Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 517

It's HOT OUT HERE!

Psst! Be sure to check out today's blog at Girls Who Bite! C.J. Ellison is donating two copies of both books in The V V Inn series to two commenters today!

In the meantime… Yup, I have a short story in The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance, which releases today in the U.S.! It's entitled "Hot Out Here"—and the only way you'll get to read it is if you happen to beg, borrow, or buy your very own copy. Enjoy the excerpt!

Beads of condensation, glittering jewel-like in the sputtering candlelight, ran in rivulets down the sides of Jason's ice-cold beer.

Detail I shouldn't have been able to note, given the fact I wasn't anywhere near him.

As I lowered my nephew's toy binoculars, I reflected that I had indeed sunk to a new low. You see, my bedroom window conveniently overlooked Jason and Robert's fenced backyard. A fact that never registered with the previous tenants, but one that proved too delicious to ignore after the arrival of the handsome duo.

I began a furtive surveillance at once. One that had me cringing in embarrassment each time I greeted them in passing and feeling even more ashamed when we struck up a friendship.

We'd shared meals, drinks, watched football games together on their wide-screen TV. And still, I peeked into their backyard, waiting for those moments when they popped outside to mow it or catch a few summer rays. Their bodies gleamed with sweat while raw lust warred inside me along with the fear that I'd mess up our relationship if I let the guys know how I really felt.

My convenient perch on the windowsill afforded me a window into their private lives, and I was hooked from the very beginning. They'd become an obsession, one frustrated by the fact they treated me like a kid sister rather than a woman one of them might desire.

And therein lay another problem. I'd resisted the urge to seek a deeper relationship because then I'd have to choose. My libido was completely fickle, lusting after Jason's muscled physique, then sighing over the possibilities of what Robert's tall, bony frame and large feet hinted at. That their personalities were perfect bookends, fierce and funny, confused my heart as well.



Lucky me, I licked the sweat gathering on my upper lip while this night one of the handsome men living next door tilted his bottle and took several long sips. The look of pure bliss that softened his otherwise stern features made my chest ache.

I watched the movement of Jason's throat as he worked it down, imagining him sipping at my overheated flesh. My skin began to tingle. My nipples beaded, crowding uncomfortably against my lace bra. My thighs clenched as a delicious wash of arousal seeped to wet the crotch of my plain panties.

The sigh he emitted as he set the bottle on the table was echoed by my own painful groan. Watching either of them had never caused my heart to skip a beat like that hint of a moan sliding on the tail of Jason's long exhalation.

Sure, it was hotter than hell out there. I too felt the effects of the enervating heat. Record temperatures had strained the region's resources and planned service interruptions began that night. But something about that sigh felt…un-subtle, exaggerated, maybe even dramatic. And Jason was too straightforward a man for that.

I blotted sweat from my forehead, asking myself again, What am I doing?

Only this time, my peeping hadn't been deliberate. I'd rushed home from work and showered quickly to beat the brown-out. Then I'd stripped to my underwear, pulled back the curtains, and opened the window, hoping for a breeze to cool my skin. Sitting limply on the sill, I waited for the world to flicker into life again.

That's when I'd noticed him, sitting in a lounge chair alone in the dark.

He wore his usual work "uniform"—khaki trousers, white shirt and a tie. Tonight, the tie hung loosened and askew, his collar opened beneath it.

I could see it all despite the lack of electricity. Moonlight silvered his dark hair and reflected bright as a beacon against the white shirt. The golden light from the large Citronella candle leant warmth to his skin and the amber bottle he held between his hands.

As always, he was lovely to watch, but tonight his expression drew my attention more than his breath-stealing features. A sullen slanting of his brows, a bit of pout plumping his masculine lips, an edgy energy to his slight movements—he was either irritated or aroused.

Wanting an answer to the "either-or," I watched. My forte is observation; my people-radar exquisitely tuned to body language and a voice's tonal cues. My curiosity and my lust were caught. No way could I back away from my window now.

The bottle tapped the table as he set it aside. A long-fingered hand tugged the knot of his tie, dragging it from his neck.

When he began to undo the row of buttons down the front of his shirt, I settled deeper on the sill, leaning closer, but taking care to keep my pale body hidden behind the sheer curtain.

The edges of the shirt parted over a broad, nicely muscled chest. My gaze zeroed in on taut, lean abs dusted with dense fur the same color as his close-cropped black hair that stretched nipple to nipple then ran along a thin dark line to slip beneath his zipper.

His hand stroked his chest, scratching through the hair, the faint crinkling sound causing my own chest to tighten, my nipples to surge.

A light sheen of sweat glimmered on his chest and belly. Again, my tongue swept my lips, tasting salt, and I imagined I lapped the dew right off his skin.

When a lazily roaming hand slid over his belly, I tensed, fascinated as he swept the flat plane. Would he be hard or desk-soft? He looked firm. So, I enjoyed fantasizing that he was and touched my own stomach, following his path.

His hand slid down to the knot bulging behind his fly, and he cupped it. Squeezed.

My own hands itched to replace his and grew still, clenching against the fantasy of holding his burgeoning cock as it roused. My cheeks heated and my breaths shortened. No need to tease my own body into arousal, moisture already soaked my panties.

The buckle opened, and the belt slid sinuously from the loops as he lifted his hips and pulled it free. A flick of his thumb and the button at the waistband of his trousers opened. His zipper rasped as it slid down.

Dark fabric formed a vee-like shadow as his hand rooted beneath his waist, and then he slipped the long, gleaming column of his semi-aroused sex from the flap at the front of his boxers and wrapped his fingers around it.

I swallowed the liquid pooling in my mouth. I blinked to moisten eyes that had grown dry and scratchy as I stared, wide-eyed. My breaths grew ragged, a little choked, and I must have made a noise, because suddenly his head swung my way. His eyes narrowed on my bedroom window.

I froze, hoping his gaze couldn't penetrate the darkness.

But a crooked smile slowly stretched his lips, and his hand tightened around himself and began to pump up and down the thickening rod, all the while staring up at me.

Jason knew I watched but didn't seem to mind. I let out a deep, trembling breath and continued to stare, my own body heating, growing increasingly aroused in tandem with his hardening cock.

His head turned away, and his hand dropped from his engorged cock. It fell against his belly with a soft, muffled thud. Heavy, hot, thick—I knew its girth would stretch my mouth.

Another sound intruded. The chime of my doorbell. I bit back a curse and drew away from the window, slung on my robe, then headed downstairs to the front door.

Robert stood in on the stoop, a lazy grin on his face, a sweep of lank blonde hair covering one eye and two beers dangling from his fingers. He was shirtless. Low-riding blue jeans encased his slender hips and long legs. His large feet were bare. "Thought you might like to join us."

Monday Rundown

I'm busy unpacking from this past weekend's trip to Memphis. I have pictures, but they're still in the camera. I hope to get to those this week, but I'm also gearing up for one last trip this coming weekend. I'm heading to Oklahoma City for a ranch rodeo. More about that later!

A reminder: Tomorrow, The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance releases, officially, here in The States! It's one of those huge compilations with tons of A-list authors. I have a story, Hot Out Here, that's a sexy, contemporary menage. Just sayin'…

The Little Lizard Boy contest continues. Next week when this one winds down, I have some Elvis memorabilia to share. So stay tuned!

In the meantime, I have a lot of catching up to do. Lord, it's good to be back home! ~DD

Guest Blogger: Ann Jacobs

Politically Incorrect?

Normally, erotic romance authors don't worry about being politically incorrect—that's what we are, by nature. But there are some lines most of us are very hesitant to cross.

I don't mean only the taboos our publishers mention—the icky and very politically questionable topics that make me cringe whenever they cross my kinky mind—but also those we shy away from for fear of angering some of our readers.

Michele Obama can decry obesity all she wants, and nobody cares except the kids in school who don't much care for healthy foods in the cafeteria—at least not much. The subject, though, is not one you often see in erotic romances, at least not from the angle that the First Lady attacks it—as a health issue rather than one of aesthetics, sexual attractiveness and so on.

The big, beautiful Domme I had sketched out in my mind for hot, submissive linebacker, Matt Rubin, in PRIME DEFENDER, took on a different shape in my mind when my daughter's high school friend died this spring from complications of morbid obesity. After that, I couldn't not give Keisha a similar problem—but with a happy ending.

I'm sure there will be some readers who'll be offended that Keisha went from being a really big beautiful woman to one who's still big by most standards, but healthy with a bright future dominating her hot, submissive husband and lover. I don't care. If one reader realizes the stress that being overweight can place on a human body and uses that knowledge to help herself or a loved one, it will be worth it.

PRIME DEFENDER is scheduled for release September 2 at Ellora's Cave. I'm hoping most readers will enjoy the "different" take on "rubenesque" along with the steamy, BDSM love story.

Ann Jacobs

Guest Blogger: Kinsey Holley

The Little Lizard Boy contest continues.

Every comment here and on my Facebook page counts as an entry!

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SEXY, HAWT, SCORCHING, FILTHY, AND OMG!

THAT'S JUST PORN!

It's a matter of personal tastes, isn't it? Of boundaries, imagination, inhibitions or the lack thereof. One person's sexy romance novel is another's scorching hot read. One reader's erotic is another reader's filthy, and one reader's filthy is another reader's Oh My God! This is just pornographic!

If you're my mother, anything after chaste kisses but before third base is filthy. Third base and beyond is porn.

It's all subjective.

I was thinking about this recently as I was proofreading a book for one of my co-bloggers. Juniper Bell writes in a number of genres, under a number of pen names. She has an historical series coming out with Avon soon. But she also writes great erotic romance. She just got the rights back for her first book, a very hot erotic, and she's going to self-publish it.

I loved the story—well-rounded characters, logical plot, wonderfully smooth, evocative language. And the sex!!! Hoo boy. I tweeted that I was proofing a durty, durty book. Juniper replied that it's not that dirty—she's written much dirtier than that. I was like, Really? Dirtier than the rec room scene? The rest of our co-bloggers (we're the Nine Naughty Novelists just in case you want to, you know, check us out) got a kick out of that. I have an aversion to buttsecks, which always makes them laugh.

[By the way, I think I've finally figured out the difference between hot romance, erotic romance and erotica. If the H&H have durty, durty sex before knowing each other's full names, and they wind up with an HEA, it's erotic romance. If there's no HEA, it's erotica. You're welcome.)

Now, I write graphic sex, but my stuff's not as hot as Juniper's. And although I haven't read a lot of Delilah's stuff (I've read a few titles—my sister-in-law has read nearly everything La Devlin's written), I think Delilah's stuff is hotter than Juniper's. When people I know say they want to read my books, I always warn them about the graphic sex because, for people who never read romance, it might be surprising. But as far as hot romance goes, my books are not at all shocking—monogamous, hetero sex with an HEA. Pretty darned vanilla.

My mother told me this week that my books and my website are nasty, and she wishes she'd never read them. I wish she'd never read my stuff, too. I reminded her that I've told her, since the day I sold my first book, that she shouldn't read it. Mom thinks oral sex is on the outer limits of human sexual perversity and that it was invented by hippies in 1968. So, no, she shouldn't read my stuff. Unsurprisingly (if you knew my mom), she wouldn't listen and now she's been horrified and appalled and nauseated and honestly, it's not my fault. (Mom was considered prude by her contemporaries back in the fifties. She didn't like Elvis. She didn't like Elvis.)

I will admit to being embarrassed when certain people read my stuff. Not ashamed—just embarrassed. I'm not ashamed that I have sex with my husband, but I'd be embarrassed to discuss details of it with people at church or my daughter's school. I absolutely can't imagine people at my church knowing about my books. More and more folks at Diva's school know about my alter ego and so far, there have been no crowds or pitch forks.

My sister-in-law—the one who reads all of Delilah's stuff—says that if she could write, and her books got published, she'd be so proud she'd tell everyone, including clergy and old people. I wish I could be that open and unconcerned with other peoples' opinions.

On the other hand, when I told my mom how much I've earned in royalties this year, she immediately quit complaining about my shameful career as a pornographer. My mom is the most practical prude you'll ever meet. Me, I'm just thrilled that people like my stuff enough to pay to read it, and that werewolf lovin' is helping my family get through a very lean period.

What's all this got to do with werewolves? Nothing. The following excerpt isn't even a love scene. Oh well—I promise you, there's a great sex scene in Ready to Run. But it's not Juniper or Delilah hot.

And that's okay. It's all subjective.

Kinsey Holley is the pen name of a sweet middle-aged Catholic lady in Houston, Texas. She lives at www.kinseyholley.com and Nine Naughty Novelists. She spends way too much time on Twitter, and she loves to get email at kinseyholley@gmail.com.

And she's seriously considering writing a BDSM story. She's just not sure she'd have the guts to publish it. Maybe she needs a new pen name…

Ready to Run is the latest book in her Werewolves in Love series.

 

Sometimes a girl's gotta save herself.

A Werewolves in Love story.

Sara Hedges had planned to escape the backwater, bigoted town of Luxor, Texas on the wings of a college degree—not on the back of a Harley, riding for her life.

Just a couple months shy of loading up her Miata, however, betrayal bares its ugly fangs. Her scumbag uncle has sold her to a pack of werewolves willing to pay any price for her special bloodline and it looks like there's no way out. She never expected the new-in-town, sex-on-a-stick loner to come riding to her rescue. Or to discover he's a werewolf, too. A good one…with one too many secrets.

Bryan Keeton waited two months deep undercover for the chance to get his hands on one of the gangster Eurowolves wreaking havoc across the South. After calling in the FBI to blow the lid off Luxor, he'd planned to leave town before he did something he might regret—like get involved with the suspect's niece.

But Sara makes him stupid. And now they're on the run from the Feds, who aren't interested in her innocence, and from the wolves who want her for their own personal squeaky toy…

Warning: This story includes an undercover alpha with a sexy Texan drawl, a heroine with a dangerous secret, a ring of wolves willing to pay just about anything to own her, and a small town that needs to learn a little something about tolerance.

Ready to Run

© 2011 Kinsey W. Holley

Enjoy the following excerpt for Ready to Run:

"You're really not like everybody else around here, are you?"

She never could seem to look him in the eye. There was something about him that intimidated her, but in a very "God, I hope he backs me up against a wall" way, not a "God, I hope he doesn't kill me" way. So she stared at his mouth instead, and the gooey feeling got worse. "No, I'm not." It gave her a huge, dangerous thrill to sit here and admit something like that. "You'd be surprised how different I really am."

His eyes searched her face for a long moment. They were sitting there, next to each other but not touching, and just before she became unbearably itchy (and gooey) beneath his scrutiny, he said gently, "I think I have a pretty good idea. And I'm glad you didn't say anything, angel."

"You are?"

"Yeah. I'm not from around here, and I'm not going to be here for much longer. I don't have to care what people think. This is your home. You're gonna have to see these folks for the rest of your life, so—"

"The hell I am." Her throat constricted at his casual mention of leaving town soon. Well, she would be leaving town soon too. If she hadn't already been so good at hiding her feelings, the urge to cry, or maybe throw up, would've been hard to resist. But a long-term relationship with Nash had never been in her future.

Why did she have to keep reminding herself about that?

He looked surprised. "You're not going to come home for holidays or anything?"

"Hell, no. When I'm gone, I'm gone. There's no one here for me but Wendy, and she can visit me in Marshall, or wherever I end up."

In fact, she planned on dragging Wendy out of Luxor at some point. But she had to rescue herself first.

"Staying away might be harder than you think, Sara. No matter how much you don't like this place, it's your home."

"It won't be, not once I'm out of here. I hate this town! I swear to God, I do. I hate every person in it except for Wendy and maybe three other people."

"What about the rest of your family?"

"Especially the rest of my family."

The force of it overwhelmed her, leaving her shaking all over. "I hate this backwards-ass, narrow-minded, locked-in-a-fucking-time-warp piece-of-crap dump."

"Hey. Hey, come here. It's all right." Nash took the beer from her hand, setting both hers and his on the coffee table. Then he wrapped one strong, warm arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight against him. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of him, shivering as he gathered her hair at the back of her neck and laid a kiss atop her head. "You're getting out."

"December isn't soon enough," she said against his chest. "Tomorrow wouldn't be soon enough."

He laughed into her hair. "Well, I'm glad it's not tomorrow. I need more time."

"What for?"

"To get to know you better. Every time I turn around, you're surprising me. I keep thinking I've got you figured out and then it's like, hey, here's something new."

She shrugged, even as his words set her heart to pounding inside her rib cage. "There's a lot of stuff I don't know about you too."

Her face was still pressed against his chest, and she liked it there, but he'd stopped stroking her hair. Something in his body, some subtle tensing, made her look up.

He wasn't smiling. His brows knit together as he stared at her with an unreadable gaze. She got a sudden, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach—a feeling nothing like the excitement and arousal of two hours earlier, or the warm comfort of one second ago.

"What? Please don't tell me you've got a wife stashed away somewhere. Or a girlfriend or a murder conviction or something like that."

He mouth quirked in an embarrassed kind of smile. "No. No wife, no girlfriend, no felony convictions. Come here."

"What? I—whoa!"

He put his free hand under her knees and scooped her into his lap. Now both his arms, with those chiseled, bronzed biceps, were wrapped around her. One hand rested on her thigh—between her legs, scorching her right through her blue jeans—while the other one warmed her back through her cotton shirt. Lord, he smelled good. Whatever cologne he was wearing, she wished she could spray it on her sheets and roll around naked.

"What'd you do that for?" she asked in a shaky voice.

"Trying to get comfortable, so we could talk." His smile said he knew he was turning her on. Somehow the hand on her back had slipped inside her shirt, where it now traced tiny patterns of fire across her skin.

She twisted a little, trying to get comfortable on his legs.

"Hmm. That's good," he said. "I like that."

"Like what?"

"The way you're wriggling in my lap." He ran his hand up to her stomach. She gasped as heat flared through her body, her legs going limp and tingly. Instinctively she covered his hand with hers, pressing it harder against her. If he moved it the teeniest bit downward, she'd start ripping her clothes off. It had been so long since—

"I didn't know you didn't like your family."

"Huh?" Hadn't he been about to kiss her?

"Your family. I didn't know you didn't like them."

"Oh. Um, yeah. We're not close."

"Your grandmother raised you, right?"

Why were they talking about this? Why didn't he kiss her?

"Yes. But I moved out when I seventeen."

"Why? Why didn't you stay there 'til you graduated and then go to college?"

"Because…it's a long story. It just— It wasn't a good place for me. I needed to get out."

"Okay." He reached up to pull a strand of hair out of her face. "What about your uncles? Are you close to them?"

"I don't—no. No, not at all."

"Why?"

"That's a long story too. Why are you—wait." She froze as she realized where this was heading. "Wait. Did someone tell you about my family? Is that why you're asking?"

"Huh? No, I— Wait a minute, where you going?" She was wiggling again, only this time it was to get off his lap. He tightened his arms around her. "Wait. Wait a minute, stop. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to— Okay, yeah, I was prying. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to figure you out."

"Figure me out how? What's there to figure out? I don't like my family. I didn't have a happy childhood, and now I avoid them, even though it's kind of hard to do in a town this size."

"So that's why you're moving to Marshall?"

"It's one reason, okay? If you want to know about my family, ask the guys at JP's, but it's not really something people talk about around here." He'd either understand what she meant or he wouldn't.

"No, that's okay. I'm interested in you, not them. What about the werewolves?"

"What?"

"The werewolves. You knew something about them. I don't think most people around here know about werewolf culture, and if they do, they sure as hell don't talk about it."

"I wasn't really thinking. It slipped out."

"But it means you've read about werewolves, right? You're interested in them?"

He still wouldn't let her off his lap, but she put her hands on his chest to push him back. "Nash, why are you asking me these questions? Why do you—?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I—damn. I sound like a freak, don't I?"

"No. Well, yeah, kind of."

"Okay. Let's start over." He finally loosened his hold and she scooted back, her legs still in his lap. She tried to smother her moan when he started rubbing her foot, but she couldn't help it. So, smiling, he went to work with both hands while he talked.

"It's just that you're nothing like I thought you'd be, you know?"

"No. What are you talking about?"

He let out a frustrated sigh, as if having trouble finding the words. She didn't mind waiting, because what he was doing to her feet was almost—almost—as good as sex.

"All those times I sat in your section and talked to you, I had no idea, and even after I first asked you out, I assumed you were like everyone else around here."

"Oh. And I'm not?"

That made him laugh out loud. "No! And don't act like you don't know that! I figured you were some sweet, backwards Apocalyptic babe who was working in the diner 'til you found someone to marry and have babies with. And then you'd spend the rest of your life in Luxor, hiding from the big bad world."

That was exactly how she thought of everyone else in this town, even Wendy, and exactly what she didn't want to be. But for a second, she was tempted to defend Luxor. Even if she hated it, even if she wanted out more than anything, it stung to hear an outsider talk that way about the people she'd grown up with.

"Well, if you thought I was so backwards and everything, what the hell did you ask me out for?"

That grin again. "Because you were so hot. And I was lonely." His strong, supple fingers were massaging the balls and arches of her feet, and she decided that this was, in fact, better than sex. "And then I find out you're taking college classes and you don't want to birth a bunch of babies and grow old in Luxor. And that was cool, that was interesting. Then, tonight, I find out you don't like your family—" now his grin turned evil "—and you have a thing for werewolves!"

"Hey!" Embarrassed, she slapped feebly at his arm, but she was too blissed out and enervated by the foot rub to sit up and really hit him. "I do not have a thing for werewolves."

He reached under her to pinch her butt. "Maybe you do and you just don't know it."

"I don't!" God, it was like he read her mind sometimes. Was he hacking her Internet account? How could he know about her fascination with shifters, or her desperate dream to meet someone, anyone, with fae blood? "I think they're interesting, all right? I don't think they're evil. Just because they're not human doesn't mean they're not, like, you know…"

"People," he said quietly.

Guest Blogger: M.K. Elliott

Writing Good Sex

As an erotica author, I'm asked so many times where I get my inspiration from. I have to be honest, much of what I write comes from experience. Now before you all gasp and I'm labelled something I'm not (I've been the same man since I was twenty-one) I have had good sex. I'm talking all kinds; passionate, dirty, with a vast range of toys and other funs things going on.

There are some things I haven't experienced. I've not had any forays into any lesbian encounters but in those situations, I've got a pretty decent imagination, and hell, haven't we all fantasized?

So when I'm writing, I definitely use my own personal experiences to help describe the sex in my books. And writing good sex is all about the description. The reader wants to be taken along with every last lick and suck and nibble. They want to feel exactly what the characters are feeling and, by reading, experience the range of sensations and emotions for themselves.

When I first started writing erotica, I never imagined it would be of benefit in my regular writing (I also write paranormal fiction) but it definitely has. I'm so much more aware now of how I'm conveying the senses of my characters to my readers. I now consciously think about every sense; the taste of salt on someone's skin, the musky scent of a woman's arousal, the hard ridge of muscle on a man's stomach. In erotica, we want details. We want to know everything the character is experiencing.

Here is a "no-no" when it comes to writing erotica. Never, ever finish a really hot sex scene with "and then he/she came…" Just like real sex, it's all about the big "O". The reader wants to experience every toe-curling, body shuddering, last delightful thrust of it. The orgasm is the turning point in the story, the moment when the couple (or more) go from that height of excitement into whatever relationship they'll have going forward.

I read a discussion recently about whether a virgin would be able to write good erotica. Surely, like many other things an author may write about (sci-fi authors describing going into space/horror authors describing being eaten by zombies/historical authors describing living in the 1800's) just because they haven't actually done any of it, doesn't mean they should be any less good at writing about it. It's a good argument but it's one I would have to disagree with. Writing erotica is all about the sensations and if it's a feeling you've never experienced properly (or at all!) how can you properly convey it to others?

Sure, the type of sex we want to read about might not be quite what we're used to experiencing—the setting is bound to be sexier, the characters are going to be hotter (no beer bellies or saggy bits please!) but that doesn't mean we can't add a little of our own experiences to our tales.

So here's what I think, to all those would-be erotica authors out there. Want to write about toys or anal, then why not give it a go first? After all, there is no better research than experiencing something for yourself and if you want to write about it, why the hell not have a bit of fun at the same time!

M.K. Elliott was born in Devon, England, where she now lives with her husband , two young daughters, a mad Spanish rescued dog and four hens. Though she has a degree in Zoology, her true love has always been writing and she now works as a full time author. M.K. writes everything from contemporary romance to steaming hot erotica, and her love of travel and adventure is her main influence in her stories.

M.K. is the author of the Barnes & Noble best-selling collection, Rescued. She's also had a number of titles in the Amazon top 100 for erotica, including Rescued, Some Love it Hot, and her bi-sexual vampire novella, Deadly Beauty. Her latest short story collection, Some Love it Rough is now available to buy from Amazon.com.

You can find out more about M.K. by visiting her Facebook page or by following her on Twitter.

THE COWBOY and while I'm away…

Remember, the Little Lizard Boy contest continues.

Every comment here and on my Facebook page counts as an entry!

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A reminder to all you writers out there! Submissions for Cleis Press's The Cowboy will close at the end of this month! Details regarding the guidelines can be found here: Submission Guidelines

For the rest of you, I'm heading to Memphis tomorrow and have guest bloggers lined up to keep you entertained. Be sure to drop by and say hello!

Friday—Marissa Elliott

Saturday—Kinsey Holley

Sunday—Ann Jacobs

Now, I know you want to find something to say today so you're entered in that FABOO contest, I'll pose a question…

Which punctuation mark would best describe your personality?

Guest Blogger: Kelly Jamieson

Thank you so much Delilah, for having me here at your blog today!

Lately, I've been blogging about the kind of BDSM stories I write and why I like to write them. My BDSM stories are romantic, sexy stories about the journey of self-discovery my characters take as they fall in love.

This week one of my characters is appearing at another blog in the Perfect Man Event (Day Dreaming) and he had to answer questions about what qualifies him to be the perfect man. Well, Gabe (from Power Shift,) was a tad uncomfortable answering those questions about himself, but the questions made me think about all my Dominant heroes and what they have in common. I've written a story about a Dom who's just discovering his dominant side (Dev in Power Struggle) and stories about more experienced Doms, including Gabe in Power Shift, but the thing they all have in common is that they are caring Doms.

Because the Dominant in a relationship has power, he (and I only say "he" because my stories feature males Doms—certainly the Dom in a relationship can be a woman) he also has great responsibility. Just like Spiderman says. He is responsible for his submissive's safety and her pleasure. That means knowing her, knowing what she wants and needs, knowing how far to take her. A caring Dom is kind and thoughtful. He loves and cherishes his sub. He takes care of his sub physically, mentally, emotionally, sexually. He provides safety and security and acceptance, and gives her the confidence and strength to give herself totally into his care. And although he takes control, he is ultimately controlling himself. He recognizes that even in a D/s relationship there has to be a balance of power and that it takes caring and understanding and commitment to achieve that balance. And he also recognizes that the journey of self-discovery never ends and there is always more to learn.

Here's a short excerpt featuring Gabe and Reagan, from Power Shift:

He rolled her to her back, mouth still joined to her, so he could slide one hand up her body and cup one of her sweet breasts, so soft, so lush. It filled his hand perfectly, absolute perfection. He lowered his mouth to her breast and tugged her nipple into his mouth, tonguing it, sucking it, and she writhed beneath him, arching her back, pushing herself up to his mouth. Her fingers slid into his hair, scraped across his scalp and more sizzles cascaded over his skin. He growled.

She just wouldn't give up on hurting him. Then he almost smiled, his mouth still closed over her nipple. She liked to make him feel things, and yet he knew she would never really hurt him. He trusted her, and she challenged him, every time, and he had to admit he'd never loved the thrill of a challenge more than with her.

His throat constricted and he bent his head, his heart pounding, taking a moment to get control of his emotions. And then he paused. Why was he hiding his feelings from her? She'd seen him at his most vulnerable. So he lifted his head and stared into her face.

She gazed back at him, and her expression shifted and her eyes flickered as she took him in. Her hands came to his head, his face, a tender smile curving her lips, and he swallowed hard at the love and respect and devotion he saw there. "I don't know how to say it," he choked out. "Other than I love you, Reagan."

She stroked his hair and his rough cheek and he turned his mouth into her palm and kissed it, closing his eyes.

Then he knew what he had to say to her. "Reagan." He looked at her and her eyes focused on him. "I don't want to own you or control you. I want to care for you, and look after you but I want to tell you that…I will spend my life encouraging you. Making you stronger. And in doing that I know you'll make me a better man."

His words were like a sacred vow and her eyes glowed. "Gabe. Thank you. We'll make each other better. I love you too." Her gaze held his, her words too like a vow, a promise. "I love your strength, your honor. I love how unselfish you are and how you repay my trust in you with care. I love how you found the strength to be vulnerable with me when I know how much it scared you."

"Sweetheart. I could say the same to you. I know you didn't want to make yourself vulnerable again." Admiration and pride expanded inside him.

She nodded, eyes full of love and worship. "Thank you."

"We both have to be willing to surrender," he whispered, moving over her, between her legs. He took his weight on his elbows, arms beside her head on the pillow, hands in her hair. "I know that now."

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Little Lizard Boy contest!

You know, I look far and wide for special things to bring you! While I was at the Authors After Dark conference in Philadelphia last weekend, there was a vendor with dolls I couldn't resist. Here's one I bought especially with my wicked little devils in mind!

If you love it and want to see what else the dollmaker has to offer, follow this link:

Mistress Rae's Decadent Designs

What do you have to do to win this precious little bottle doll? Post comments on my blog or my Facebook page. Every comment you make over the next two weeks will count as one entry.

The contest ends August 30th!

Craziness and a winner!

Last night, I dreamt John Wayne was my husband and that he was the captain of the U.S.S. Minnow. I'll tell you a tail of sailing ship… Oh, and he was "grounded" from work for drinking and working in the control tower. Yeah, dreams don't have to make sense, do they?

Only it kind of does given my odyssey yesterday. I almost got bumped from my flight, Philly to Atlanta, because Delta overbooked my one PM flight by five people. Hey, any other industry and that would be considered fraud! I did get on that flight and thought my troubles were over. Noooooo!

Our plane arrived late in Atlanta. Delta's booking people told me they couldn't confirm me for another flight until three the next day. I sat on standby for two more flights to Little Rock, then went begging an attendant to get me the hell out of the airport. "Fly me to Dallas, I'll take a damn rental car home!" She took pity on me. At 7:20, I boarded a flight to Memphis. When I told the Red-Headed Hellion on the phone, she said, "Rental car? Pffft!" She drove the three and a half hours to pick me up. We got home about one AM.

Horror story over? Nah! My luggage didn't come to Memphis. It flew to Little Rock and the airport closes at ten PM. So someone has to make another trip today to pick it up!

Anyway, I do have some fun stuff I brought back from the conference, pictures to share… Just not today. I do, however, have a winner!

The winner of the Fugly Ring Contest is…Tammy Ramey! Tammy, congratulations! Be sure to email me with your snail mail address and I'll get your huge sparkly into the mail for you!

Be back tomorrow for the start of a brand new contest!

Guest Blogger: Alice Gaines

Last week, I became exceedingly angry at one of my favorite talk show hosts, to the point where I phoned in and lifted my voice to the nice young woman who answered. I seldom call radio programs, but I was, as they say, about to bust a gusset. The reason? He kept referring to members of committees as "committeemen." He did it over and over until I couldn't contain myself.

Those of you who aren't gray-haired old uppity women like me don't remember the days before the female more-than-half of the species decided we ought to get the same respect and pay that men did. Back then, we had "doctors" and "lady doctors," the second being a kind of oddity and not to be taken as seriously as the real thing. You may not have experienced the natural state of "man" back then, where virtually everything significant and remunerative was done by males. At that time, everyone on any important committee would have been male and the term "committeeman" would have been accurate. In short, you've never faced a world where women served as the Ladies' Auxiliary of the human race. I have, and I have no intention of going back there. Ever.

So, why then did I describe my latest short from Changeling Press to my Romance Writers of America chapter with such glee as: A hard driving businesswoman meets a gladiator from another planet who has a problem with women in positions of authority? Shouldn't a story about that set my hair on fire?

Well, yes and no. Yes if the hard driving businesswoman crumbles at his feet as though she were made of meringue. But, honestly, no one would want to read a story like that, anyway. We want to feel passion and fire…conflict, the engine that drives every good story. Still, in reality, wouldn't such a woman tell him to take his attitude to someone who'd appreciate it and leave her the hell alone?

This leads us to the no part of the answer. A story where a powerful woman succumbs to the seduction of a more powerful man can provide a nice fantasy for a reader who would never allow a man to boss her around in real life. The story's not real, and when you get right down to it, many of the things we enjoy in fiction would horrify us in real life.

As an author of erotic romance, I've written sexual interactions that I'd never consider performing, and I go back to the days of free love and "if it feels good, do it." I've done threesomes, foursomes, exhibitionism, and bondage. I write a character Wonderslut, Avenger of the Non-Orgasmic. I had another character who hooked up with two perfect strangers to make love in their train compartment in complete darkness as the train traveled through a long tunnel. Delicious on the page but horrifying if not outright dangerous in real life.

The reason fiction works this way, I think — and it's the same for television and movies — is that stories allow us to experience intense emotions in doses we can handle. Imagine finding a dead body among your roses and having the police suspect you while a real killer lurks somewhere in your village. Or try spending the night in a haunted mansion from which only one person has ever come out alive, and he's become psychotic as a result. Picture yourself on the range, caught up in a blizzard so thick you can't see your hand in front of your face, and you have to protect the cattle. What if you found yourself on the run from the KGB and the CIA. No one would willingly enter into situations like those, but put them in fiction and readers keep turning the pages.

The great writing teacher, Dwight Swain, used to say that the job of the writer was to create emotion in the reader. I'd add that the emotion should be at a level that simulates and excites but doesn't overwhelm. The reader can experience situations and relationships in reading she would never seek out in real life, and everyone's happy.

Of course, when all else fails, I turn to the wisdom of Mystery Science Theatre:

If you wonder what they eat and drink

And other science facts,

Just remember, it's a story.

You should really just relax.

Here follow a blurb and excerpt from my latest Changeling release: Mirror, Mirror: Gladiator.

Salome Jones has been sent on a forced vacation by her overworked staff. Canticus has been exiled because he won't play nice with the women administrators who oversee the games on his planet. When the two of them end up stuck in the same hotel suite, sparks fly. So do clothes and limbs. Can the two arrive at a solution that will allow them to continue their sexual explorations?

Tavoro Sands Resort: "A Feast for the Senses."

"The senses" must mean sore muscles from struggling with luggage. You'd think a place that advertised luxury would have someone to take your bags up to your room.

After years of international business trips, Salome Jones had learned how to travel light, but this time, her staff had packed for her and presented her with the suitcases, the airline tickets, and an ultimatum… "Go on a vacation, or we all quit." Who knew what they'd put in the bags? It all weighed a ton, and she'd had to drag it across the lobby and stuff it into the elevator on her own.

Said elevator continued its climb to the twenty-sixth floor. At least she'd have a good view of the ocean as she contemplated her navel. The gang had informed her, as well, that no business calls or e-mails would receive an answer. The company would putter along without her, and the rest of the staff would get something done for a change.

An insurrection. That's what it was. With a huge IPO for the latest social media site next week, European sunshine futures on the line, and a time bomb on the Yen about to go off, her people had pulled the rug out from under her. She'd note the insubordination in all their performance appraisals the minute she got back. She'd do it now if they hadn't taken her company cell phone away.

She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, but the elevator didn't climb any faster. Instead, she only got an image of herself in the mirrored walls. That, in itself, was pretty weird. With all the sides catching reflections of all the other sides, she seemed caught in a kaleidoscope of herself. An impatient, red-headed woman with the beginnings of wrinkles at a too-young age. A bit on the thin side but tall enough to intimidate most women and a lot of men. Still dressed in the business suit she'd put on probably twenty-four hours before.

The climb to twenty-six slowed — slowed! — and then came to a complete stop. She went to push the buttons, but somehow, they'd disappeared. They'd been there before, and now nothing.

"Hello," she shouted. "Can someone hear me?"

No answer. She was probably trapped between floors, but who could tell? She might as well be in a mirrored coffin.

"Hello!" She pounded her palms against the wall. "Help. I'm trapped."

Well, damn. Some vacation. She'd take this out of Jeanne's hide, and when she'd finished with her, she'd chew on Ted for a while. She'd kick Charlie into next Sunday. They worked for her, damn it. She never should have let them talk her into this fucking trip. "Hellooooooooo!"

One wall vanished — whoosh — showing the living room of a hotel suite. For a second, she jumped back at the shock, but she recovered quickly and reached out her hand to where the mirror had been. Her fingers met glass. There was still a barrier, just a transparent one. Maybe she could smash through it.

She bent to open one of her bags, searching for something to use as a battering ram. She didn't find anything more lethal than a shoe, but she grabbed that and straightened. She jumped and dropped it at the new sight in the glass.

The image had changed again… the same living room, but now, a man stood just on the other side, staring at her as if she'd surprised him as much as he had her.

Huge and muscular and dressed in the costume of a Roman gladiator. Not exactly that, maybe, but a "skirt" of leather panels exposed his calves, knees, and firm, firm thighs. For armor, he wore a breastplate engraved with some royal crest, but his arms were bare except for golden bracelets that circled his biceps. Those seemed as firm as his legs, and marred here and there with scars. He'd taken some hits with swords or spears, but that did little to diminish his beauty. Gorgeous. A splendid male specimen.

When she finally got around to looking at his face, she found that as wild and appealing as the rest of him. A piercing blue gaze stared back at her with as much interest as she had in him. He wanted her, and her heart sped up at the knowledge. They had a connection that leaped through the glass barrier.

All the months of working twelve-hour days, seven days a week, took their effect. She hadn't had sex since when? Maybe December when she'd allowed a stranger to take her in the file room during the company holiday party. Mindless and faceless, and hardly satisfying. Sex with this man wouldn't be like that. Once loved by an animal like him, and you'd stay loved.

He seemed to sniff the air around him, like a huge cat, smelling his mate. Tawny, ragged hair nearly to his shoulders made him resemble a lion. He might start roaring any minute. If he did, she'd answer.

Somehow, he reached for her. The glass seemed to melt around his fingers as his hands went through. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back into the suite with him. The passage should have hurt, or at least, she should have felt something. Instead, she made an effortless transition from what had been an elevator and then a sort of cell.

Now fully in the room, she went directly into his embrace. Not that she'd had any choice in the matter as he tugged her roughly against him.

"Female," he growled.

* * * * *

Alice's website/blog

E-mail Alice: authoralicegaines@yahoo.com