Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 538

Back with a new free chapter!

I have pics from the booksigning in Shreveport, but I'm lazy today. It was only a three-hour drive back, but I'm still tired from all the schmoozing. We recluses drain like a battery when we're around so many people. Loved it though. The NOLA folks fed us well.

Click on the cover and find chapter five of the next installment of Bad Moon Rising! It's interesting how this serialized story is working out. I try every time to make sure the chapter will hold your interest (meaning I have to cram it with sex for all you sluts!), but also move the plot forward. Hope you enjoy! Those of you who have been participating in helping plot this one will note I didn't get our girl, DiDi, to the island yet. Sorry about that, but I couldn't seem to get her out of bed with Mason…

Leave a comment and let me know how you like the story so far!

Guest Blogger: Taige Crenshaw

Spin on Reality

By Taige Crenshaw

One of my favorite parts of writing is being able to put my own spin on reality. Taking something that is not of the real and making it so. Making it real to this world that readers want to live in that world. Be a part of the story as it unfolds.

To do this I can make it up totally in my thoughts and build it or take pieces of history, folklore and other interesting tidbits and molding it into what I want to. Doing this is a powerful aphrodisiac. The balance of creating a story that brings a person into it is just like a seductive dance. First you have to let them get a feel of your rhythm. Once they do then you move to the groove. Spinning it around. Weaving that reality to bring them deeper into the reality you've built. This is what I strive for in each world I build.

In the world and myths of my upcoming release Indigo Rain this is what I've done. I've taken many parts of history, folklore and other interesting tidbits to create the world of the story. In writing the book I sank into the myths that I was creating. It was fun to bring in various things I find fascinating. Kalina Erutan, my heroine is an Amazonian Warrior and I was able to create a mythology of her. This mythology is embedded into the very earth. Ryne Garon, my hero is a firebird and I put a major spin on what they are. I'm being deliberately vague about both because I don't want to give away anything too much about the story. In building the world of the Phoenix Intelligence Agency there are so many beings and things to explore. I'm having a wonderful time laying down the layers of the world.

Each time I write a new book I wonder where I can go next. That is the thing with writing you get to do a spin on reality.

****

Taige Crenshaw is a multi-published author with books available at Ellora's Cave Publishing, Liquid Silver Books, Loose Id, and Total-E-Bound. Taige has been enthralled with the written word from time she picked up her first book. It wasn't long before she started to make up her own tales of romance. With novels set in today, in alternate dimensions, or in the future she writes with adventure, fun sassy heroine's, and sexy hero's. Always hard at work creating new and exciting places Taige can be found curled up with a hot novel with exciting characters when she is not creating her own. Join her in the fun, frolic, interesting people and far reaches of the world in her novels. You can find out more about Taige at her website: http://www.taigecrenshaw.com or blog: http://www.taigecrenshaw.com/blog.

To save the world and humanity from extinction from a being that can herald Armageddon a woman must trust a man whose race destroyed the people she held most dear. There's more at stake… their hearts.

Buy March 14, 2011 at Summerhouse Publishing.

Saturday Snippet: All About The Guy (Male Protagonist)

I'll be the first to admit, I'm a sucker for warrior. You know they guy. He couldn't sweet-talk or romance himself out of tight spot, but he's the one you want on your side when danger's around. I love him because he's hard, proud and it takes him a long time to figure out that there's more than lust going on when he sets his eyes on "the one." Tetrik from Warlord's Destiny is just such a warrior. When he falls, he falls hard. It's a lovely thing to watch.

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"…In Delilah Devlin's WARLORD'S DESTINY, a strong man is brought to his knees by an equally strong woman. Interesting, attractive personalities make this read especially powerful."

Nominee for Best Paranormal Erotic Novel of 2005 by Romantic Times BookClub Magazine!

TOP PICK! 4 1/2 Stars, Page Traynor, RT BOOKreviews on FATED MATES

"Watching these two grow is both amusing and touching… I found Warlord's Destiny to be a very well-written novel, and ultimately a very entertaining story to read."
Book Review Network on WARLORD'S DESTINY

Promised in marriage for a decade, Mora has no illusions she is anything other than the sacrificial lamb to ensure peace between her peace-loving planet and the warlike world that demands her union with one of their own. No great beauty, she resigns herself to a loveless marriage with a man who will only do his duty by her. However, when she meets the rugged warlord who will be her husband, Mora feels an immediate stirring of lust. She decides in that moment to win his heart—she'll settle for nothing less!

Lord Tetrik finds his bride more than the scrawny handful he had expected. She has hips to breed him strong, sturdy sons, and intelligence that is a gift worth more than a pretty face. When he suspects his wife harbors tender feelings for him, he wonders if he can be the husband she desires. After all, love for a woman is a frivolous thing—and not a Warlord's Destiny.

So, that's what Kronaki warriors look like!

Every story ever whispered about the fearsome warriors came rushing back to set Mora's body trembling. How they fought like ravaging beasts, cutting bloody swaths through Graktilian mercenaries during the war. How they lived in rough stone fortresses made of blocks carved from their frozen mountains. How they fostered their children to rival clans so they would be raised without gentleness.

How they fucked with such fury their women's screams echoed throughout their valleys.

Mora felt a tremor rumble beneath the polished, marble floor of the great hall, so explosive was the swell of conversation that arose at the warriors' arrival.

They were seven, dressed in furs and leather, armed with bows slung across their shoulders and scabbards at their sides.

She couldn't drag her gaze from the man at the head of their formation, striding toward her—her husband in name, if not yet by deed. Although she had never seen him before this day, she knew it must be him, for he looked the fiercest, the strongest—only one such as he would be chosen to rule from amongst their ranks.

He was from a race of barbarians, seemingly as proud of their reputation for brutal warfare as their orgiastic sexuality. The latter Mora could well believe for the man stalking her now looked every inch a sensual marauder.

A shiver of awe bit the base of her spine and trembled upward until the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood erect.

Taller by a head than any Mellusian, his broad shoulders nearly blocked out the sight of the two heralds dogging his steps as they attempted to halt him. He seemed not the slightest bit interested in following protocol by waiting for his name to be addressed to the assemblage. As if anyone attending the ceremony hadn't already guessed who he was!

He'd also eschewed the fine wedding tunic Mora's mother had personally designed—an embroidered silk affair that would have stretched absurdly across his bulging chest and arms.

No, he wore a vest of gray animal pelts that parted at the front, no doubt to tempt a woman's gaze to ogle his obscenely muscled chest and follow the dark arrow of hair down his hewn abdomen. The black sueded leather that encased his legs strained over thickly corded thighs and the alarming swell of his manhood.

Mora's heart tripped and then fluttered like the wings of an aradil.

Her mouth dry, she forced her gaze upward to look at his face but found no comfort there.

Lord Tetrik of Kronak—his name was as harsh as the angles of his square jaw and the sharp blade of his nose. His hair was dark like a moonless sky and worn like the old warriors in the paintings in History Hall—hanging past his shoulders with small braids on either side of his inflexible face. But his eyes frightened her most of all—chips of blue ice froze her in place as his gaze found hers across the noisy hall.

He would have to know she was his bride. She wore her wealth and importance in the weighty jewels studding her hair and gown and encircling her neck. She saw fury in that first glance. Had he already guessed he'd been cheated of the true prize? That her rich adornment was a ruse?

Her mother moaned behind her. "His ambassador said he was too busy to attend such an insignificant event. You should have worn the pink gown!" her mother hissed.

"It was covered in dirt, mother," Mora whispered, keeping her gaze pinned on the man walking straight toward her. "It's too late now, anyway. The ceremony is over."

"He may still repudiate you. Oh, what were you thinking, digging in the garden on your wedding day?"

"I wanted a tuber rose to take with me to my new home."

"As if a rose will grow in their rocky soil," her mother said, her voice becoming thin and breathy the closer the warrior drew.

Mora hoped her mother didn't choose this moment to faint. She suspected the Kronaki leader would scorn a woman frightened by the mere sight of him.

"That green makes your cheeks sallow," her mother lamented, working herself into a high state of agitation. "You look as though you're attending your own funeral."

Mora couldn't resist delivering a little dig. "Am I not? What do you think he'll do once he finds himself wed to the wrong sister?"

"You should have worn the pink! It would have shown you to advantage." She sounded on the verge of tears.

Her mother's diatribe wore on Mora's nerves. "Mother, it doesn't matter if I wear the pink or the green, I'm no beauty. He will know. And by the look of that scowl he wears, he already does."

"May the Goddess save us!"

"Hush, Hespha!" Her father finally intervened. "You frighten our daughter."

Only that wasn't quite true. Her mother's words had the opposite effect, reminding Mora that by rights, her older sister should have been the one sacrificed to honor The Promise. But her sister had been deemed too delicate and hidden away when the day came to repay the decade-old debt owed the Kronaki. "She'd never survive the rigors of life on that harsh planet," her father had said.

Her mother had been only too eager to agree to the substitution. Her delicate, slender little flower wouldn't be surrendered to the barbarian. Instead, Mora stood in her place. She was anything but delicate-a fact that had pained and embarrassed her parents to no end all her life.

A flush of anger heated Mora's cheeks. Try as she might, she couldn't suppress the primitive emotion. Her parents thought so little of her they were willing to marry her to a beast. A black-haired beast that grew more enormous and intimidating as he approached the dais upon which most of the members of the Mellusian royal family stood.

Mora straightened her shoulders. Jewels and a fine gown would not deceive the man. She was dull quartz against the bright, blonde diamonds glittering inside the hall.

He stopped in front of the dais. The room fell silent while all in the assemblage strained to hear what he might say. His cold gaze raked her from head to toe. Even standing on the raised platform, she had to tilt her head to meet his glance.

Panic had her body tightening. Mora raised her chin another notch, unwilling to let him see her fear.

He lifted one dark brow, and his gaze swept her face, lingering over her lips. "What is your name?"

He knew! "Mora. I am Mora," she said, surprised the words escaped her tight throat. Would he reject her? Strangely, she wasn't certain she'd feel relief if he deemed her unfit. Humiliation at his hands would be the harder emotion to swallow.

His gaze cut to her father, and he nodded once. "It is done," he said, his deep voice terse. Then he turned and offered her his hand.

As Mora realized his curt statement meant he would accept her as his bride, emotion pricked her eyes. He would have her. Although she wasn't the beauty he'd been promised, he accepted her as wife. She blinked and drew in a deep breath. She'd not shame herself by giving way to tears. Although she might be the least favored daughter, she was wed now—and to the fiercest warrior of the covenant worlds. She placed her hand inside his and stepped down beside him.

Immediately, she felt swamped by his tall, broad body, a sensation foreign to her, living all her life among the slender elegance of her people. She lifted her startled gaze.

"You're short." A frown drew his dark brows together in a daunting scowl.

Mora drew back. "I am tall for a Mellusian woman."

He snorted and glanced down her body again. "We leave now," he said, letting go of her hand.

"But we've prepared a banquet," her mother's voice quavered behind her.

"We're leaving now," he said again as though grinding his teeth, his ice-cold gaze never leaving Mora.

She sensed a question in his statement and nodded her assent. Best not to annoy him so soon in their marriage. That would doubtless come later.

He raised his arm, and she placed her hand atop his forearm. His skin was warm, the hairs dusting his arm crisp—the muscle beneath felt hard as stone.

"But her trousseau!" her mother cried. "Her things must be packed."

"I will see to her clothing." To Mora, he asked, "Is there anything else you would bring with you?"

She thought of the small bundle containing her personal treasures and the bundled roots of her tuber rose. "There's a package on my bed."

He turned then to her mother. "Fetch it. Bring it to the mage's chamber."

Her mother was so startled, she didn't question his authority to command her. She swept up the train of her gown and rushed from the hall.

Lord Tetrik strode out of the room, past the glittering assemblage without so much as a sideways glance.

Mora found herself enclosed at the center of the formation of tall warriors and lengthened her stride to keep apace. So tall were they, she was denied her last glimpse of her home, only catching a glimmer of gold leaf from the panels in the ceiling. Too soon, she was descending the steps to the mage's chamber in the dark, ancient dungeon beneath the golden keep.

As they stepped inside, the shadowy cavern seemed, for once, cramped. Her escorts fanned out around the perimeter of the room, their legs braced as if for battle.

Gwimmel, the castle's mage, turned from the cooking pot suspended above a crude wood hearth. His gaze darted to Mora's, and he raised his bushy, white brows. "That was rather quick. I had thought there would be celebrations above."

"Lord Tetrik desired to depart immediately," she murmured to her one true friend, aware of her husband's scrutiny. "And since the ceremony took place before his arrival."

"Ahhh." Gwimmel nodded. He straightened as far as his hunched back would permit. "Lord Tetrik, it will only take a moment to reopen the passage."

Mora glanced to her husband, whose scowl grew darker by the moment. If Gwimmel doesn't hurry, he'll change his mind! Disaster has not yet been averted.

Suddenly, her mother rushed into the room, halting to catch her breath as she spied the warriors. She stepped timidly into their midst and thrust the bundle into Mora's arms and hugged her. "Despite how it may seem," she whispered into her ear, "I wish you well, daughter." She squeezed her and stood back. Then she smoothed a hand over her perfectly coiffed hair before turning to her new son-in-law. "We have your promise you will return her if she so desires?"

"I keep my bargains," he said, the words spoken so slowly his true meaning could not be misinterpreted. He had kept his bargain—the Mellusians had not! "She may return after spring comes to the mountains if she so desires-and if she does not carry my child."

Although her mother strove for a regal nod, her hands pressed her stomach, betraying her unease. "Well, I wish you good journey." Her liquid gaze met Mora's one last time before she turned and departed the chamber.

Mora let out the breath she'd been holding and tried not to shiver at the chill encasing her heart at her husband's words. If she does not carry my child. With a husband so virile, how would she not?

"Mage!" Lord Tetrik spat the word, impatience apparent in his tone.

"Oh, yes, yes. Just a moment." Gwimmel bent and lifted a stone from a basket of magical stones beside the hearth.

He opened his palm and a rough-cut yellow diamond caught the flickering light from the hearth, bending and fracturing it until rays spread in a fiery prism—yellows, reds and oranges bursting like a tiny sun. Then he closed his eyes and murmured an incantation that sounded more like the gurgling of a river than any spoken tongue. The slivers of fiery light curved into a shimmering circle, becoming liquid, the radiance dimming at the center.

"Come, it is time," her husband said, gripping her elbow. He led her to the circle and ducked inside, pulling her along.

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

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

Emma Petersen

Jody Wallace

Lauren Dane

Leah Braemel

Lissa Matthews

Mari Carr

McKenna Jeffries

Selena Blake

Taige Crenshaw

TJ Michaels

Guest Blogger: Margaret Rowe (Contest!)

Psst! See my note at the bottom of this post! ~DD

Thanks so much to Delilah for the chance to visit! I write hot Regency romances as Maggie Robinson for Kensington Brava and hotter ones as Margaret Rowe for Berkley Heat. Since March is Women's History Month, I've been thinking a lot about my historical heroines and the difficulties they face simply because they are women.

Some readers complain when a fictional character exhibits too much of a 21st century sensibility, but it's easy to see why a writer rewrites some boundaries. We've sure come a long way, baby. A Regency era wife could own no property of her own; anything she might bring into the marriage belonged to her husband. And even if he was head-over-heels in love with her, he could only leave her money after he was dead, but not gift her property in life. If they were not head-over-heels, a wife could not sue her husband for divorce, even if he was unfaithful or beat her. After 1857, he could sue her, though. If they did separate, the kids belonged to him, no matter what his sins might be. A husband and wife were considered one person in law, and woe to the independent woman who did not marry. Her father would be bossing her around instead.

Sounds pretty grim, doesn't it? And we're not even talking about voting. No wonder I don't want to write about these poor creatures who were totally dependent on men. So my heroines sometimes walk on the wild side of the street, perhaps historically inaccurately, but I can't help it. They're not sitting in the parlor stitching samplers waiting for a suitor to come to dispel the boredom, marry him and then die in childbirth.

My current heroine Frederica Wells in Margaret Rowe's erotic March release Any Wicked Thing is a medieval scholar who writes (accurate) history books, but she finds herself the ward of her childhood friend and adult nemesis Sebastian Goddard, Duke of Roxbury. Devilish Sebastian is the last person in the world who should be in charge of demure Freddie, so sparks fly. Pretty soon Goddard Castle is on fire as Sebastian teaches her all the things he's learned while she stayed home. But Freddie is a quick learner and gives as good as she gets, doing any wicked thing and then some. .

Which Regency ladylike activity would you excel at? Sewing, singing, playing the pianoforte, painting, archery, riding or perhaps something else? Comment to win a copy of Any Wicked Thing!

One disastrous night…

At twenty-one, Sebastian Goddard, heir to the duke of Roxbury, desperately sought diversion from a life smothered by peerage and position. His quest led him to one night of reckless passion, resulting in betrayal by his oldest friend Frederica Wells, and the discovery of his father's darkest secret. Reeling from the devastation, he embarked on a ten-year debauch that well earned him the nickname–"Lord of Sin."

One delicious bargain…

Now Sebastian has returned to find his late father's estate in ruins and Freddie more seductive than ever. He's determined to drive her from Goddard Castle to pay her back for her deception and to protect his own dark secret. But Freddie makes him an offer he can't resist…she'll be his mistress for a month if he'll consent to sell her the crumbling castle afterward.

Everything he could desire…

The Lord of Sin plans to shock and scandalize Freddie—to tease her every desire and leave her wanting. But his fiery-willed lover soon teaches him the past may not be what it seemed, the present more tempting than he could have imagined, and the future filled with more promise than he dared dream. For thirty-one nights is not nearly enough when you've been given a license to do any wicked thing…

www.margaretrowe.net

www.maggierobinson.net

[It always happens! My Access Romance blog doesn't follow a regular schedule, so I couldn't plan this in advance. Maggie's my guest today, but you can also find me at Access Romance, with a pretty picture for you to "Tell Me a Story". Be sure to say hello to Maggie before heading over to the Access Romance blog. ~DD]

Guest Blogger: Cindy Spencer Pape (Contest!)

Hey there! I'm heading out of town for a conference, so I'll only have spotty access to email and this blog. To keep you entertained, I have guests arriving every day. Check out the schedule!

Thursday: Cindy Spencer Pape

Friday: Margaret Rowe

Saturday: Snippet Saturday (moi!)

Sundy: Taige Crenshaw

Enjoy! ~DD

IF THE SHEATH FITS

A brief overview of condom history

By Cindy Spencer Pape

A question that often arises among romance authors is whether or not to have their heroes suit up. Dress the soldier. Wear a raincoat. In other words, use protection, act responsibly, practice safe sex. The condom has become one of the more debated aspects of the romance genre, especially erotic romance.

Arguments on both sides can be fierce. Many authors and readers argue that it's irresponsible of fiction to not show characters engaging in (and presumably enjoying) safe sex. Others maintain that the romance novel is inherently a fantasy, and to interrupt the moment with mundane precautions would detract from the reader's enjoyment. While both sides have valid points to be made, the decision gets even trickier when writing a historical romance.

Condoms have been available, in one form or another, for a long, long time. Whether or not our historical heroes would have had ready access to them or any inclination to use them depends on a lot of variables: when and where the hero lives being the most important. Wealth, religion, educational level—all of these can factor in. And of course, depending on how it was made and what it was made of, the efficacy varied wildly. So to get it right, an author actually needs to know a little bit about the origins of the little foil packet.

When I started writing Marry Me, Marietta, for a special Ellora's Cave project a few years ago, I had to do some serious digging to find out what my Victorian physician hero would have access to and use. Of course, once I started, I became fascinated by the research and had to know more.

Nobody knows exactly when the condom was invented. There are Egyptian hieroglyphics roughly 3000 years old that show a man wearing what looks like a linen sheath over his penis. Nobody is sure if this was to prevent disease or pregnancy, or just for decoration. There are rumors of the Romans using this or that for contraception, but no definite references to what could be considered a condom. Cave paintings in France dated to around 100 AD again show men wearing a colored sheath, but again, we have no idea why.

However, people have been trying to not get pregnant, for one reason or another, almost as long as others have been trying to get pregnant. And it's just common sense to put a barrier between the sperm and the womb. So the use of homemade condoms could go back—well—as at least as long as humans have been making sausage. Given the obviousness of a length of sheep gut with a knot tied in it, it seems likely that these relatively risky versions have been used for a very long time. Keep in mind though, that most of Europe was Catholic through the Middle Ages, and that the Catholic Church considered contraception of any kind (even withdrawal) a major sin. So while the concept may well have existed, it probably wasn't discussed publicly or in common use.

The first written reference to what we now call a condom was by an Italian scientist named Fallopio (yes, as in Fallopian tubes) in 1564. He claimed to have "invented" a device to prevent the spread of venereal disease. The description isn't very detailed, but apparently it was a linen sheath that fit over the glans—basically a little bonnet that tied on just over the head of the penis. He actually tested it on 1100 men and none of them became infected. So the condom for disease prevention isn't a recent phenomenon. Another doctor published something similar in 1597.

From there forward, there's a pretty clear record of condom use and innovation. They're mentioned in a French play from 1655, maybe in the correspondence of two French noblewomen from the late 1600s and quite extensively in the memoirs of the legendary Giacomo Casanova, published in 1797. The famous lover didn't much like them and there's an engraving in the book of he and a friend inflating them like balloons to entertain a pair of ladies, thus starting a proud tradition carried out by high school boys to this day.

The word condom dates in print to 1706, in a poem, but the origins of the word remain a mystery. Legend says that a Dr. Condom introduced them to Charles II of England as a means of preventing additional illegitimate offspring, but no support of this has ever been found, and it's now assumed to be a myth.

By the late 1700s you could find prophylactics made of hand sewn goat, sheep, or cow intestine, tanned fish skin, oiled silk, or even very fine leather. Some covered the whole penis, others were caps or "capottes" that just covered the glans, and most had a drawstring at the base to hold them in place. Condom technology really took off in the 1800s. They had great names like cundums, French Letters, French Preservatives, Male Safes, English Armor, and "Patent Circular Protector."

Early experiments with rubber were fairly unsuccessful, until Goodyear and Hancock (separately) in about 1844 invented the vulcanization process. The new technique allowed for much more durable protection, though the resulting condoms were thicker than those made of skin. They were also designed to be washed out and reused until the rubber started to crumble. The first advertisement for rubber condoms appeared in the New York Times in 1861, so we know they were widely available by then. In 1873, the Comstock Act prohibited the sale of contraceptives by mail in the US, so for many years, they became harder to get with relative anonymity. The reservoir tip was added in 1901, and a method for making them without seams was discovered in Germany in 1912. In 1930 the latex condom was introduced, thus creating the rubber we know today.

Condom history often parallels the mores of society. The strict moralism of America in the early 1900s led to concentrated efforts to restrict condom use. As a result, during WWI, US soldiers had the highest venereal disease rate of any country, over 70%, by some sources, and by WWII, the US military had come around and begun actively promoting safe sex. In 1949, Japan produced the first colored condoms, and lubricated rubbers debuted in the 1950s. In the 60s, polyurethane condoms were introduced, but were quickly pulled from the market because of their high rate of breakage. Spermicidal lubricant was first introduced in 1975.

The late 1960s saw a downturn in the condom business. Between the introduction of the pill and antibiotics taking the fear out of syphilis and gonorrhea, the idea of a sensation-dulling barrier lost a lot of its appeal. This turned around dramatically after the world learned about HIV in the 1980s, and the discovery that condoms dramatically reduced transmission of this incurable disease. Suddenly condoms were big business again. The wild 1990s saw the introduction of sized condoms, along with novelty products like flavors, ribs, studs, and even glow-in-the-dark rubbers. Polyurethane was reintroduced, with newer technologies solving the old issues of breakage. Condom innovations continue, as safe-sex becomes more and more a prominent social issue. And, for those with latex allergies, or who just like things old-school, be assured you can still buy condoms made of animal gut. They're available on line or in your favorite drugstore—right next to the magnums and the ones ribbed for your pleasure.

So should we take time in a romance for our heroes to put on a condom? That question remains up to the author and the reader. Feel free to leave your opinion in the comments below, I'd love to hear them. But if you're going to write it, do it right. Learn a little about the history of this marvelous invention. Make the condom fit the place, the time, the story—and, of course, the hero.

References:

 Youssef, H (01 Apr 1993). "The history of the condom". Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine.

Link: article

 Brodie, Janet Farrell, 1997. Contraception and Abortion in Nineteenth Century America, Cornell University Press.

Link: article

 "Trojan Condoms History (Including a History of Condoms)" from the Trojan Condoms website: Trojan Condom History

 "The History of Condoms" from the Everything-Condoms.com: history of condoms

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

(& contest!)

I want to thank Delilah for having me here today and letting me share the fun. I most recently used this research in my Steampunk/Fantasy/Romance, Steam & Sorcery, Book 1 of a brand new series called The Gaslight Chronicles at Carina Press. It just came out this week, and you can read an excerpt here.

To celebrate the new release, I'm running a contest. Comment on any (or all) of the blogs I visit on my blog tour this week. One entry per person, per blog stop. You can visit my blog to find the other stops. After the final stop on Sunday, March 13, I'll draw one winner for a free download of Steam & Sorcery, or their choice of my other available titles. Happy Reading!

Guest Blogger: Kate Hill

Psst! Yesterday's winner is named at the end of this post!

My Lines

By Kate Hill

Everywhere you turn, on movies and in magazines, the message always seems to be there's something wrong with getting older. Whether it's face cream, thigh cream or plastic surgery, we're surrounded by products offering a magical solution to the aging problem. While it's great to be well groomed and fit at any age, there's nothing wrong with mature looks, either. Regardless of the outer package, everyone ages and there's a unique beauty to people who age naturally.

Last night I saw a commercial for face cream that suggested anyone with lines can use their product. Personally, I like my lines. I've waited almost forty years for these crow's feet and I have no desire to turn back the clock.

Even when I was younger, I preferred older partners. There's nothing sexier than a man with lines around his eyes that show he's lived. The rugged look most definitely does it for me.

If the media is any indication of the way most people feel about aging, then I'm probably in the minority, and I don't mind at all. How do you feel about aging and "imperfections?"

About Kate

What do trips around the world, endless nights of breathtaking sex, and a muscular, 6-foot 3-inch, brown-haired, blue-eyed significant other have to do with Kate Hill? Absolutely nothing, but she can dream, can't she? In reality Kate is a vegetarian New Englander who loves writing romantic fantasies.

Currently, she might not be traveling around the world, but Kate has visited Europe and Africa and those beautiful places have been wonderful inspiration for her writing. While working at various times as a clerk, assistant karate instructor, house painter and banker, Kate dreamed of being an author. In 1996 her first short story was accepted for publication and since then she has sold over one hundred short stories, novellas and novels.

When she's not working on her books, Kate enjoys reading, working out, and researching vampires and Viking history. Visit Kate online at http://www.kate-hill.com.

Mate Marks Cursed: Wild Woods by Kate Hill

Coming in March 2011 from Changeling Press

The pain will come later.

After a magical artist tattoos an intriguing demon on her skin, Madison meets a gorgeous stranger with an alarming reputation and a fiercely sexy winged creature with an attitude. She senses they are one and the same. Despite the danger surrounding them, she's drawn to them by an inexplicable force.

Half-human and half-demon, Brody has spent his life fighting against his evil birthright. Despite the hatred of the townsfolk, he uses his supernatural powers to defend them from his foul bloodline.

Neither Madison nor Brody can fight their lust or deny their love, but hell is out to get him. When everyone close to him, especially his destined mate, is targeted by eight generations of Blazewood demons, the only way to fight evil is with evil.

"I can smell you. Delicious. I could eat you," rasped that sinister voice.

"Eat this!" Madison leapt up and, wielding the branch like a golf club, slammed him in the gut.

He grunted and doubled over, but at the same time managed to rip the branch from her hand.

Madison took off running again, hoping she'd hurt him sufficiently to delay the chase long enough for her to find her way back to the path toward the town.

She headed in the direction from which she'd come–or so she thought. Nothing looked familiar. Her flashlight blinked on and off, then died completely.

"Damn it!" she said, on the verge of hysteria.

Powerful arms wrapped around her from behind and a big, hard body pushed her into the trunk of a nearby tree. She turned her head so that her cheek pressed against the bark.

"Get the fuck off me!"

"Didn't anyone ever teach you not to trespass?"

Her terrifying captor turned her to face him and Madison thought her heart might stop. Though he resembled Brody Blazewood, he clearly wasn't human. The snakelike slits of his pupils rested in irises such pale blue they seemed to glow. His pointed ears pinned to his head, which was dusted with buzzed black hair. Finely-shaped lips parted, exposing the needle sharp points of his upper and lower canines.

It took a moment for her to realize he was staring at her curiously rather than viciously, despite his feral appearance. A strange feeling broke over her–almost a compulsion to move closer to him rather than away.

What was happening? She didn't believe in monsters or magic.

Then why did you go to the tattoo artist who could supposedly guide you toward your destined mate?

And her tattoo had been of something. . .inhuman.

"This is impossible!" she said.

He tilted his head slightly to the side and narrowed his hypnotic eyes. His hands moved from her upper arms to ever-so lightly caress her face. Yet they weren't human hands. His talon-like fingers tickled her cheeks, mostly due to the smoke-colored feathers covering his hands and forearms. Dark wings extended from his broad shoulders. Though he wore black trousers and boots, his sculpted torso was bare, every chiseled muscle exposed.

"Let me go!" She grunted and jabbed her knee toward his groin.

He shifted his stance to avoid the blow and she managed to pull away from him.

Madison bolted, scarcely able to see. She nearly ran into a tree, turned sharply and lost her footing.

Her hands groped as she slid down a steep incline and managed to grab hold of a root. Terrified, she tried to pull herself up, but her feet slipped and when she glanced down she saw a rocky stream about twenty feet below. If she fell she'd definitely be hurt. What if no one found her?

No, that creature would probably track her and–

She didn't want to think about it.

Why hadn't she taken the old lady's advice and not gone hiking alone?

She pulled hard on the root and edged up the steep incline.

Then an arm wrapped around her and a hand grasped the root, just above her hand.

Madison had about all the surprises she could take. She screamed.

"Stop that!" said her captor. "You're making my ears bleed."

"Good!" Again she screamed but the sound was cut short when he covered her mouth in a kiss.

Madison's heart pounded as much from fear as arousal. She expected him to cut her with those ferocious teeth. Though his kiss was firm and demanding, it wasn't the least bit painful. In fact it was just the opposite.

The kiss softened, then broke.

"Hold onto my neck," he said in a husky voice.

"I don't–"

"It's either me or the rocks below."

Yesterday's winner is…Jen B! Jen, congrats, and email me about your prize!

Flashback: Four Sworn (Contest!)

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

for a free download of this book!

Four Sworn has been nominated for Best Erotic Romance (Non-Traditional Lifestyle) in 2010!

But it needs your vote to win! Here's the link to the page. Be sure to check out the list of all the nominees in all their wonderful categories, then go vote for Delilah's!

The Romance Reviews Voting Page

"…what you get is explosive, emotional and endearing, something Delilah Devlin does better than anyone…" Whipped Cream Reviews

There's a wild child trapped inside her, and they're hell-bent on unleashing it…

As the pretty daughter of the town whore, Shanna Davies has always tried hard to toe the line. But she just can't help it. Her boyfriend, Bo Crenshaw, has lured her untamed spirit out to play once too often. It's time to get the hell out of Dodge and make a new start where no one knows her past. After she fulfills one last, wicked fantasy.

Shanna is Bo's first everything. First kiss, first sexual playmate, first love. Yet he's never managed to convince her that he accepts her—good girl and bad—just as she is. So, she wants a memorable send off? No problem. He'll give her one that'll make her think twice about leaving.

On the appointed night, Shanna expects nerves. Yet once she crosses the threshold, the prospect of surrendering to a night of unrestrained passion with Bo and the three Kinzie brothers makes her mouth water—and her courage dry up.

But she asked for it, and now she's not about to blink first in this game of sexual chicken…

Warning: Four lusty cowboys prove a little domination goes a long way in breaking a stubborn woman to saddle. Lots of spanking, binding, flogging, and double-dipping can keep a girl on her toes, her back, her belly, her knees…

"Dance with me, cowboy."

Bo Crenshaw didn't know what surprised him more. Her wanting to dance—or her asking him. She always cringed over her inability to master a simple two-step, and she usually avoided him like the plague in public.

But he wasn't arguing. It was Friday night after a long week of wrangling cattle. He wanted to replace the musky smell in his nostrils with something a whole lot sweeter. Giving his drinking buddy a shrug, he let Shanna Davies tug his hand and lead him onto the dance floor, pretending a reluctance he didn't feel.

Not that dancing with Shanna wasn't pleasurable—if a little painful. She danced the same way she lived—a little too fast and completely out of synch with everyone around her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, but her head was tilted as she peeked around his shoulder. "Let's go this way." She bumped his knees, and they scooted backward toward her destination.

He pulled in her hips to slide a knee between her lethal knobs and circled so he had a view of what had caught her attention. Eyeing one particular trio of dancers at the far edge of the parquet floor, he thought he knew what had Shanna so intensely curious.

"Get me closer," she hissed.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, his tone dry.

"Tryin' to see."

"See what?"

"Them. Oops." She ducked her head and stared at his chest. "He knows I'm watchin'."

"Who?" he asked, pretending confusion.

"Justin Cruz."

Bo leaned closer to whisper in her ear and bury his nose in her fragrant hair, feeling sure she'd allow it—seeing as how she was trying to pretend she wasn't there to spy. "How do you know he knows?"

"He winked at me." She lifted her head and gave him a glare.

Bo suppressed a grin. "You're really curious about them."

She slid her hand down to twist his nipple through his shirt, and he winced.

"Don't make fun of me." She blew out a deep breath, frustration turning down the corners of her mouth. "Most exciting thing to happen around these parts, a real ménage à trois, and I can't get close enough to see."

"See what?"

She shrugged. "I'd like to see how they all dance together like that. For starters."

Bo chuckled, and then hissed when she twisted his nipple again. He'd be bruised. Worth it, though. He'd missed holding her close.

"Oh hell, they're leaving. You wanna get outta here?" she whispered.

Bo grunted and pulled her tall, slender body closer, rubbing his belly against hers. "You want to see if they do it in the parking lot, or are you horny? Thought you said we weren't gonna do that anymore—use each other." He ground out the last because the way she'd described their last sexual rendezvous still stuck in his craw.

Shanna grimaced in dismay but her brown eyes glittered with humor. "Did I make it sound that way? I'm sorry," she said, her tone anything but apologetic. "It's not that the sex isn't great, but…"

He couldn't help his impatient snort. "I know. You're blowin' this town as soon as you have the cash." Bo turned around on the floor again, fighting her for the lead and winning. He danced them into the darkest corner of the dance floor. "Hell, see what you did now?" he grumbled, pushing her hand down to the front of his blue jeans.

She cupped his erection, running her palm up and down his length, and then tossed back her dark honey-colored curls. Her laughter was low and dirty. "Guess since it's my fault, I should do something about it, shouldn't I?"

"Promises, promises," he muttered, acting like he wasn't so excited his head and heart were pounding faster and heavier than the band. "You bring a purse?"

"Do I ever?"

"Then let's go."

He dropped his arms and resisted the urge to snag her hand inside his. They walked out of the bar and into the gravel parking lot, making a beeline for his truck—but not before she'd darted a glance around the rows for the threesome's vehicle.

When her shoulders sagged, Bo opened the cab door. "Hop up."

As he climbed in behind the steering wheel, she raked a hand through her hair. "We don't have to go far."

"You in a hurry?" He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life, growling like he wanted to. He was pretty sure Shanna was right there with him by the way she clenched together her thighs.

"Don't be a shit," she said, punching his arm.

He let a grin slide across his face. "Sweetheart, I know just the place."

A Question…

I woke up to find my Microsoft Outlook email program broken. After a few minutes of panic, I navigated Bill Gate's site to find a fix. It's taking FOREVER to run, and I'm not really in the mood to be creative or funny today!

So, how about one of my "getting to know you" questions?

Everyone hears discussions that they consider boring.

What topic can put you to sleep more quickly than any other?

Sunday Report Card

This morning I'm heading to Little Rock to meet with Shayla Kersten to nail down the details for a public presentation our local RWA chapter is doing at the library where we meet. The topic is, "So you think you want to write?" We have the program, all the media stuff, etc. to figure out. It will be the third Sunday in April, so if anyone lives nearby, put it on your calendar!

This week was hectic. A mild word. The red-headed hellion took a part-time job and I took over babysitting while she was at work. I've decided I will pay her to stay at home. She came home the second day and her jaw fell to the floor. She couldn't understand how her house got so messy. I couldn't understand how two children could be so bad. Still, I did manage to get some work done.

* I completed Handy Men (tentative title), a quickie for Ellora's Cave, and shipped it to my editor—and yes, it's about a threesome. These days I can't conceive of a love story that doesn't have multiple men in it. One of those dudes has to stay home to help take care of the kids—my heroine's not going to have the energy to do it by herself!

* I completed Chapter Five of Cat Tails: Bad Moon Rising. I sent it to my webmistress for her to format it and get it up on my site. I'll let you know as soon as it's ready for you to read.

* I'm making great headway on my BDSM novella. The hero's an ex-military cop and sexy as hell. I don't want to finish it too soon, because then I'd have to say goodbye to Cross McNally.

* I worked with a web designer to put together the template for the Girls Who Bite website. It's done, now the art will be passed to my webmistress for her to complete the work.

Not a shabby week, huh?

This next week, I do have to finish that BDSM novella, no matter how much I'll miss Cross and his growly voice. Then I'll dive into the next project. Something Urban Fantasy. I have this idea about a girl and her… Yeah, sooo not telling you.

Snippet Saturday: Openers

The winner of the Jimmy Thomas calendar is named at the bottom of this post! Thanks, everyone, for playing! ~DD

One of my favorite openings was the easiest to write. Newscasts of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina were so very detailed that I sank into these opening pages and pretty much wrote it in a day (with tons of revision, of course, later!). You meet the hero right up front. Then you meet the villain of the piece, and he's murky and frightening, but you see him from poor Nic's point of view and learn the horror of who the villain really is. The Dark Realm stories are among my own personal favorites. They were tough to write and I cursed my way through the whole experience, but in the end, I had a quartet of books of the sort I love to read. Not a bad legacy.

"…The electrifying follow-up to INTO THE DARKNESS is a breathless read. Devlin's intricate vampire society is filled with compelling personalities. The chemistry between the characters is explosive, and the horrific villain will give you goosebumps…the ending will leave you begging for more." 4 ½ Stars and TOP PICK!, RT BOOKreviews

"…This is a deliciously edgy series with mind-blowing sex scenes that sizzle…Ms. Devlin's DARK REALM series is devastatingly erotic and pushes the boundaries in both premise and sexual explicitness. Ms. Devlin pens in uncharted territory that will leave the readers breathless and hungering for more…" Paranormal Romance

For eight hundred years Nicolas Montfaucon has dedicated his life to preventing the rebirth of an immortal evil. But now a terrible storm has assaulted unsuspecting New Orleans—and the beast walks the earth once more. "The Devourer" has been awakened, and there is only one in the besieged city who can help Nicolas defeat the foul creature—a mysterious and beautiful enigma who haunts the handsome Revenant's erotic waking dreams and enflames his passionate obsessions.

Chessa Tomas is not an ordinary policewoman. A vampire, she works only at night, patrolling a seamy and unseen underworld of roiling chaos. Though Nicolas is sensuality incarnate, Chessa wants no part of him or his kind—but she cannot close her eyes to the unholy malevolence that would consume their world. And Nicolas has uncovered the secret lust that rules her—a steaming, uncontrollable desire he intends to unleash, bending Chessa to his will by making her most forbidden fantasies real.

His brother had thought Hell a fiery abyss, but Nicolas Montfaucon knew better. It was wet, smelled like a sewer, and sounded like the rush of collective hopes draining toward the sea.

With a heartbeat as leaden as his footfalls, he followed the sound of flowing water. His rubber boots sank in the rain-soaked grass as he stepped off the cemetery's entrance road to head toward the water's edge. Bayou St. John's previous sluggish ambience had given way to a torrent in the aftermath of the storm. Just as the security team had reported, the waters that breached the levee in the early morning hours spilled into the bayou, raising it well above any thousand-year flood plain.

They couldn't have planned for a worse scenario. The mausoleum lay in the center of a newly etched basin.

A cold, tight knot of horror settled in his gut, numbing him to the elements, while a soft rain fell like God's kiss of benediction before the coming battle. The prickling unease lifting the hair on the back of his neck was familiar, but one he hadn't experienced to this degree since the searing heat and biting sand of Palestine over seven hundred years ago.

Quiet, muffled voices drew him deeper into the cemetery. He followed the blurred edges of a once pristine graveled path, now strewn with long tangled strands of Spanish moss and broken tree branches, around sturdy stone crypts—ones untouched by the raging storm that had drenched New Orleans and changed its landscape irrevocably.

He glanced toward the dark gray clouds giving his team cover for what they must do. At least God hadn't added one more insurmountable burden to overcome this day.

"Erika, Pasqual?" he called softly as he approached.

They turned with dread tightening their pale faces.

He noted their quick sideways glances and knew their loyalties might be tested. Just the night before one quarry had escaped their net. Did they know his role in the deception that had allowed the newest Born female to flee?

"The crypt is submerged," Pasqual said, nodding ahead toward the swollen bayou.

Nicolas followed his gaze and found the winged angel that graced the top of the Morel mausoleum, the bottom edge of her robe licked by foaming, lapping waves of dark water.

"We brought a pirogue," Erika said, shivering despite the humid heat, "but the water's so swift…"

Nicolas nodded. "I'll go. We'll have to tie off the boat on both sides of the bayou to keep it from being swept away."

"The crypt was solid. The doors were chained," Pasqual said, his voice strained. "Do you really think he could have escaped?"

Nicolas's lips curved and tightened. "His sarcophagus was in the center of the cemetery. The bayou jumped its banks and carved a new path—straight through his prison. Do you think that's coincidental?"

Erika's brown eyes looked overlarge in her slender face. "How will we contain him?"

"If the doors are still locked, we'll wait for the waters to subside to discover whether his coffin remains intact."

"If they aren't locked?" she continued.

He shrugged. "Then we prepare ourselves."

"How do we do that?" she asked, a note of hysteria in her brittle voice. "No one's got a standard operating procedure for the end of the fucking world."

"Someone has to go into the water," Pasqual said quietly, his expression dark and troubled.

"I said I'll go," Nicolas said, straightening his shoulders. "I placed him there. It's my duty to make sure he stays."

"Not alone, you won't."

Nicolas turned at the sound of another voice, one familiar and welcome.

A tall dark-clad figure stepped from behind a large oak.

Nicolas wondered if he'd just arrived or had chosen the most dramatic moment to appear. Simon Jameson's long brown hair was plastered against his skull and touched the tops of broad shoulders clothed in a rain slicker.

"Simon, bad news travels fast," Nicolas said, his tone dry.

Despite the dire circumstance that brought him here, Simon smiled. "A little bird told me we had trouble."

Nicolas raised a single brow at the thought of the mage's familiar braving the remnants of the storm. "Her wings must be sodden."

Simon's lips crimped in the semblance of a smile. "She's tired and drying off." Then his gaze turned to the sunken crypt. "I'll go with you. You may have need of me."

"I'll be glad for the company." Whatever the reason for the falling out between the powerful mage and the leader of the vampire sabat, Nicolas held no grudge against Simon. Their acquaintance was older, forged in blood and battle. "I'd appreciate any help you can provide."

Sloshing footsteps sounded behind them as more of the security team arrived, carrying a long, slender flat-bottomed boat and poles.

Using ropes suspended between the trees, Simon and Nicolas fought the swift current to drag the boat toward the stone angel. Once the boat scraped the spikes atop the iron fence surrounding the crypt, Nicolas stripped, dropping his clothing to the bottom of the boat. Then he tied a rope around his waist and said a quick prayer.

"Hold this in your mouth," Simon said, slipping a carved, polished red stone from his pocket. "You'll need your hands free."

Nicolas didn't question why he should keep a rock in his mouth. If his friend thought it necessary, that was enough for him to know. Likely a protective amulet, anyway. He could use all the help he could get.

Urgency and dread filled him. He had to see the damage below the surface of the black water for himself. He set the cold stone on top of his tongue and clamped his mouth closed. Then he lowered himself over the side of the boat, gripping it hard, shocked by the force of the water dragging at his body. Nicolas clutched the edge of the pirogue and shot Simon a glance.

The mage stood in the bottom of the boat, coiling the rope around his brawny fists and arms, and nodded. "Catch hold of the iron bars, and I'll let out the rope."

Out of instinct, rather than need, Nicolas drew in a deep breath through his nostrils and submerged. The dark water roiled around him, battering him with stones and debris. He forced open his eyes against the current and grimy sediments, but could see only a few inches in front of his face.

For long seconds he held his breath then made himself relax against the urge to gasp. He didn't really need the air to live.

The current slammed him against the iron bars surrounding the crypt. He held tight then circled the fence, handhold by handhold, until he felt the gate's hinges. With his feet against the gate, he bent his legs and made a powerful thrust, which propelled him forward in the eddying waters, toward the door of the crypt.

He reached out, grabbing for the carved edge of the stone door frame and followed it downward to the latch. Where a heavy chain should have wrapped around the mechanism, he found only a drooping handle, bobbing with the current.

Still, the door was closed.

He braced his feet against it and pulled with all his strength to bend the handle upward and lock it closed until he could return with another chain.

At that moment, a dull pounding came from inside, then a powerful thrust slammed open the door, tossing him backward into the current, which swept him toward the gate.

Despite the murky water, he saw a pale, ghostly apparition appear in the entrance of the crypt.

Sweet Mother of God! Nicolas bit down around the stone that threatened to lodge at the back of his throat.

The monster swam in the doorway, his mouth opening in a hideous grin.

Nicolas ground his heels against the iron bars and pushed forward again, launching himself toward the demon to drive him back inside. If he had to hold him there for an eternity, he'd never let him out. He'd uphold his oath—one given over the grisly remains of his wife.

When he barreled into the demon, the creature's body felt…less than solid…gelatinous. The pale flesh gave way beneath Nicolas's grasping hands. His torso disintegrated in rotten bits of flesh, tugged apart by the rapid current.

Nicolas screamed around the stone while his hand reached through the disintegrating body to grasp the demon's spinal cord.

The beast's face remained solid for only a moment longer while his grin turned triumphant, mocking Nicolas, before the skin stripped away to reveal a skeletal grimace.

Nicolas squeezed his eyes shut as he let go his fierce grip on what remained of the demon's prison, his body, trying to forget the familiar face the monster had stolen and worn for centuries—his brother's.

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

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

Emma Petersen

Jody Wallace

Lauren Dane

Leah Braemel

Lissa Matthews

Mari Carr

McKenna Jeffries

Selena Blake

Shelli Stevens

Taige Crenshaw

TJ Michaels

The winner of the sexy Jimmy Thomas calendar is…leanne! Congrats, leanne! And make sure you email me with your snail mail address!