Heather Lin's Blog

Time for some Candor

I’ve forgotten how to write for love.

Writing has always been a part of me. I truly believe it is so deeply ingrained in my soul that I couldn’t survive without it. Even as I promptly dropped out of soccer, field hockey, 4-H, Girl Scouts, Aiki Jitsu, horseback riding, voice lessons, band, and I’m sure an embarrassing number of other activities, I’ve come back to writing time and again. First, I wrote little stories that I shared with my mother, then teachers, then friends. I started writing fanfiction and posting it on the internet. I found a community of fellow writers who were inspired by their favorite fandoms, too. My best friend and I spent countless hours as teenagers on her computer (not watching porn, surprisingly) writing. Writing out fantasies about our favorite boybands, about being in a singing group ourselves–stories of romance, suspense, friendship.

I loved it. I lived for it. I spent all of my free time reading and writing. (Reading! I barely ever read anymore!) I spent too much time in class daydreaming, thinking up plots for the next story.

I read biographies and wrote research papers on J.R.R. Tolkien and J.K. Rowling. Visions of a future as a professional author danced in my head. Book tours, signings, fame, fortune, people writing fanfiction about MY fiction, and–most importantly–getting to do what I loved for a living.

I studied English Literature in college (after I dropped the Education part because, as with many things, I grossly idealized what being a teacher was like). I became obsessed with honing my skill, learning from the authors I read and read about. I had begun reading trashy romance my senior year of high school (still love them), and in 2008, I won a short erotic fiction contest. The dream seemed within my grasp. And that was the start. I began writing erotica partly because I enjoyed it, but mostly because it was marketable. Who doesn’t want to buy sex?? I sold several short stories, I actually got PAID for my writing!! I began learning to navigate contracts, fill out forms, communicate with editors and publishers in a professional manner. I wrote queries and synopses. I wrote a romantic novella. I sent it to agents. It didn’t get picked up. It did, however, get picked up by a small publisher. More contracts, forms, ROYALTIES. I sent another book. I received edits.

I was becoming increasingly obsessed with marketability. I became jealous of people like Stephanie Meyer and E.L. James, who decided on a whim to write and publish. They were living my dream, dammit. One I was working 10x harder to achieve.

Everyone had advice. My eye was on success. But what was success? Was it getting published? Done. But I didn’t have a REAL book published. Did I? I didn’t have a book in bookstores or reviews from the New York Times. Then bookstores started to close. Did bookstores even matter anymore? Shouldn’t I be receiving more royalties? Shouldn’t I be able to make a living off this yet? How can I possibly call myself successful, call myself a writer, when I have so much more to achieve?

The small publisher went under in a tsunami of shady, shady shit. The progress I thought I’d made was ruined. But you know what was picking up speed around that time? Self-publishing! But not print, print was on its way out (or was it?). E-books! I could do that. So I did. But the successful self-published writers came out with at least a few books a year. I made myself a schedule. I made myself write, tried to make the things I wrote marketable. I googled my own name to find ratings and reviews. I waited anxiously for someone to notice me, to notice my work, to help me do what I wanted–write for a living, dammit!

(Unsurprising side note: Writing because you have to isn’t fun.)

It never really happened. And whenever I wrote, my eye was on the prize, on being the next J.K. Rowling or Carly Phillips or, hell, fine STEPHANIE FUCKING MEYER (See? Why am I such a snob towards her? Not fair.), and my heart wasn’t in it as fully as it should have been. Not the way it was when I was young and writing fanfiction with my best friend until 2am. Not the way it was when I wrote and illustrated my book about my new bike and proudly showed it to my mother. Not the way it was when I posted Star Wars fanfiction on fanfiction.net and had one single stranger say they liked it, and it made my heart burst the way I’d now decided only a 5-star New York Times book review could.

At that point, it was hard to be proud of anything. There was always a voice in the back of my mind saying “Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.”

Not good enough for what? For who? Once upon a time, I didn’t care. Once upon a time, stories filled my mind, heart, and soul until they flooded from my fingertips and I wrote. I wrote and wrote and wrote, and that simple act made me happy, made me feel alive. I didn’t do it for money. I didn’t worry about marketability. I did it because I couldn’t not.

I’ve been aware of and ignoring this struggle for years. I was afraid of losing something. (Losing what? Progress? Fans? Respect? The look of pride in my husband’s eyes as he tells everyone we meet that I’m a writer, while I both swell with pride and profusely protest. What happens when I’m no longer the writer, his wife and I become his wife, who happens to write? Will he still be proud? Will my mother? Does any of that really matter?)

I had a baby. Everything changed. You might think it doesn’t have to change things, but it does. It puts everything into perspective. You don’t matter so much. Your pride doesn’t matter so much. You just want this little potato with a face to grow and grow and look less potato-y and be happy. Once I wanted to write and be successful at writing more than anything. Now I look at her, and I think to myself, “If I could only choose one of you, I would choose you. Every day, on your worst day, and every day, on my worst day, I would choose you.”

I stopped writing. For five months.

I didn’t miss it at first. I didn’t miss writing, and I had a bit of an identity crisis. But slowly, the ideas crept back in. The ideas, without the question of whether they were good ideas or bad ideas or what that even meant. If an agent would be interested in the idea, if it had been done before, what genre would it fit into, who would read it, how would I execute it, would it make money?

I have ideas. Just ideas.

If I ever get published again, it will be a happy accident. I will no longer criticize every word as I write them. I will no longer write romance and erotica if I feel like writing fantasy, simply because that’s what people now expect of me (and if I ever have ANY hope at all of being successful I MUST publish and I MUST stay relevant in my genre).

I am relearning how to write for love. As I’m writing this, the birds are chirping, a warm spring breeze is coming through the window, and my little baby is sleeping. I feel the familiar urge. I feel, for the first time in a long time, the familiar peace that writing brought, once upon a time. And I am happy. I am happy being “Mommy, who writes” instead of “A writer, who is also Mommy.”

So don’t expect to see much more from Heather Lin. I’ll leave all of my published material right where it is on Amazon, but I’ll be bumping all titles down to $.99 in the near future.

I’ll also be publishing the sequel to The System in the near future on something like FictionPress. It will be free, and it will be fun, and I hope you’ll read it and enjoy it.

Writing is my dream. It is my passion. It always will be.

But, finally, after nearly ten years, I think I am no longer consumed by it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not to pull a J.K. Rowling or anything, but…

So here’s the thing: Trying to keep up with writing while pregnant is HARD. Setting a release date during my 8th month was probably not the best idea.

However, rest assured that the sequel to The System is fully-written and just waiting to be edited, formatted, and read by you! In order to make sure I’m doing it justice, however, I am postponing the release to the fall of this year.

I know many of you will be disappointed, and I am sorry. I’ve been agonizing over this decision, but in the end I believe it’s the right one. In an attempt to make it up to you, The System will be on sale for $0.99 on Amazon from June 26th-June 29th, AND I will be releasing a short story, called Dirty Work, just as soon as I get the cover art.

Dirty Work is a dark, erotic, contemporary short. However, be warned that it is a DARK erotic story. Possibly the darkest I’ve written thus far. There are graphic scenes of rape and torture, though neither of those elements are meant to be part of the eroticism.

I hope this helps hold you over for the next few months, and I hope that when the time comes, you’ll be ready to read the sequel to The System and celebrate the birth of my new baby girl with me!

As always, thanks for reading!

Fifty Shades is Not the Enemy: Review and Rant

I watched Fifty Shades of Grey on Thursday night. I never read the book. Well, I read a few sample chapters on Amazon, but I just couldn’t get into it. Anastasia’s inner goddess and inner dialogue were a bit too immature and all over the place for me. But I’ve always liked the premise (and erotica) so I had high hopes for the movie.

I loved it.

It certainly isn’t your typical love story, but it was steamy, angsty, and–in a dysfunctional sort of way–romantic. It kind of made me want to give the books another go. Dakota Johnson pretty much nailed her role, and I honestly feel like Jamie Dornan would have if he’d been able to use his accent. I know, I know. Christian Grey is not British (Irish?) but Jamie Dornan’s voice just sounds hotter in its original glory. Much like Robert Pattinson. In my opinion.

However, I was pretty irritated when I got back home, hopped on Facebook, and saw all this commotion about how the movie “promotes domestic violence” and “doesn’t do the BDSM culture justice.” I do not enjoy being shamed for having the nerve to enjoy a movie that pushes the envelope. (It barely even pushes the envelope! It nudges. Maybe. Last Tango in Paris? Anyone?)

Of course, you can only really feel ashamed if you let yourself feel ashamed, and I chose not to. But that fact certainly doesn’t stop other people from trying.

Here’s the thing–I didn’t see any of the stuff people are up in arms about in the movie. As I said, I haven’t read the books, so I can’t comment on the quotes everyone is pulling from those. What I saw in the movie was this:

Christian reminding Anastasia that there was a helicopter on standby if at any point she wanted to leave.
Christian and Anastasia discussing what she was and was not comfortable with in the playroom AND putting it in writing.
Anastasia telling Christian “no” at the end of the movie, and Christian listening.

Domestic violence? Not so much. The key here is CONSENT. She consented to everything that was happening, even at the end when he spanked her with a belt and she cried. Thorughout the movie, she was a bit naive, but she was also was unafraid to speak her mind or say what she did/did not want. I did not see Christian pressuring, forcing, or even coercing her in any way. He was up front and honest. “This is how I do relationships. Take it or leave it.” Well, folks, she took it. Fully informed.

The one part in the movie (ONE) that I viewed as controlling was when he showed up at her mother’s house. Some might view it as a grand getsure. Not me. Don’t interrupt my family time.

As for ruining the BDSM culture, the idea strikes me as utterly ridiculous. If you’ve read my stuff, you know it’s pretty vanilla, so I won’t pretend to be an expert in that area. HOWEVER, I do know a fair bit about relationships, and the number one thing I’ve learned about them is that they are no one’s business except the two (or more, let’s be modern) people involved in said relationship.

E.L. James did not set out to write a “how to” guide for BDSM. She wrote one couple’s story. It’s not a commentary, it’s not ruining anything or giving anyone the wrong impression. This is how BDSM works for this couple. This is how they are choosing to live their (fictional) lives. If you use whips and handcuffs in your sex life, but the way you do it is different from the way they do it in the book, who gives a shit? The story isn’t about you. They aren’t part of your world. They are in their own world, a fictional world that we are privy to and at the end of the day really shouldn’t take all that seriously.

Fifty Shades of Grey is not the enemy, and this whole anti movement is really no different than certain groups trying to ban Harry Potter for promoting witchcraft or Twilight for promoting unhealthy teen relationships (and witchcraft). If someone reads these novels and tries to emulate them, the problem is not the author or the content; the problem is the reader’s lack of ability to decipher fact from fiction.

I’ve written unhealthy relationships before. A mercenary and a prostitute. A bouncer and a stripper. A bodyguard and the daughter of a crime lord. There’s sex and violence. But it’s fiction. I know each move the characters make. I know they’ll never go too far. I know the ending turns out okay.

No one can know that in real life. That’s why these stories are fiction. Fantasy. Fifty Shades of Grey is fantasy. Harry Potter is fantasy. Let’s not get caught up in which type of fantasy is better or worse. Let’s not make it seem like everyone who goes to see Fifty Shades must support abuse, while everyone who turns their nose up at it is a saint.

It doesn’t have to be #FiftyDollarsNotFiftyShades.

It can, in fact, be #FiftyDollarsANDFiftyShades.

 

The System is UP!

The System went live on January 30th, which means it is now available for purchase through Amazon Kindle! Don’t have a Kindle? You can download the Kindle app for your tablet, phone, or PC!

The System is just $3.99, and if you have Amazon Prime, it’s FREE. Click the pic to buy!

Blurb:

Capri is an alluring young prostitute with a painful past. Brody is a ruthless mercenary running with a crew of thieves on the spaceship Gypsy Lass. When he enters her brothel, the attraction between them is instant, electric, and too much for him to handle. He leaves unsatisfied, never wanting to see her again for fear she might soften his hard heart.

Brody’s captain has other ideas. The crew attempts to rob the brothel, and when things don’t go quite as planned, they take Capri hostage, forcing her and Brody to remain in close quarters until they see fit to drop her on another planet.

But Capri’s plight and the intense feelings between her and Brody turn out to be the least of their problems. Together–whether they like it or not–they uncover realizations not only about themselves but also the world in which they live.

Caitlin’s Story Available for Pre-Order

Caitlin’s Story is due to be released in just two days, but you can pre-order it now on Amazon and Smashwords!

Get your copy of the final installment in the acclaimed Westridge trilogy for just $1.99 today!

 

 

Caitlin Moore is determined to keep her heart locked safely away and focus all of her attention on her new role as the owner and operator of the Westridge Diner. Her parents and her beloved aunt are dead, and her only attempt at a relationship over ten years ago was a disaster. She’s learned to never get involved, to never invest in anything that isn’t brick and mortar—no matter how much she might care for Westridge police officer Donny Weiss.

Donny’s been chasing after Caitlin for years, and now, with the marriage of Gabby Jones and Jason Dawson looming, the timing seems right to turn his playful flirting into genuine pursuit. But Caitlin has her rules, and Donny can’t wait around forever.

Will Caitlin open her heart and realize her life doesn’t have to be defined by fear and tragedy, or will she continue watching the world turn around her without ever really taking part?

 

Two upcoming anthology inclusions!

The long-awaited Dog Tags and Camouflage anthology, edited by Kayci Morgan from Forbidden Lust Press, has an official release date! Read my very first piece of historical erotic fiction (Revolutionary War era) on October 24, 2014!

I am also proud to announce I’ve had a piece of erotic fiction titled “Wanton Sacrifice” accepted into the Coming Together: Pro Bono anthology. This one is a fantasy story and it will appear exclusively in this anthology. Proceeds benefit the Dear Author Legal Defense Fund.

I am so excited to be helping out with this cause. It’s especially close to my heart since, to a lesser degree, I experienced a very similar situation with Silver Publishing before it went defunct. There was trouble, they tried to keep a lid on it, and they threatened authors who spoke out.

If you’re unfamiliar with the Dear Author vs. Ellora’s Cave situation, Smart Bitches, Trashy Books wrote up a great summary about it, and they’re also responsible for setting up the fund. Read all about it here.

Coming Together: Pro Bono will tentatively be released during Thanksgiving week 2014.

 

On Love

This may be a bit off-topic, as it doesn’t have much to do with writing or the industry. But it does have to do with love, and since I write love and romance, I hope you won’t mind. Every story I write is a chance to explore yet another facet of love, but of course I would know nothing–or at least not much–on the subject if it wasn’t for my husband. He had surgery recently (totally routine, nothing to worry about, but of course I worried) and it got me thinking. So I wrote this.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately. It’s something that must take a lifetime to truly understand, but this is what I know so far:

Love is being comfortable with one another but not just comfortable because you know each other so well or because you know each other’s habits. Love is comfortable because you feel most comfortable when you’re with that person. When I’m sick or upset or I want to relax, I don’t reach for a blanket or coffee or even my mother so much anymore. I reach for him.

Love is a whirlwind. There are romantic walks on the beach, trips to faraway places, explosive lovemaking, and a lot of laughing. It’s everything the romance novels and romantic movies say. But it’s also arguing over trivial things, arguing over important things, picking the other person up on the side of the road because their car broke down, late-night trips to the ER, screaming, crying, skipping fun things to fix a broken pipe.

Love is life. Two lives entwined, in fact, and like life it has its ups and downs. By choosing to entwine mine with someone else’s, I’ve chosen to work through those ups and downs. There is no other option.

Love hurts. Constantly. My heart is always full to bursting with love for the other person and on the brink of breaking at the very thought of losing that person. Our lives are entwined, and we’ve made that choice, but the odds of two lives ending at precisely the same moment are very slim. Who will be the first to go and when?

Love is indescribable. It’s something that grows and changes but at its core remains the same. Love is one unique person merging with another unique person and that in itself makes each love unique. Fiction offers ideas, hints, and flashes, but love is something intangible, something that is at once a surprise and something familiar.

Most of all, love is a mystery. No one ever knows what they’re in for. Love is more magical than I ever could have hoped for. Doubt does not exist. But love is also more work than I anticipated. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer. No one ever knows what that means. Not really. Not until they hit rock bottom or the highest elation. I still haven’t been there. I haven’t lost my mother or contracted an incapacitating disease. I haven’t won the lottery or birthed a child. I don’t know what I’m in for. I don’t know what we are in for.

I just know who I want by my side through it all.

Missing Chapter in Westridge

I was just alerted to the fact that in the Kindle version of Westridge, Chapter 10 is a duplicate of Chapter 9. I’m working to resolve this issue ASAP, but in the meantime here is a copy of Chapter 10 so you folks can read the complete story! I’ll post to let you know as soon as the issue is resolved.

X

Playing pool eventually turned into teaching Gabby how to play pool. Billy acted frustrated, but Jason knew he didn’t care, especially with his wife getting tipsy and kissing his neck the whole night. Still, he complained about the perfect night being ruined by women and grumbled that this wasn’t a damn seminar. Jason ignored him and focused on the fact that, when he helped her line up a shot, his hands were on Gabby’s hips, his breath was on her neck, and she didn’t shy away. He couldn’t help it. He kept the drinks coming. And two hours later, when he decided to call it a night, Gabby’s cheeks still glowed red and a silly smile tilted her lips.

“Thanks for everything, guys,” he said at the door, hugging Diane and shaking Billy’s hand. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Diane sighed, and Jason knew she wished it was under better circumstances. They all did.

Gabby stepped forward and hugged Diane tightly. “Tonight was really fun.”

Billy also leaned down to wrap his arms briefly around his old classmate.

“Stop by again,” he offered sincerely, regardless of his earlier complaints.

Jason helped Gabby down the steps and to the truck before heading back up to grab his daughter. Billy Junior was on the other side of the bed, sucking his thumb, and neither one moved a muscle. He waved to Billy and Diane one last time before quietly opening the door and placing Penny in the booster seat. She opened her eyes briefly, but then her chin slumped onto her chest and she was out again. He buckled his seatbelt and glanced over at Gabby. Her forehead rested against the window, and he could see her reflection. She was frowning again.

“Is everything okay?”

She turned to look at him, leaning forward slightly to see past Penny.

“Yeah, I just feel stupid going back home. I don’t think Mom and Dad have seen me like this since I was seventeen.”

She laughed, but he could see her concentrating, trying to force her skewed vision to return to normal. He grinned, and she rolled her eyes, falling back into her seat and giving up. Jason started the truck and gripped the steering wheel tightly as he spoke the next words.

“You could sleep it off at my place if you want.”

“On the couch?” she said hesitantly.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks.”

She seemed to relax after that, and they didn’t talk much for the rest of the drive. He caught her glancing at Penny every once in a while, and he couldn’t read her expression. Curious maybe? Definitely not unkind. It was a start. He parked in front of his garage and went around to give Gabby a hand. She opened the door and stumbled out, but he grabbed her waist to steady her. She giggled and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

He held her for a moment, enjoying the feeling, before pulling away to unbuckle Penny. This time, she didn’t even wake up. She was still wearing a pretty blue sundress, but when they got inside and he opened the door to her small room, he pulled her shoes off and let the rest go. Rosa wouldn’t be happy he hadn’t made her brush her teeth or get in her pajamas, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Gabby was using the bathroom and stepped out just as he closed Penny’s door.

“Is…is this a good idea?” she asked quietly.

Oh, no. It was wearing off. Her reservations were breaking through the haze.

“Yeah, it’s fine. You’ll be in the living room and I’ll be in my room.”

“But what about when I go home in the morning? What will my parents say?”

“You’re twenty-three, Gabby. You’ve been on your own for five years. What can they say?”

“Oh, they can say plenty. Maybe not as much as your mom, but you know they’ll say something.”

Jason chuckled and lifted his hand to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. “You have a point.”

“And Penny?” she asked softly, a hint of pain making its way into her eyes. It confused him. But he’d promised no questions.

“What about her?”

“What will she think? About me being here?”

“She likes you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“She’s four, Gabby. She wouldn’t be able to put the pieces together even if there were pieces to put together.”

She looked away and bit her lip, seeming to be contemplating something. Then she turned back, her hands touching his chest, and he froze, afraid that if he moved she would lose her nerve. Her gestures were innocent as her fingertips roamed his muscles through his T-shirt, but other parts of his body didn’t see it that way. He reached up to grasp her wrists, and their eyes met.

“Gabby,” he whispered, using his last ounce of self control to stop her from doing something she might regret.

“Even if there were pieces?”

Her tentative question caught him off guard. She tilted her lips up to touch his, and though her kiss barely lasted a second, it was the only confirmation he needed. He quickly recaptured her lips and pressed her against the wall, not allowing her the opportunity to over think. She bent to his every will, and while he knew a lot of it had to do with the alcohol that was still on her breath, he also knew that she wanted it. How else would they have ended up in this same situation three times in one day? And now she was finally letting it happen. He didn’t care what the reason was. This was right. That was all he needed to know.

He slipped his hands under her shirt and pressed his palms against the smooth skin of her back as he held her. She was a little skinnier than he remembered, and as he slid his hands farther up her back, he realized she was a little more braless than he remembered, too. He groaned into her mouth and felt her body tremble as she reacted to the carnal sound. He grasped her hair in one hand, pulling her head back gently to gain access to the sensitive flesh of her throat. She clutched his shirt and pressed her lower half harder against him.

“Jason,” she said breathlessly. “Penny.”

He moved his lips back to hers, teasing the swollen flesh relentlessly while he guided her to his bedroom. She turned the knob on the door, and he shut it behind them before pushing her back onto his bed. He wanted to see her. All of her. He pulled his shirt off, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position to watch. He joined Gabby on the bed to reach a hand behind her and undo the sash of her shirt. Her face was hot, her eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and desire.

He leaned in and kissed her stomach as he slid the shirt up, following the hem with his mouth. When he reached her breasts, he paused. Her heart was racing beneath his lips, and when he moved his tongue to tease her nipples, she grasped his hair in her hand, holding him in place. She liked it. She wanted more. Jason’s ego soared, and he finished pulling her shirt over her head before laying her gently down on the comforter. She was beautiful. He marveled at the familiar freckles scattered over her torso, and he ran the palm of his hand over her body, watching her arch into his touch. She reached up to touch his face, and there were tears in her eyes. He leaned down to kiss her.

“Don’t cry, Gabby,” he murmured, touching his nose to hers.

She didn’t reply, but the tears never fell to her cheeks. She pushed her mouth into his, distracting him, letting her tongue pass over his lips. He allowed her access, and his hands went to the button of her jeans while hers went to his. Soon, there were only two garments separating them, and he quickly shed his boxers before sliding the lacy panties down her thighs. He’d never seen her wear anything like that. He liked it. He pulled himself over her and slid his fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh, feeling the skin tremble beneath his touch.

He felt through the curls until he found what he was looking for, and a rush traveled through his body as hers reacted. She pressed herself into his hand and threw her head back into the sheets, biting her lip to keep from making the sounds he desperately wanted to hear. He was going to have a hard time keeping control. Every move she made was erotic. He took a deep breath and moved his finger in small circles before sliding down to slip it inside of her. She was tight and wet, suggesting she hadn’t been with anyone in a while. Had she slept with anyone else at all? She probably had. The thought fired his possessive instincts.

As he stroked the fleshy part inside of her, a moan escaped her throat and she clutched the sheets, her eyes closed in a fit of ecstasy. He felt the muscles contract once, telling him she was ready. He would always know her best. And he would make sure she knew that. He removed his finger and tasted the moisture before grabbing a condom from the nightstand and nudging her knees apart. She opened her eyes, and hazel met blue. Her breath came hard and fast, and she propped herself up on her elbow to wrap an arm around Jason’s neck—one last kiss before he entered her warmth for the first time in five years. He rested himself at her entrance, and she pressed her face close to his as she angled her hips welcomingly. He pushed into her, and she tightened her hold, gasping in his ear.

“Jason,” she breathed. Her hips matched his slow, steady thrusts.

It was better than it had ever been, and he wondered why. Was it the desperation? Was it him? Was it her? Had she learned a few new things in the city? He couldn’t stand the thought.

“Say you’re mine, Gabby,” he said, groaning with the effort it took to keep from losing control.

Her only response was a soft grunt as he quickened his movements.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she said with a moan.

She arched into him, and her breathing grew louder. Her muscles tensed, and her body began to clench around him. He didn’t have to hold on any longer. Burying his face in her hair, he let himself go. He thrust into her hard and fast, and soft, feminine sounds of ecstasy reached his ears. She whispered his name, and then her body convulsed. His own explosion followed close behind, and he continued to pump in and out of her, letting them both ride out the orgasm until they were spent. He moved to the side to keep from collapsing on top of her, and then the only sound in the room was heavy breathing and crinkling latex. She rolled into him, and he wrapped an arm around her, already nearing sleep.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He glanced down at her.

She wasn’t looking at him, and her eyes were closed. Did she even know she’d said it out loud? He was too happy to care.

“I love you, too.”

* * * *

Gabby awoke with a start. It was dark, and she was in an unfamiliar place. Then she looked next to her and saw Jason lying there, very asleep and very naked. She rested her head back on the pillow and glanced at the alarm clock. 2 am. She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. Of all the thoughts and questions racing through her muddled mind, she picked out the most important. Did she regret it?

Not exactly. But her life had just become ten times more complicated. And had she actually said she loved him? Make that a hundred times more complicated. She rolled away from him and groaned. Suddenly, another consideration pushed to the forefront of her mind, and she got up, ran to the bathroom, and doubled over the toilet to expel the contents of her stomach. Which seemed to mostly involve alcohol.

“Shit,” she muttered, reaching for a tissue to wipe her mouth.

She sat back on the floor. Gross. Would it kill him to use a vacuum? She stood and went back to the bedroom to put her clothes on. She meant what she’d said—she did love him. But she wasn’t about to deal with Penny’s curious looks at breakfast or the awkward conversation that would follow with Jason. Come to think of it, she also didn’t want to deal with the awkward conversation between her and her parents if she showed up to get ready for the funeral in the same clothes she’d left in last night. It would have been bad enough if nothing had happened, but now that something had happened, she couldn’t deal with everyone’s questions. She had to leave.

Gabby took one last look at Jason’s handsome, peaceful face before leaving the bedroom. Thank God his heavy sleeping hadn’t changed. She slipped on the shoes she’d left at the front door and borrowed a flashlight, then left the house and started her trek across the back field. Her body ached, but in a good way. She shook off the feeling and started to run. The air was moist and heavy; it would rain soon. Perfect weather for a funeral. When she reached the wood, she hesitated, walking along the edge to find the break in the trees.

The irrigation pond was half full, and the moonlight reflected off of the water. She looked around for the familiar willow that time and the elements had bent to the ground. She pressed her palm against the trunk. The air smelled like dirt and impending rain. She’d never gotten used to the thick, man-made scent of the city. Was she ever supposed to? She sat down carefully and ran her hands over the rough bark. They’d sat here together so many times, just talking. She remembered discussing what their wedding would be like, what their house would look like, how many animals they wanted, and how many kids they would have.

* FLASHBACK *

“You know that house on the corner of Pine and Johnson?” Jason murmured.

“With the blue shutters?”

“Mm hm.”

Jason sat behind her on the bent tree, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. It was dark, and they watched the water ripple as pond skaters glided over the surface. Everything was serene, everything was perfect—life hadn’t interfered yet.

“I like that one. And it’s not too far from home.” Gabby rested her head back against his shoulder.

He tenderly kissed the skin of her exposed throat, sending chills through her body. She sighed contentedly.

“Are we gonna get married?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

Gabby smiled, and Jason kissed her cheek. It had always been a given. Of course they would be together forever. But she never got tired of hearing him say it.

“We need a house with a big yard,” she continued.

“For the dogs.”

“For the kids.”

“Jason, Jr,” he said softly, testing the sound of it.

Gabby turned to look at him and wrinkled her nose.

“That’s boring.”

“It’s not boring.”

“But there are so many names out there. There’s no need to reuse.”

“Billy’s naming his kid Billy.”

“Billy doesn’t even know if it’s a boy yet.”

Jason grinned and rested his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes and smiled.

“Then what do you suggest?” he asked.

Jason’s breath tickled her skin, and she captured his lips quickly in hers before meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know. I like Ross. And Jasmine, Daniel, Roxanne.”

“You want our kid to be named after a hooker?”

“Just because a rock band tainted the name doesn’t mean we have to perpetuate it.”

Jason smiled and gently tugged her hair.

“We have plenty of time to figure it out,” he reminded her.

“I know.”

* END FLASHBACK *

Gabby stood abruptly and stared at the spot for a moment, then turned and continued through the trees toward her house. Her parents had left the porch light on. When she reached front door, she dug in her pocket for her keys and slid an old silver one into the lock. She closed the door quietly behind her, locked it, and tiptoed up the stairs to her room. She wanted a shower but wasn’t willing to risk waking up her parents. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was coated in dried sweat from her night with Jason and dirt from her run through the fields. She picked a twig out of her hair and stripped, pulling a comfortable pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt out of her suitcase before throwing herself onto her bed. She would deal with the rest of the dirt when she woke up again.

* * * *

“Gabby…” Her mother’s voice drifted to her ears, and she opened her eyes groggily, trying to focus. “Gabby, it’s 10 o’clock. You need to get up and get ready.”

She sat up. Her mother was sitting on the bed beside her.

“Are you okay? You don’t look so good and you slept later than usual.”

Once again, last night’s adventures came rushing back to her, and she put a hand to her aching head.

“Oh, yeah, I…drank a little more than I meant to.”

“Hm.” Her mother looked disapproving but let it go. “And how was your night with Jason? Did you have fun?”

Yes. A little more than she’d meant to.

“Yeah, actually, I did.”

“Good.” Her mother beamed, then wrapped her daughter in a quick hug.

“I’m so glad you’re getting out more this visit. And that you’re giving you two another chance. Now get up and get dressed.”

Her mother left and Gabby got out of bed. She’d never said she was giving them a second chance. But was she? She pulled out the black dress she’d brought for the funeral and hung it on her door before heading into the bathroom. Well, she’d gone out with him, kissed him, slept with him, and then told him she loved him. She supposed that counted as trying to make it work again. But she was only here for one more day. What did it matter how people wanted to define them? She started the shower and welcomed the heated spray, soon washing away any evidence of last night. Except for the mark it had left on her heart.

She turned off the water and glared at her shampoo bottle—but her problems weren’t the shampoo bottle’s fault. She sighed and wrapped herself in a towel to go to her room. She used her hair dryer and flat iron before pulling her dress over her head and stretching both arms in a joint effort to zip the back. It was pretty, sleeveless, but demure enough for a funeral.

“Gabby, are you ready?” her mother called up the stairs.

“Coming!”

She grabbed her purse, put on sandals, and hurried down the stairs. Her mother was wearing a dark blue dress, and her father was in a suit. She hated funerals. Why had she come home for this? But she already knew why. Because Mrs. Grayson had been an important part of the community and an important part of her childhood. Gabby had only seen her at the diner once or twice a week, but the woman had always been interested in what was going on in her life and always had her two cents to put in. When Gabby was five, Mrs. Grayson would listen intently as she recounted pony rides, and when she was older, she would give her a free milkshake when she came in during exam week. And if Gabby was being petty toward Jason, Mrs. Grayson would call her on it.

* FLASHBACK *

“What’s the matter with you?”

Gabby looked up from her plate of fries. She sat at the counter, away from the other kids who had just gotten out of class. Mrs. Grayson stood there, pausing on her way to take coffee to one of the state construction workers. They were always in there and always trying to flirt with Caitlin, but Mrs. Grayson kept them in line. She had gray hair and a small stature, but she made people listen. Which was probably why Gabby found herself reluctantly opening up now.

“Jason and I are fighting.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, God, it’s not Rosa again, is it?”

Gabby was taken aback. “How did you know?”

“I know everything.” Her piercing gray eyes bore into Gabby from behind her wire-framed glasses, leaving no room for argument. “Now what’s the dumb broad done this time?”

“She’s always wearing short skirts and has her cleavage hanging out. And I caught Jason looking today.”

Mrs. Grayson put a hand on her hip. “Well, he’s a man, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but…he’s my man.”

“Then get out there and remind him. Don’t bother paying for the fries.”

She took a nickel out of her pocket and rolled it toward her.

“And keep this between your knees. You don’t need to give him too much of a reminder.”

* END FLASHBACK *

If Mrs. Grayson were here now and knew what was going on, she would tell Gabby to get over it. Tragedy was no reason to stand in the way of God’s plan. Gabby felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, and as they all piled into the SUV, the rain started. Perfect.

They pulled up to the church about two minutes before a familiar red truck. Gabby stepped down, opened her umbrella, and watched Jason lift Penny out of the cab. Rosa was talking with her family in front of the double doors and crossed the parking lot to meet them, her short black dress accentuating her long legs. Jason said something to her, shrugging and grinning as he did so, and Rosa laughed before taking a comb out of her purse and squatting next to Penny. The little girl was beautiful, just like her mother, and she’d inherited the same high-maintenance hair. Gabby closed the car door and glanced at her own reflection. The red hair and freckles would always seem plain next to Rosa’s gorgeous blond curls and alabaster skin. Penny was lucky. And Jason was lucky to have had such a lovely daughter. She followed her parents inside the church, shaking hands with the funeral director and taking a program. Her family settled in a middle pew with the Dawsons, and Jason found them a moment later. Gabby’s mother was sitting on her right, and Jason sat on her left.

“You didn’t stay,” he said.

He spoke only loud enough for her to hear, but embarrassment made her want to shush him. She glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention before resting her gaze on him. He’d shaved, and he was wearing a navy blue suit. He looked just as good as he had the day before, in his dirty jeans and T-shirt. But now was not the time to let images of the previous night slip into her mind. She cleared her throat and looked toward the casket. People were going up to pay their respects, but she didn’t want to see Mrs. Grayson like that. No matter how well their hair and makeup were done, the deceased never looked the same. She’d rather pay her respects from far away.

“I just didn’t think it was the best idea,” she whispered.

He settled back on the pew and grinned.

“Well, maybe next time.”

“Cocky,” she muttered, still refusing to look at him.

She was taken completely off guard when she felt his arm around her shoulders.

“This is a funeral, Jason, not a movie.”

“Mrs. Grayson wouldn’t care.”

She sighed and let him keep his arm where it was. She enjoyed the warmth of his solid torso beside her, but, even more, she enjoyed knowing that no one around them would read too much into the gesture, at least not during the funeral.

“Sh!” both of their mothers hissed at the same time.

It was starting.

Blog Tour Announcement

Blog Tour for Rosa’s Story

August 25-29

August 25: Contest on the Heather Lin Facebook page! You could win a $10 e-gift card to Bath & Bodyworks!

August 26: Another chance to win a $10 e-gift card to Bath & Bodyworks! This time on Twitter. I’ll also be guest blogging on Love Romance Passion.

August 27: Interview at Romance Junkies!

August 28: I’ll be guest blogging at one of my favorite spots, Cait Spivey‘s blog!

August 29: I’ll be doing a Q&A for Romance Reviews Today, and I’ll also be guest blogging at Just Contemporary Romance!

Don’t forget! When I reach 200 likes on Facebook, I’ll give away a $20 Amazon gift card!

 

Free Story!

Shana is a single mother who finds comfort in the arms of a sexy, single father.

One of Them Hot Summers

by Heather Lin

Shana was the only white woman on the block. Her first floor apartment didn’t have air conditioning, and the summer was a scorcher. All she could do was open the windows and hope a breeze passed through to give her and her two children some relief. Between taking care of them and waitressing six nights a week, she’d had little time to unpack. They were still living mostly out of boxes.

But today was her day off. The custody battle was settled. Her children had made friends. She could finally try and make this place some kind of home.

Her white tank top stuck to her sweaty chest as she leaned out the living room window to check on her two young sons. They were jumping through a stream of water on the sidewalk while a little girl held the hose. Her mother was sitting on the front step, talking on a cordless phone and keeping an eye on them. Her boys looked happy.

It was easy to tell they were mixed—their skin was light brown, and Jasper, the youngest, had blue eyes. They were beautiful, and she made sure they knew that, but some people just wouldn’t accept them.

Yet the minute they’d moved to this block, she’d felt the sense of home they were all longing for. Neighbor after neighbor stopped by to introduce themselves and each one came bearing some kind of food. Shana sighed and glanced at her messy kitchen. She should return the favor. But all of these boxes seemed impossible. She opened a box of pots and dishes but had barely gotten through half the hand-me-down Longaberger when a knock sounded on her open door. She turned, running a hand through her long blond hair in an effort to keep it from sticking to her neck.

A tall, smooth-skinned black man stood in the doorway, smiling with perfect white teeth. His skin was dark, straight African, and it glistened like dark chocolate melting in the heat of the sun. There was something about hot summer days on the streets of New York City. Shana’s lust was instant.

“I’m Coffie,” the man introduced himself. “My mother lives next door—Ms. Fifi? I thought I’d come say hello.”

Shana wiped the dust from her hands on to her skin-tight jeans. She’d heard some talk about Ms. Fifi’s good-lookin’ son.

“It’s good to meet you. Ms. Fifi’s been real kind to us.”

She took his strong hand in hers and shook it. Her knees went weak. God, he was beautiful. Late thirties, confident, proud. He was in dress slacks and a wifebeater—the perfect combination of clean and casual.

“Us?” he asked, glancing around the doorframe at the children playing. “The two boys outside are yours?”

Shana nodded and joined him at the door. Her kids had moved into the street now, with two girls who looked just a bit older than them.

“The girls are mine,” Coffie said.

“They’re beautiful. Is your wife visiting with your mother?”

“No wife. God knows where their mother is.” He gave a small smile, and Shana returned it.

“Would you like a drink?” she offered. “Soda or water? I could make lemonade.”

“Lemonade sounds great.”

Coffie folded his tall frame to sit at Shana’s small kitchen table, and she pulled a pitcher from the open box. Coffie turned the dial of a box fan with no result.

“It’s broken,” Shana explained.

She was unapologetic, but simple things like that served to remind her that her life wasn’t everything she’d hoped for as a little girl. She was tired, single, broke, and…God…just looking at those large, strong hands made her all too aware of how long it had been since she’d been with a man.

“I can fix it for you. I’ll bring it back in a day or two.”

Shana was surprised at the offer. But, then, she’d spent the last two weeks being surprised by people’s kindness. She’d barely known her neighbors when she was growing up, and she’d never expected to be accepted, to make friends here. But she had. And here was one more—one more incredibly gorgeous friend.

She nearly spilled some of her lemon juice and bit her lip, trying to keep her desire in check. But it overwhelmed her. She couldn’t explain it. Perfection had walked through her door, and she couldn’t help her attraction to it.

Shana opened the cabinet above her head and reached for two glasses. They were on the top shelf. In an instant, Coffie was there, close, grabbing two of them easily.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

She poured the drinks and handed one to him. He remained standing as he took a long sip. Her gaze lingered on his smooth lips. He caught her looking and smiled. She returned the gesture and stared at a cardboard box on the floor.

“If you need help unpacking, I’m sure my mother and her sisters would be more than happy to come over.”

“She’s already offered, but thank you. I can handle it.”

“I bet you say that a lot.”

She glanced at him, confused and intrigued by his assumption. He didn’t even know her. “Why do you say that?”

“Single parents.” He shrugged, the muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath his dark skin. “We think we can do it all.”

Shana smiled and finished the rest of her drink. “Yes, we do.”

Coffie set his empty glass down on the counter and reached his hand out to shake hers.

“It was good meeting you, Shana. I’ll see you again soon.”

He took her fan with him and walked out the door. Shana went to the window to watch him wrangle his children. She bit her lip again, too aware of her body. He’d awakened something within her, and she knew the attraction was mutual.

She couldn’t wait to see him again.

 

****

 

The heat wave was just beginning. In one week, Shana had successfully unpacked all of her kitchen supplies, and now she could barely bring herself to move. The children were outside playing again. Someone had managed to break open a fire hydrant, and there was no point in letting the cool water go to waste. Shana sat in front of the television set. She couldn’t afford cable, so she watched soap operas, barely able to pay attention for the sweat dripping down her neck and between her breasts. She had to leave for work in five hours—a night shift. Ms. Fifi had been kind enough to agree to come over and watch the boys for her.

Shana closed her eyes and sighed, pulling the thin fabric of yet another tank top high on her torso until it barely covered her breasts. She was already in the shortest shorts she could find. She was getting worried she’d die of heatstroke. Where was Coffie and that fan?

Shana had hoped it was an excuse to see her again. The very thought of him heated her veins, just as the sun heated her skin. He was so beautiful, with that skin the color of night, and that deep, sexy voice.

“Shana?”

She must be hallucinating. But when she opened her eyes, the man himself stood in her doorway, bearing what she hoped was a working box fan. She realized her haggard, barely-covered appearance and stood to straighten her clothes and hair. Coffie’s eyes raked shamelessly over her body.

“You look like a snowflake about to melt in this heat.”

“I feel like it, too.”

Coffie grinned and set the fan on the table. He helped himself to a glass of water in the kitchen, already comfortable enough to make himself at home in hers. And she didn’t mind it. Not one bit.

He took a long sip, then offered it to her. She licked her lips. The gesture was intimate. She raised the glass to her lips. The very knowledge that his had been there was more than enough to elicit fresh, wet heat between her thighs.

Her heartbeat quickened, and her tongue darted out once more to rid her lips of excess moisture. Coffie’s eyes fixed on the movement. She shifted and squeezed her thighs together, attempting to sate the desire she felt.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Coffie didn’t respond. Instead, he reached out to take the cup away and put it on the counter. Then he grasped her waist and pulled her close. Shana glanced at the open door, but Coffie didn’t seem to care if anyone walked in on them. He pressed his soft, smooth lips to hers, kissing her sweetly at first, then harder, his tongue begging entry to her mouth as the craving grew stronger.

Shana’s head spun. She hadn’t experienced this type of pulse-pounding desire in too long. Her breasts heaved, heat coming at her from every direction now. She felt blissful, dizzy. His lips moved to her neck, slowly teasing the sweet spot beneath her ear as his hand worked its way up her thigh. She held on for the ride as his fingers easily breached her shorts, pushing aside the thin denim and cotton panties. Then his large fingertips worked their magic. He held her steady with one arm and used his other hand to toy ruthlessly with the hard nub of her clit.

Shana gasped and shook against him. God, he was amazing. Waves of pleasure swept over her in a steady, methodic rhythm. And just when she thought it couldn’t get any better, Coffie dipped his index finger between her damp folds, stimulating her from the inside out, bringing a swift and sense-shattering climax.

She quivered in his arms, then glanced around to make sure no one was gawking at the windows. She moved her gaze back to Coffie’s. He raised his fingers to his mouth, tasting her and heating her blood all over again. Her mouth fell open. She could feel his large, hard need pressing against her thigh, but he asked for nothing in return.

“I’ll see you again, Shana,” he said, nuzzling her ear.

“Looking forward to it,” she managed.

She watched him leave, her lust and desire barely satisfied. Then she turned on the fan, ready to wait out the heat once again.