken a spill in the skiff and damaged the hull or steering skimmers, he'd have frozen to death if the ice dragons hadn't killed him first. But Eirik would never think to complain about the harsh strictures his brother and he lived by. Their lack of comforts was only a small part of what they sacrificed to make themselves worthy to lead their clan.

Harald lifted his chin to the men around him then bent toward Eirik. "You'll be wanting to see what we found." Gone was the blustery, overloud voice. Even his expression changed, shifting from brusque savage to sharp-eyed warrior.

The miners standing nearest turned to face outward to ensure none of the Outlanders in the longhouse came close enough to overhear their conversation.

"My brother wants this kept secret," Eirik whispered. "Until we're sure."

Harald nodded. "Not a word. And our production hasn't suffered in spite of the extra work. No one will suspect anything's amiss. The shipping containers are already stacked high in the main cavern in preparation for the next delivery."

"Does the artifact appear damaged in any way?"

"What we've uncovered thus far is intact. We're working with picks and shovels rather than large drills. When we get close to parts of the mechanism, we use our chisels."

"Good." Relieved, he gave Harald a smile. "My brother will come when it's fully excavated. For now, we pretend I'm here to inspect the mine."

Harald nodded, and in an instant his expression changed from keen intelligence back to affable companion. "We'll talk more tomorrow. Below."

Eirik understood. The less said here, the less chance of discovery. If what the miners had found beneath the ice pack was what Eirik and his brother thought, the Icelanders had a new weapon in their arsenal that would ensure their hard-won freedom. "Tomorrow is soon enough to see the mine," he said, raising his voice for the benefit of anyone trying to overhear. "Is there a pallet for me?"

"A pallet in a private nook." Harald winked. "And a woman to warm you while your clothing dries above the fire."

Low, masculine laughter erupted around the circle as men raised their cups and shared sly glances.

Eirik grimaced. "I've frost coating my balls." He drained his drink. The honey mead, made from the honey of the bees in Hel's meadow, slid down his throat, warming his belly.

"I bet you do. But we have the cure." Harald smiled and clapped his shoulder hard, and then shoved off his stool to lead Eirik away from the fire and toward a row of sectioned-off sleeping berths. He pulled back a heavy curtain from one.

Inside, a shelf-like bed stretched across the back wall draped in gray wolf and brown bear skin. A small fire pit glowed in the center of the small cubby.

A woman knelt on the floor beside it, nude but for a soft, woven blanket clutched around her shoulders. Dark, sloe eyes lifted slowly and widened as Eirik entered.

Never looking back, Eirik reached behind him and snapped the curtain closed, leaving Harald laughing outside. Then he stepped closer, reached for the edge of the blanket, and inched it away to reveal the figure of the woman who sat still, chin down, her small cat-like features glowing gold in the pure light.

She was a dark beauty, with long black hair and creamy brown skin. Perfect, if a little too petite. Still, she was a sex-thrall, so identified by the stamped metal cuff encircling one wrist, one of the women contracted to service the men because no Icelandic woman would demean herself to act the whore. His size shouldn't prove a problem.

His blood heated as he stared at her small, round breasts with their brown nipples. A hint of her sex, tucked between her thighs, was smooth and gleaming in the warm light. He noted her slender curves, her supple legs. She'd do nicely.

"Undress me. My fingers are numb," he growled, enjoying her quiver of fear. Best to let her know now that he wasn't a soft man.

Color infused her dusky cheeks, but she rose without hesitation and drew away his clothing, one item at a time.

Her spicy scent and lingering touches warmed him more than the radiant heat rising from the stones.

When he was naked and seated on the edge of the pallet, she dipped the blanket into the pit to warm the fibers then rubbed his body with it, chafing away the cold, igniting a languorous heat that stirred his blood.

He breathed deeply, keeping his gaze averted, pretending to be unmoved although his cock was thickening and pulsing to the thrum of his heartbeat. Like a lynx, he waited until she circled to his front. Then he pounced, grabbing her hips and lifting her off the ground.

She gave a startled gasp, but opened her legs and straddled him, nestling her knees beside his hips on the mattress and bracing her hands against his shoulders. Her gaze locked with his as she slowly lowered herself onto his cock.

Slick heat surrounded him, obliterating the last vestige of the numbing cold that had slowed his body and his thoughts. "What is your name?" he murmured, his lips hovering over hers.

"Fatin," she whispered, meeting his gaze.

"You please me. I'll see you're well-compensated."

* * * * *

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

Lauren Dane

Anne Rainey

Mari Carr

McKenna Jeffries

Myla Jackson

Selena Blake

Taige Crenshaw

Vivian Arend

HelenKay Dimon

Come play at Wild & Wicked Cowboys

Don't forget! There are two contest currently running on this website.

See my contest page for details!

* * * * *

Ready to be swept away by a sexy story? You're the one who has to write it.

Check out Wild & Wicked Cowboys. The picture says it all!

A Question…

A couple of quick notes first!

Goodreads is giving away a copy of Girls Who Bite! It's easy to enter, just follow this link: Girls Who Bite Giveaway

Five Ways 'til Sunday is available for pre-order! Save yourself some cash and buy it while the price is only $2.45! You know you want it!

Contains five men on a mission to break down the resistance of one determined woman, using everything in their arsenal from BDSM accoutrements to roleplay of non-consensual situations.

* * * * *

As the Christmas season approaches,

what song is it that you just can't wait to hear?

Guest Bloggers: A. Catherine Noon and Rachel Wilder

NaNo Day 2:

LR—13 words—edited and shipped to editor!

LH—1733 words

The winner of yesterday's free download is at the bottom of this post!

Also, tonight I'll be chatting live at Romance Reviews Today chat room.

Join me if you can! ~DD

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NaNoWhat-Oh?

or "How to Write a Novel In One Easy Step"

Today is Day 2 of the National Nuttiness that is NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. Every November, thousands of writers across the globe band together to write novels. The objective is simple: write 50,000 words, and write them during the month of November: from Midnight-Oh-One on the first through Eleven-Fifty-Nine on the thirtieth, write and write and write. And write.

And write.

How is this useful? Or sane? And is 50,000 words of quickly-written stream-of-consciousness any good?

That's not the point. The point is, to write the first draft of a novel. It's a helluva lot easier to edit a novel if it's written, and you can't sell it if yeh ain't written it!

The thinking behind it is sound – most of us have extremely well-developed Critics that love to ding us for grammar, spelling, turns of phrase, plotlines (or lack thereof), and anything else we might be daft enough to set fingers to keyboard. The point of NaNoWriMo, therefore, is to develop a good head of steam and let the momentum take you through (or around, under, over, or whatever) the Critic so that you can actually get through to the end: and, in the process, write a novel.

After all, ask any marathoner: it doesn't matter if you win. It matters if you finish.

So, how do you start? Visit the website above, and sign up for an account. See if you can find others you know who are NaNo-ing (I'm a.catherine.noon), and add them to your friends list. Write a blurb for your baby novel, and maybe even share an excerpt – no, it doesn't matter if the excerpt makes it into the final draft. The point is to have fun!

Next, find your home region. (If you don't have one, use mine – ChiWriMo!) The regions host all sorts of events, including "write-ins" – events where writers gather to write together! It's loads of fun, and nice to be around people who don't glaze over when you start talking about the writing process. Then, write. Track your progress daily on the NaNo site, and git goin'!

Talk to you in December! I've gotta get my word count in!

A. Catherine Noon and Rachel Wilder

Blog Website

Watch for BURNING BRIGHT, coming from Samhain Publishing September, 2011!

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The winner of a free download of Stone's Embrace is…Becky Ward! Becky, congratulations, and email me to arrange delivery of your prize.

Flashback: Stone's Embrace

The annual NaNoWriMo challenge starts today! 50,000 words in one month, which breaks down into 1,666 words a day, I think. I've done this four times. I've succeeded three of those four. At the end of every day, I'll be back here posting my wordcount totals for the day, just to keep me honest. If anyone wants to "friend" me on the NaNo site, my handle is DelilahDevlin.

* * * * *

If you post a comment today, you'll be in the running

for a free download of this book!

This book was a labor of love. I worked with two writers I admire, Kim Kaye Terry and Vivi Anna, to create a trilogy of stories that were tightly interwoven. In my story, I got to travel into the Greek Underworld with a gargoyle and wrote great sex with Hades. What greater adventure could a writer hope for?

"…STONE'S EMBRACE is a wonderfully descriptive story…The mix of Greek mythology with Christian elements is intriguing and adds to the subtle layering of eroticism and exoticism…this story is fantastic and a super-hot read!"

~5 Angels, Fallen Angels Reviews

"…The sex in the book was off the charts hot!…It was a wonderfully different story with a strong characters and a fun plot that left this reviewer breathless!"

~5 Stars, Just Erotic Romances

Lust trapped them in darkness…only love can free them…

Petra Pedersen has lived as a recluse all her life thanks to a genetic double whammy—a strange deformity and a shameful power inherited from the father she will never know. The power to incite lust in men and women with just a touch.

Exploring the garden of the mansion she's just inherited, she comes across a fascinating stone gargoyle whose raw, passionate expression draws her to caress its broad chest. Her imagination follows her fluttering fingers. As she closes her eyes and gives herself up to the arousal, something shifts beneath her touch.

Long ago, failure to stop a demon battle trapped Octavius in a prison of stone. Freed by the woman's incendiary touch, he doesn't hesitate to unleash his pent-up rage and desire in a blistering fury. Yet once the haze of lust clears, he discovers he isn't really free after all.

They are both trapped in another realm where he must choose between his last chance for redemption or returning Petra home…

Warning: Sex with inanimate objects, lusty m/m/f ménages with gods…it's all good when the reward is freedom.

The letter had arrived only a week ago accompanied by a bank draft to cover the expense of her journey. Petra Pedersen's father was dead and his house was to be divided among three sisters.

Sisters Petra hadn't known about but was intensely curious to meet. Would they share more than a father's claim on a birth certificate?

Her mother had spilled what little she did know about Jean-Paul's past in an effort to dissuade her from coming. Beatrice had been aware of the first child, Dominique, who'd been born to a witch. It was her birth that had instigated Jean-Paul's flight to Europe because, until that moment, he hadn't believed the curse a Haitian priest had put on him when he'd refused to impregnate the priest's disfigured daughter. Jean-Paul was cursed to father only females and each girl would bear the priest's mark.

The evidence clear in his first daughter's dark, mutated gaze had frightened him.

Determined to break the curse, he'd traveled, seeking a healer's magic. He'd found her mother.

Beatrice hadn't been able to resist the handsome stranger's allure. She'd been raised in a good Christian in a small village. Magic didn't exist except in fairytales. Never mind she'd been born with her own magical gift. A healer in a long line of healers, she'd assumed the gift came from God.

When her own daughter was born, despite the evidence of her daughter's deformity staring back at her every day of her life, she'd still believed Petra's gifts would be like her own. Jean-Paul had known better, fleeing shortly after the birth.

But her mother had clung to her belief—until she'd taken Petra along to tutor her as she plied her craft, laying on hands to heal. She'd been horrified to discover that Jean-Paul's curse had changed her gift from something good into something dark and twisted.

Petra had been sheltered ever since. Kept away from others to prevent a chance touch—worn a contact to hide her evil eye. But the whispers surrounding her hadn't stopped.

Women in their village eyed Petra as though she were a demon come to steal their men. The men's gazes followed her everywhere she went as they wondered whether the stories were true—if her touch could enflame a man beyond control. They didn't seem to fear the curse, and instead, sought excuses to rub up against her in the market or at church.

Her touch incited men to lose their minds to lust. To rape. Inevitably, she and her mother had been forced to move and start again. She'd donned gloves to prevent accidental touches.

Now, she stared down at her hands and wondered if her sisters would be immune and whether they'd inherited a different sort of curse.

"You sure this be the right place, cher?"



Petra ignored the driver's familiarity. Seemed everyone she'd met since her arrival at Louis Armstrong Airport wanted to take her under their wing. Did she look so out of place? So lost? Her English was better than their own. What gave away her uncertainty?

She slid her fingers from damp cotton gloves and dug into her purse for her wallet and the crisp bills to pay her fare. "This is the address I was given," she replied, keeping her tone even, unconcerned, while inside her stomach trembled.

The driver turned in his seat and glanced back, his gaze snagging on her hands. His brow wrinkled.

He'd expected to see some injury or deformity. Why else would she wear gloves in the stifling heat?

She smiled, bitter humor turning up the corners of her lips. "Will this be enough?" She held out the bills.

His quick nod told her she'd paid too much, but she didn't care. If he wondered why a woman alone would wish to be dropped in this desolate location, at least he'd still be in a hurry to leave in case she realized her mistake.

He held out his hand and she placed the money in the center of his palm, careful not to glide her fingertips across his skin.

"I could take your bags—"

She shook her head. "I will carry them the rest of the way. Besides, your car seems to be misbehaving. You wouldn't want it to die so far from a garage. Have a safe trip back."

His car had stalled before a bridge at the bottom of a long winding drive. When he'd keyed the ignition, he'd only crawled a few inches forward before it sputtered out again. He'd shaken his head, cursing in French beneath his breath, but she knew there wasn't a thing wrong with his car.

Static crackled in the air. She felt it, could hear it if she listened closely. The house wouldn't allow the car to approach.

As she stepped onto the drive, he popped the trunk and walked around to lift her single suitcase to the ground.

Petra paid him no mind. Her gaze followed the single lane over the bridge and up the long incline. Despite the gathering dusk and the distance, she should see white paint shimmer through the thick underbrush and vines surrounding the tall sycamores.

The whir and grate of wheels spinning on the path drew her gaze back, and she accepted the handle of her case, gave the driver an absent nod then trudged across the bridge.

If she'd thought the air humid inside the air-conditioned vehicle, she now felt like she'd stepped into a sauna. Her skin grew instantly damp, whether from the moisture in the air or her own sweat it didn't matter. Not that she truly minded. The weather and the landscape around her couldn't have been more different than her home. And she'd wanted a radical change.

Where open meadows stretched atop long, fingerlike peninsulas toward the icy sea back in Norway, here, everything felt enclosed, wrapped in lush, green vegetation, like a hothouse without walls.

As she topped the drive, the house came into view. She remembered her mother's warning. Her words had been harsh, but her hands, always so expressive, revealed her fear. Her mother had played with the collar of Petra's blouse as they'd stood on the stoop of their little house. She'd brushed back the fall of Petra's blonde hair, tucking the strands behind her ears as though she were a little girl. "He was not your father."

"And yet he has left me an inheritance."

"Not the one you seek."

Petra had smiled and placed her gloved hands on either side of her mother's face. "We both knew this day would come."

Tears had filled her mother's bright blue eyes. "You can't know what you face. Here, you are safe."

"Here, I am imprisoned. Mother, I won't tell you not to worry because I know you can't help it, but I'm ready."

"Just beware. Jean-Paul may have been the instrument, but he didn't sire you."

That truth was inescapable. No human could have left her so cursed that she'd lived isolated all her life—since the time her "gift" had manifested itself at puberty.

She wished she could leave her mother with a kiss, but the obscene nature of her curse prevented a daughter's affection. Instead, she'd given her mother a tight smile and left.

Petra glanced around, not surprised to find no cars parked in the crumbling half-circle drive. Perhaps the others hadn't arrived or had chosen to go out.

She had a key—a large skeleton key, old-fashioned and heavy. It sat inside her sweaty palm as she approached the house.

The mansion showed wear. The wooden exterior needed paint. A couple of dark shutters hung, each tilting on a single hinge. Still, it looked like something out of an old Civil War movie, as though Rhett or Scarlett might saunter out the door onto the wide veranda at any moment.

The electric crackling still sounded around her, but was becoming as constant and unnoticeable as wind whipping through fjords. However, it would be wise to heed the warning. A sinister air clung to the quiet estate.

She tried the tarnished doorknob and it opened. Pushing the door inward, she hesitated on the threshold.

The interior of the house smelled of furniture polish and detergents. Where the exterior showed some neglect, inside everything sparkled. More importantly, no ominous odors like the ones her mother had warned her about wafted in the air. "Is anyone here?" she called out.

Silence greeted her, and she admitted she was relieved for the chance to settle in before meeting her sisters.

A solid oak staircase beckoned, and she dragged her case upward. On the landing above, she spied an open doorway but discovered a case on the bed. She passed the door, moving to the next. This one swung open to a large airy room. Tall ceilings, a bare wood floor. The furnishings were cherry with scrollwork embellishing the bedposts and the top of the mirror above the chest of drawers. She peeked into the closet and found no clothing hanging there and decided to claim the room as her own. She could unpack while she waited.

One eye felt watery, itchy. She pulled a small plastic case from her purse and removed the tinted contact from her eye, blinking with relief. Here, she needn't hide the misshaped pupil.

She laid her case on the bed and unzipped it, but the darkening light outside the window drew her. If she wanted to see the rest of the house and yard, she'd have to go now or wait until morning.

Decision made, she left behind her belongings, pocketed her key, and hesitated over picking up the gloves she'd tossed beside her bag, then left them and hurried out the door.

As she approached the top of the staircase, the large window overlooking the back of the house made her pause. Light was fading, but from this vantage she could see the outlines of planting beds, long overgrown with weeds. Two rows of three with spindly rose bushes pushing above the taller weeds, climbing gray trellises toward the fading sun. Beyond the beds lay a long expanse of tall grass. Oaks and more sycamores framed the back of the yard.

She wondered what other wonders were hidden in the neglected garden and whether her sisters would want to hold onto the house or sell it to split the profits—what she'd initially hoped. But now, she wasn't quite so eager to be rid of it. Something about the house felt welcoming despite its lingering air of malaise.

Perhaps it was the isolation. She'd lived apart from others for so long that solitude was comforting. And the contrast of the open fields of her homeland to the thick vegetation lent this place a touch of the exotic. Maybe here, she could be free to be herself. But she was rushing ahead. Each of the sisters would have a say in the fate of this property.

Not wanting to waste the waning light, she hurried down the stairs and into the large open living room. French doors led to the garden. They opened easily on quiet hinges. She let them close behind her and stepped onto a tiled porch. Stair steps led to a flagstone path. From this elevation she couldn't see the boundaries of the planting beds they were so choked with weeds.

Three steps downward, a sensation, like the softest velvet brushing past her exposed skin, glided over her as she entered the garden. The late afternoon sunlight dimmed instantly to dusk and she blinked to adjust her eyes. She had to hurry to get her first look at her new home before darkness fell.

At the end of the pathway bordered by tall bushes and made impenetrable by dense vines and weeds, she saw an opening and walked steadily toward what she assumed would be the grassy area beyond the formal garden.

Frogs croaked, crickets chirped, creating a cacophony of sound that reminded her again just how far from home she really was.

The open grass was farther than she'd thought and she considered turning back, but the smells welcomed her. She recognized a hint of roses and paused to inhale the sweet fragrance from small white flowers studding a long vine wrapped around a leggy bush.

Honeysuckle.

She smiled, recognizing the blooms from the pictures of the travel book she'd read on her flight across the sea. The scent was sweet, nearly cloying, but she inhaled deeply, entranced with her discovery. She plucked a bloom and held it cupped in her palm and continued down the narrow pathway.

At the end of the path, she exited the dense, tall foliage into a clearing. A gazebo, its lattices intact but in need of paint, stood against the darkening forest. To her left a stone bench sat next to a large statue. The fading sunlight limned the statue and lent its surface a pearlescent sheen. The figure of a winged gargoyle, its massive body upright, its arms and wings outstretched as though ready to take flight was so exact, so detailed, she couldn't help but stare. "Oh my."

She crept closer. Oddly, the large statue wasn't supported by a sturdy base. Instead, the feet of the mythical creature were mired in dirt and grass. Vines crept up the thickly hewn calves and thighs, curling around and around. Leaves like ivy and blooms of honeysuckle entangled to clothe his naked body, even twining around the masculine appendage rising between his thighs.

She wondered how such a large statue remained supported by only the two feet planted in the dirt, and thought the artist must have been truly gifted to achieve the balance. Entranced, she could only stare in awe at the massive object.

Shadows accentuated the outline of the long muscles cloaking his legs; light sparkled on the bulging, straining curves; veins tracked along arms and thick, leathery wings.

While she stared, she realized there was nothing stopping her from touching it with the bare pads of her fingertips. She'd touched intimately only one masculine body in her life and had learned to her dismay the dangers. But this figure carved in stone couldn't respond to her curse, and she could indulge her curiosity about his masculine form.

Timidly, she touched his knee, opening her palm over the cap. Surprised, she pulled back her hand. The stone wasn't cool to the touch. Perhaps it had soaked up the warmth from the sunlight. The surface was so smooth it had felt real, almost pulsating.

The allure of the forbidden was too great to resist and she pressed her hand against his thigh, trailing it upwards, admiring the sleek, hard muscle. But vines impeded her exploration.

She reached up and took the uppermost strands and peeled them away, one by one, exposing his body to the fading light, unwinding them as she moved around him. "Almost like undressing a man," she mused whimsically.

When the vines lay in long tendrils on the ground, she stepped between his bent thighs and stared into his face. Here wasn't the bug-eyed gargoyle she'd expected, but rather he wore a warrior's fierce grimace, frightening in its intensity.

She smoothed her fingertips over his heavy brow, caressed the sharp blades of his cheekbones and blunt nose, and traced the curve of his thinned upper lip and the surprising fullness of the lower.

"How would such a man's lips feel beneath mine?" she whispered.

She glanced over her shoulder at the house that seemed farther away than it had when she'd first entered the garden, but found no curious glances trained her way through the windows.

She shook her head, her mouth curving slightly. "If they see anything, I will tell them it must have been someone else."

Turning back, she gripped the tops of his broad shoulders and stood on her toes and grazed his mouth with hers. The texture of the warm stone was soft, deceptively malleable, but perhaps it was only the give of her own lips as she brushed over his again.

She dropped down, her glance following the flow of her hands as she cupped and molded the densely muscled chest, swept over the hard whorls of hair, marveling over the detail. The abdomen, a study of tautly ribbed slabs, caused her breaths to deepen and her imagination to imbue them with life that rippled gently beneath her caress.

Downward she trailed her hand, halting just above the whorls framing the phallus, and again, she noted the veins tracing along the long shaft, the finely carved cap, so smoothly sanded there wasn't a single rough edge or bump to mar the surface. Her hand smoothed up, then down, then dropped away. She'd gone too far.

The engorged state of the statue tempted her beyond common sense. Beyond her own natural modesty. Moisture dampened her sex. Her heart fluttered. Her breaths betrayed a ragged texture.

Waning sunlight glimmered through the trees, flashing bright orange, then fading. Darkness settled around the garden, and still there were no lights beaming from the house.

No one could see her in this dark, lonely garden. No one would be disgusted or repulsed by the impulse that burned inside her.

She'd lived alone so long, repressed desires that were natural for a woman, due to the curse that kept her separate from others.

Her touch couldn't arouse this beast-man, couldn't incite him to rape. For once, she could pretend she was any other girl, learning the wonder of completion with something other than her own fingers. She could pretend she held a lover inside her embrace, one who wouldn't be so consumed with lust that her pleasure was forgotten. She could take what she desired to serve her own needs.

Petra stepped backwards and dropped her gaze from his stony, unseeing glance, nevertheless embarrassed by what she contemplated. Just once, she'd heed the urge. Just once she'd dare something indescribably erotic. Tomorrow, she'd be surrounded by her new family, and again, she'd hide her true nature within gloves.

She opened her blouse, her fingers gliding down the row of buttons. Her bra opened with a deft twist and she dropped both items onto the ground beside her. She stepped from her slide-on mules, unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her hips.

When she was naked, she succumbed to the urge to cover her breasts as she approached the statue. At the last moment, she reached behind her head and removed the clasp, letting her hair fall like warm silk between her shoulder blades.

The bend of his upper thighs made a convenient perch, and she stepped onto one thigh then slid her left leg around his waist. Holding his shoulders again, she squatted over his cock, finding the nudge of the warmed marble, and circled her pussy over the blunt tip.

The feeling was indescribable. And almost enough to send her over the edge. She did it again, moaning when liquid seeped from inside her to anoint the rigid tip. Growing more breathless, she knew she must slow down, must breathe, must savor this moment because she didn't know if she'd ever find the courage to try this again.

Wrapping her hands around his thick neck, she leaned toward him, kissing his open lips, sucking on the lower, pretending he was alive and responsive to her overtures. And she sank, slowly, her slick folds consuming his cock, inch by inch, her moisture and warmth heating up the thick phallic stone she rode as she began to move on him.

Her heartbeats quickened, growing louder. "Can you hear them?" she whispered. "Can you hear my heartbeats? How they tremble for you, my gargoyle?"

Petra rose and fell, her body melting inside and out, growing slick with desire and sweat. Her breasts rubbed against his stone chest, chafing softly, her nipples blooming. Her belly undulated, rocking slightly forward and back as she thrust downward, her inner walls stretching to surround him.

He filled her, the notches of his hips and the strength of his shaft supported her as her limbs weakened the closer to release she climbed.

Her eyelids fluttered downward and her mouth gaped open as fine ripples began to climb along her inner walls, vibrating around his solid cock. And then her mind flew, imagining a pulsing tension emanating from the cock lodged so deeply inside her, imagining that the stone gave slightly as she sank then rocked, shallowly stroking inside her.

It wasn't until something soft caressed her shoulders and back that she opened her eyes.

The expression of her stone gargoyle was no longer gray and frozen, but dark and taut; his dark eyes stared back at her. The wings were no longer spread, but folded forward, surrounding her in heat and trapping her against his body as he brought her to the ground.

But it was too late to scream because her orgasm erupted, bowing her back, shoving her pelvis hard against her demon lover's as the rhythmic pulsing swept over her body, causing her to tremble and moan.

With the corners of his lips curving upward, Petra's heart thudded against her chest. Indeed, her curse was so vile she'd incited lust and awoken a stone god.

October Wrap-up

October was an uneven, but still productive, month!

The high points were:

* ROMANTICON! Mainly because I got to take my daughter along with me. We had a blast!

* I attended the OZARK WRITERS CONFERENCE the very next weekend and had a different kind of fun—I stayed in a haunted hotel and a big cat refuge.

* ENSLAVED BY A VIKING released and I guest blogged all over the place!

* I completed editing and submitted the COWBOY LUST anthology to Cleis.

* I received acceptance for SHE-SHIFTERS from Cleis!

In November, I hope to accomplish the following:

* Write the sequel to TRUE HEART for Samhain.

* Write two short stories for Cleis collections (lesbian athletes, military erotica).

* Write the sequel to BITTEN IN THE BIG EASY.

Happy Halloween!

Thanks to everyone who voted for A Four-Gone Conclusion over at Whipped Cream Reviews. It won Book of the Week! Whee! I have to take the victories where I can. The writing end of this gig can be dreary.

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Okay, this is the third or fourth year in a row I've used this image on Halloween, but nothing makes me cringe and smile more! Enjoy!