Eden Connor's Blog, page 10

A Hot Man and a Quickie ~ Are Your Girlie Parts Squeakin'?

The hot man: 
Romance cover model John Quinlan looks so hot in this pic, I think I'm gonna write him into an episode of Carmine Club. I already have a title for it: Come to Bed. (chuckle) Maybe we can all drop by his Facebook fan page and ask if he'd prefer to be in an episode exploring the female fantasy of being with two men at once, or if the idea of being dominated by a woman floats his boat? (He'll kill me if you do!) But I'm inspired, not to mention feeling some serious brand loyalty for Tommy Hilfiger at the moment.

Contact links for John. He loves to hear from his fans. I wonder how many e-mails start with : "Oh my god, you're so hot I wanna rub ice all over you?"
http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.com/http://www.johnquinlan.org/http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan






The quickie: 

(unedited excerpt from Carmine Club no. 01, Forceful Negotiations)

Pleased to say this story went off to Tammy Parks for editing yesterday, so I might be able to announce a launch date soon. You can tell from poking around on my blog, I'm still obsessing over the cover, but Tammy's offered me a Gimp intervention. She plans to install  a zapper on my keyboard if I open the file again to edit it. I kinda hope her tekkie skills aren't as highly developed as her editing skill. :/



The seductive scent of java and the knowledge Joseph Gilante would be camped out in her workroom made Teague hurry down the hall and  into the room at the back of her shop. Joseph was the type of man to wipe his damn feet. Or not. An empty creamer container whizzed past her nose when she stepped through the door, hitting the edge of the tall metal trash can beside her work table and careening away. Skidding across the linoleum, the plastic bottle left a trail of white liquid in its wake. Jerking backwards, she forgot about her wet shoes. Joseph's dark eyes registered guilt when she glared at him and snapped. "If that's the last of the creamer, then thank you for making me a cup of coffee."He flashed incredibly white teeth. Teague was convinced the man had a crush on his dentist. "Well, hello, Miss McBitchy Tits." Joe's deep voice rumbled in the quiet room. "Did the doctor choke on the cloud of dust he had to wade through to check your girlie parts, or is the poor fella okay?"There were times having a gay man for a best friend was a pain in the ass. Though he cultivated the blue-collar look of a carpenter, with his worn jeans and shaggy dark waves, he abhorred manual labor. The muscles straining his sleeves came from long gym workouts, not lifting bricks and boards. Shoving the hood off her hair, Teague stalked across the workroom. His broad shoulders shook with amusement, causing coffee to slosh from the Styrofoam cup. Teague smiled grimly when the hot liquid ran down the front of his shirt. Grabbing a napkin, he dabbed at the stain, muttering curses. She narrowed her gaze. "McBitchy tits? Seriously? First you drink all my creamer, then you have the nerve to call me Miss McBitchy Tits? Did you hear the joke about the self-fulfilling prophecy?"Abandoning the effort to clean his white sweatshirt, Joe tossed the wadded towel on the counter. Raising the cup, he pursed his lips and blew across the steaming surface. Mischief danced in his eyes, despite his effort to look wounded. Teague plucked the cup from between his large fingers and steeled herself for what he might say next. "When have I ever not replaced the creamer? Fresh bottle, in the fridge. And your mail's on the table under the newspaper. Not one customer came in while you were gone. And why didn't you get the doc to oil your parts? I hear somethin' squeakin'."Flushing, Teague snapped, "Some redneck over compensatin' with tires three sizes too big for his pickup relocated a puddle onto my shoes." Turning her back on him to shove aside the newspaper littering her worktable, she sipped the hot liquid. Sorting through the stack of envelopes and colorful fliers, she spied Declan Corporation's logo—the one beginning to pop up on sold signs plastered to buildings in the blocks behind theirs. Teague slammed the cup on the table and snatched up a red pen Joe had used to circle some real estate listings. She wrote the same message across the front of the envelope in a slashing handwriting. Return to sender, addressee unknown. These Declan folks were hard of learnin', her grandfather would've said.  Joseph's large hands squeezed her shoulders and his warm breath ruffled her hair. "Sweetheart, they know you live in this building. That's not fooling anyone."Squeezing her eyes shut against the sting of tears, Teague couldn't help the note of accusation in her tone. "You're goin' to sell out, aren’t you, Joe?" "It's called turnin' a profit, little bit. They agree to my figures and I'm gone. Sell this damn building, Teague. Buy something smaller. Hell, have a real artist's studio built. Jorge didn't leave you this place to tie you down. He left it to you to give you wings."Teague had no intention of selling her building to Declan Corporation. They could build their fancy new headquarters around her for all she cared. Joe bought and sold commercial property the way she bought and sold gold, but this was home. She tried to picture her workroom devoid of his big body. More than the space felt empty. 
Thanks for droppin' by. Have a great week!

A Hot Man and a Quickie ~ Carmine Club No. 01 Teaser

The hot man:
http://facebook.com/phatpuppyartistEnjoy some more gorgeousness from romance cover model John Quinlan, spiced up by delicious artwork by Claudia McKinney at http://facebook.com/phatpuppyartist  Makes you wanna write a post-apocalyptic romance, doesn't it?

Contact links for John:
http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.comhttp://www.johnquinlan.org/
http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan


The quickie: 




Take one fully restored antebellum mansion. Add one wealthy woman with too much time on her hands. Shake them together, and you've got a recipe for fun when Willa Davis Seachrist opens a private club dedicated to the satisfaction of female sex fantasies.

But things are going horribly wrong. She’s drawn the attention of the local sheriff—who just happens to be Mac Rinehart, an old flame.

And now the damn Cupid has moved in…

(unedited excerpt from Carmine Club No. 01)
Iron urns lined the drive behind the house, cuddling boxwood topiaries coaxed into corkscrew shapes. A white peacock fanned his tail at the man loitering on the sidewalk. Unlike the guard at the gate, this man wore a traditional black tuxedo but he rushed toward the elegant bird in a most undignified manner. The peacock folded his long tail feathers and raced for safety, making her grin. She braked to a stop and rolled down her window. The young man abandoned his chase, rushing to open her door. His short dash across the lawn caused his dark hair stand up in spikes. He could use a shave, but the five o'clock shadow suited his looks. Happy to stretch her legs after her long drive, Teague stepped from the car. A flash of light blinded her. She'd swear the black-clad figure glowed. Shading her eyes, she glanced over his shoulder in time to see the big bird halt suddenly and fall over on his side, for no apparent reason. Then she realized from the peacock's reflection that huge glass panels had been fitted between the columns on the ground floor. Cozy café tables lined the windows beneath the bowed porches she'd admired. The sun must've hit the glass, causing the flare of light. Remembering her manners and wondering whether or not she should offer the young man a tip, she thanked him. Is he my escort? His chocolate eyes were what she always pictured whenever someone used the phrase "bedroom eyes." Their serious expression drew her to stare into them. He suddenly grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly between both of his. "I hope you find what need here, Teague." He has beautiful lips, she thought dazedly, but the gesture shocked her. More shocking was her sudden urge to kiss him. With a wink, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, "Try not to step in the bird poop. That cocky little bastard saves it for the sidewalk, I swear. Chuckling, Teague decided he was simply being friendly. She settled her heavy purse on her shoulder and started up the walk, eager to see her friend and the interior of the home she'd heard so much about. The back door opened. Another young man loped down the stairs before she'd taken three steps. "I apologize for not meetin' you at your car, Miss Tillis. I'm Kurt, your escort for the weekend." Kurt had blue eyes and close-cropped blonde hair. His uniform matched the one worn by the gate attendant. The lapels of his jacket strained to meet across a broad chest. "Oh? I thought the guy in the tux was my escort." "Only guests wear tuxedos, Miss Tillis. Employees dress like me." Kurt extended his arm, bent at the elbow. Puzzled, Teague looked over her shoulder. A showy group of iridescent blue and green peacocks and plainer hens split into two directions on the rolling lawn, squawking as if someone had disturbed them, but there was no one there.

Have a great weekend, and thanks for dropping in!

Jesus and Judas...in love? Yes, THAT Jesus.

I invited fellow author Julie Lynn Hayes to drop. She's written a story I'm delighted to help introduce. Of course, it's a love story. Between Jesus and Judas Iscariot. Yes, that Jesus.

The Making of Revelations: How it came to be

The idea was born many years ago. Over forty, actually. When I was a teenager. Back then, it didn’t have a name, and it had no real shape. But I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell the story of Judas Iscariot. The trouble was I didn’t know how. 

What drew me to Judas, is probably what you’re asking yourself, and that’s a valid question. Ask anyone else who Judas is and you’ll get answers that are probably all variations on a theme of betrayal. I’m not sure exactly when I began to question that, but I do know that when I saw Jesus Christ Superstar performed live back in 1971 (or thereabouts), I had an epiphany regarding him. I saw him, not as the bad guy as often portrayed, but someone who not only believed in Jesus but was willing to do what he needed him to do. For without Judas’ “betrayal” of Jesus, the story would not have worked out the way it did. It needed to happen that way. And if you read the Gospel of Judas, he was the only apostle who trusted Jesus enough to do that for him. Gives one food for thought, doesn’t it?

Very interesting, but where’s the story, I wondered. Was I going to take an historical perspective, research the man and his life? Easier said than done, especially back then. We had no Internet. We didn’t even have computers. Research was all done through books. Libraries had card catalogs, a far cry from today when you can log onto your library website and browse their selection, then request what you want. So I looked and I found bupkus (nothing). I had the Bible, of course, but it tends to be limited on information, as well as a bit biased.

So nothing was written, and I let it go, as my thoughts formulated in the back of my head. In the meantime, I was reading, watching… and learning. King of Kings was my first Biblical movie, and I loved it. Jeffrey Hunter’s portrayal of Jesus is very moving, and I was very enamored of the film. Jesus Christ Superstar – I think I know all the words, I’ve listened so many times. I liked the stage version, but the first film not so much. 

Besides watching these things and others, I read. Christopher Moore’s Lamb, The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. What a fabulous book! I loved it! So much I bought the special edition. And I read The Gospel of Judas! Forty years ago I’d never heard of such a thing. Of course I read the DaVinci Code, and watched the movie. And everything began to percolate inside my head…

Then one day it happened. Judas spoke to me, for the first time. And I simply began to write it down, not knowing what he might say, or where his story might lead. It turned out to be quite the story and took me on quite the journey, and led to places that I didn’t expect it to. If he’d have spoken forty years ago, I would not have been ready to receive his message. But my life up until the moment that I first heard him speak prepared me. And the result is Revelations.

The original title was Kyrie Eleison, a tribute to the Mister Mr. song, Kyrie. Kyrie eleison means Christ, have mercy on us. But then fellow author Marie Sexton, who was reading Kyrie for me at the time, suggested a simpler title. A better title. Revelations. So Revelations it became.

I know there are people who will not like Revelations, and by extension, me. People who will not see the message it carries, only that it does not follow what they believe. But ultimately, no matter what you believe, Revelations is a story of love. Love is the message, and love is something that binds us all together.

Revelations is love.

Thank you for having me here, enjoy your day!
Blurb:

Judas has never been very popular, not in any incarnation that he and Jesus and the others have lived through. But he doesn't care about that. All he cares about is following the instructions of God as set forth in the script that they follow. And Jesus. For Judas has secretly loved the son of God for over two thousand years.
 
But now he decides that enough is enough, and he's tired of watching Jesus die far too early, and for what? This time Judas is determined to see that Jesus lives a long and happy life, no matter what price he has to pay to accomplish it...no matter if he has to make a deal with the devil himself.
 
Revelations is a story of what could be, told by those who play it out, time after time after time, unbeknownst to the rest of mankind.  They've come back again, for yet another round.  But this time is going to be different.  


Excerpt:


Prologue: God            It's not always easy to sit on the sidelines and watch what is happening, to resist the urge to intervene in his best interest.  My son's that is. Jesus. But I do so, because I know it's for his own good.  As well as for the good of mankind. I can't let my concerns as his father override my vested interest in the fate of man. But sometimes that is easier said than done.
            This morning I am not alone. Someone else is with me, someone with his own agenda, although we are not as diametrically opposed as some would imagine us to be. Good and evil aren't the simplistic concepts some would portray them as being—there are more grey areas there than you might think. And rightly so.
            He smirks. Too much for my taste, I have to admit, but sometimes he does have his moments, and he too has a part to play in what is happening in the world of men. Someone needs to fill the role of the villain, after all.
            The stage is being set for the third act, the scripts have been handed round, and the actors are taking their places. Will this time end any differently than the others? That depends on my son, on Jesus. I'm thinking this will be the time when he'll make the change.
            "He'll change nothing," Lucifer interjects, although I've asked him nothing, certainly not inquired as to his opinion. 
            I glance at him. He's dressed to within an inch of his life, and wears the most ridiculous sunglasses I've ever seen. I decide not to comment on his fashion sense. "I think he might, this time. I think he's ready for change."
            Lucifer snorts. "It's been two thousand years, and neither one has exactly caught on yet. Why should this time be any different?"
            "Care to put your money where your mouth is?"
            He eyes me carefully. "I would, but you see you have this whole mystic omnipotent God thing going on. Personally, I don't care for those odds."
            I arch an eyebrow. "I may be omnipotent, but Jesus does have free will  and he does possess the ability to make his own decisions. You think I'd stack the deck in my son's favor? Just to win a bet with you?"
            "Let's say I'm taking no chances." He smiles. "Tell you what, though—give me free rein.  Let me do what I want, and you not say anything or do anything to interfere with me? As far as they're concerned, that is."
            I open my mouth to object, he hastily interjects. "No killing, I swear to it."
            That's better. I still have some measure of control over the serpent.
            "So be it." I agree, turning my attention back to where it had been, to my son.  I'm smirking now. Openly.
            O ye of little faith, watch and learn.


Julie Lynn Hayes was reading at the age of two and writing by the age of nine and always wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Two marriages, five children, and more than forty years later, that is still her dream. She blames her younger daughters for introducing her to yaoi and the world of M/M love, a world which has captured her imagination and her heart and fueled her writing in ways she'd never dreamed of before. She especially loves stories of two men finding true love and happiness in one another's arms and is a great believer in the happily ever after. She lives in St. Louis with her daughter Sarah and two cats, loves books and movies, and hopes to be a world traveler some day. While working a temporary day job, she continues to write her books and stories and reviews, which she posts in various places on the internet. Her family thinks she is a bit off, but she doesn't mind. Marching to the beat of one's own drummer is a good thing, after all.  Her published works can be found at Dreamspinner Press, and MuseitUp Publishing, and she has also begun to self-publish at various places on the Internet.  
My Links:
My blog:  http://julielynnhayes.blogspot.com
My facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=527332074
My Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3442231.Julie_Lynn_Hayes

When available for purchase, you can find Revelations here: http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php

Add to Goodreads:   http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17261534-revelations

A Hot Man and a Quickie

 The hot man:

http://phatpuppyart.blogspot.com/

Romance cover model John Quinlan  generously shared his latest round of cover shots with me. This one is gorgeous, isn't it? 
Contact links for John: http://irishjohnquinlan.blogspot.comhttp://www.johnquinlan.org/http://twitter.com/johnjquinlan

The quickie:
(unedited excerpt from Carmine Club No. 1)


Her stomach tightened while she watched the bastard stroll up to her window like he had all day. Mac still walked with the same arrogant strut he'd had in his days as their high school quarterback. If he’d gone bald or gotten fat, Willa wouldn't mind the lecture she was about to get, but if possible, Mac looked better at forty-two than he had at eighteen. She wished she hadn't lowered the convertible top, so she could have the petty pleasure of making him have to ask her to roll down her window.At least the prick had gone grey around his temples. Those glints of silver do not make him hotter. She caught herself raking her fingers through her hair and promptly squelched the classic signal of sexual attraction.  “Where’s the damn fire?” Mac glared over mirrored sunglasses.  Of course the bastard's blue uniform shirt made his damn eyes look like two large drops of the Mediterranean. "I see you've still got a lead foot, Willa. Now you've got a rocket ship on wheels to go with it. That's a dangerous combination."Turning to stare straight ahead, Willa flipped a hand over the side of the car, her license and insurance card held between two fingers. He made no move to take them. A minute ticked by. Then another. Her cheeks started to feel like they were the fire. Finally, he took her ID and proof of insurance. Gritting her teeth, she watched him from the corner of her eye. He slid them into the breast pocket of his shirt without a glance. The crackling voices from the small radio mounted on his shoulder unnerved her, adding to the static in her head.“Step out of the car.”Willa clenched her jaw, but refused to look at him. “I’ll do no such thing. I was speedin'. Write me a ticket. But I’m in a hurry, so if you could manage to do that efficiently, I’d appreciate it. In fact, why don’t you mail it? You have the address, don’t you? Carmine House, just up the road.” “Woman, you were doing more than twice the legal speed limit. Now you wanna add a charge of refusin' to comply with a lawful order? I can arrest you for both violations. Step out of the car, Willa.” Mac's voice had the metallic quality of a man used to being obeyed.Infuriated, Willa clawed at the door handle, shoving the heavy door open with all her might. Mac sidestepped her petty gesture neatly, the way he'd avoided many a linebacker half their lifetimes ago. “This is an abuse of authority.” Willa huffed, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head so he couldn't miss her haughty look. Her temperature went up ten degrees when he smiled, slow as molasses. Her body reacted to the wayward image in her head—of Mac, his handcuffs, and a dim jail cell—adding to her ire.“Willa, I just saved you from assaultin' an officer. That charge carries mandatory jail time.” His brows raised a notch, as if to ask why she was stalling. The road's edge had a downhill grade of at least twenty degrees, turning the simple act of getting out of the low-slung car in her heels into a challenge to her dignity. Her skirt rode high on her thighs while she struggled. He stood there like a knot on a log, not offering her a hand. Grinning. Like a baboon.Not that she wanted him to touch her. Hell, no. Finally pulling herself erect, looking anywhere except at Mac, she seethed at the way she’d fallen into his hands. Athens was home to the University of Georgia, the oldest state university in the nation. Despite the way the students swelled the population, this city was still a small place. She'd worked her ass off to avoid him since her return, only to end up standing so close she could smell his cheap aftershave. Willa drove her teeth into her tongue to keep from promising him she wouldn’t miss the next time, but he barked again, derailing her train of thought.“Step to the rear of the vehicle and put your hands on the car.”Shocked, Willa studied his eyes, peering at her over his gold rims. Mac was stubborn as a mule, a trait she doubted had softened with time. He'd been elected county sheriff two years ago, running on a platform promising to shut down adult bookstores and lock up more drunk drivers, winning by a landslide. Making him a danger to her and her club. Mac would never take a bribe. Her club was for consenting adults, but what she did wasn't legal, in the strictest terms. She auctioned women's sex fantasies to her male members for satisfaction. She took money from the winning bidder, making her guilty of pandering. Willa believed in the club's purpose enough to risk jail or public scorn, but she was in no hurry to explain to twelve god-fearing citizens of this town why their former homecoming queen, Georgia's one-time  representative in the Miss America pageant, and the ex-wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country had become a pimp. She could afford the ticket. She couldn't afford to give Mac an excuse to start nosing around. She absolutely couldn't risk inflaming the intent look in the sheriff's eyes. The heated examination he gave her, starting at her face, traveling to her shoes and back to her face, let her know what she'd suspected all along.  Mac thought they had unfinished business. Despite her cool reasoning, it was the ghost of eighteen-year old Willa who raised her chin and snapped. “I’ll do no such thing. You’re not gonna cop a cheap feel by pretendin' I need to be frisked, Andrew Mackenzie Rinehart.”
Thanks for dropping in. Have a great weekend!  

The Crack Effect

Ever known anyone addicted to crack? 
I have. My son. I'd like to apologize to him in advance for using him in this example. He's since turned his life around, gotten married and has a child on the way. He won't appreciate this reminder, I'm certain.

Yet the seven years of hell I endured when my son was a crack addict has been on my mind a good deal recently, for reasons unrelated to my child. I've been thinking about what I call 'the crack effect'. See, crack doesn’t just rip open the life of the addict. It reaches out to grab everyone who loves that addict by the throat.
The crack effect, more than the crack addiction itself, tears families apart in some ways I found shocking. My son stole my debit card. He used it to buy his birthday gift from me. Without permission. I discovered he'd stolen my card when I went to buy his gift. Unwittingly, I gave my kid a seven-hundred dollar cocaine birthday party. Hell hath no fury like a mother at the end of her rope. I confronted him. Thanks to him, I'm pretty good at confrontation. He cried. He said he planned to repay me. Payday came. Payday went. No moolah was forthcoming from the munchkin. He had reasons. By this time, what he did best was make up hard luck stories.
I went to my bank and reported the theft. I took their form to the sheriff's department. I signed my name to the statement taken by the detective. The same officer came to my house to take my child in for questioning. He was charged and booked for felony theft by false pretense.
He called me to bail him out. My words? I'll never forget them. "I put you in jail for stealing seven hundred dollars from me, and you think I'm going to hand out thirty-five hundred more to bail you out? Reality check, kid. Time to grow up and accept responsibility for your choices."
I cried. Bitter tears. Tears of anger and frustration, and through it all, I held on to one hope. That at the end of his jail time, he'd be clean. Free of crack.
Then, the crack effect kicked in. He called every relative he could get to accept a collect call. And those relatives in turn called me. Not with sympathy about the tough choice I'd had to make. Oh, hell no.They called to tell me they thought I was a horrible mother for putting my son in jail. My mother-in-law spoke the words I feel best illustrate the crack effect. "Why did you leave your debit card out where he could get to it?"
Did you catch that? That's the crack effect. It's a shift in perspective. The crack addict and thief wasn't to blame for his choices. I was. The entire mess became my fault because I didn't prevent my kid from stealing from me.
The crack effect tapped my mother, too. She was also being called, and she also didn't have the heart to deny the collect call from her only grandson. Her comment is equally etched in my memory. "But you could afford the seven hundred dollars. Did you have to put him in jail?"
In other words, I could afford for my son to steal from me, so why make a fuss?
Why does the crack effect happen? Glad you asked. After pondering the question for five or six years, I've decided the person exhibiting the crack effect has a need that has to be met, much like the addict. My son was begging his grandmothers to bail him out because I would not. Unable to refuse his collect calls and disturbed by his insistent bids to have his need met, these good Christian women developed a need. They needed the calls to stop. The easiest way to make that happen was to shame me into coughing up the bail money.
They both failed.
The rest of the story I'll save for another day. I've related the important part.
To this day, the crack effect lives on. I'm still the villain in this scenario. I'm wrong for believing I should be able to leave my debit card in the middle of my kitchen table, with the PIN number written on a sticky note if I choose, and have a reasonable expectation it will be there, unmolested, when I elect to pick it up again. I'm wrong for putting my son in jail and causing a disturbance in the family.
What does this mean? What's the point? Why am I blogging about a story I won’t finish for you?
Because the point here isn’t the perils of drug addiction.
The crack effect will wear you down, turn you inside out, and make you question the validity of every belief you ever had. And in the process, you will become lost in a fog of gray so thick, you might never see daylight again.
If you stand around long enough, listening to what a person suffering from the crack effect says, you will start to believe you're the fucking villain.  The real villain had no choice, see? He was compelled, for whatever reason, to make a bad choice. But you, you should choose to do what benefits—or causes the least amount of discomfort for— those suffering from the crack effect.
Even if the choice is to leave you crack addict out o the streets to steal from someone else. Even if you know, without a doubt, he will steal again.
I will tell you what I said then, and still say today. I did not cause my son's life to go to hell because of any choice I made. He made one choice. I made another. I made the best call in a tough situation. Don't dare think this was his first act of thievery. It happened to be his first act as an adult. Yeah, that's right, it was his seventeenth birthday. The minute my son was legally able to be charged as an adult in the state of South Carolina, he was standing at a teller machine with my debit card in his hand, committing a felony. The bank statement showed two withdrawals. One two minutes before midnight. One a minute after. (To get around the three hundred and fifty dollar per day withdrawal limit for my card, see?)
According to the law, one bad act.
Here's the question I want you to ponder.
What if some other mother's kid has stolen money? Assume there is a large pool of people suffering from the crack effect as well as from the original theft. Assume those people are insisting a felony and an egregious and ongoing breach of trust should be dipped in fog and called a 'private contractual matter', best left in silence. You know, waiting for payday, so the thief can hand some moolah back to those stolen from.  
Been there. Done that.
Ask my son what I'm going to do. He already knows.
On that note, I'd like to announce that the much-anticipated release of Incidental Contact, the third book in my De Marco Men series, will be delayed indefinitely. 

Santa's Smutty Elves (Romance Reader Appreciation Event!)

Christmas.

There have been years, I confess, when Christmas seemed a dirty word to me. Between trying to scrape up the money to buy gifts and traveling the length of two states, often on the Big Day itself, in a futile attempt to make all the relatives happy, I frequently longed for it to be over--or never arrive. The best day of the holidays tended to be the day AFTER Christmas, when all I had to do was burn the ripped wrapping paper and crumpled bows and try to avoid stepping on the small pieces of already-broken gifts my kids left strewn about.

Things are different now, for me, but I suspect many of you are already longing for the hectic, headlong, holiday hustle to be over. Some of you will shop the day-after specials, braving the crowds to go bargain-hunting.

I'm looking for the rest of you.

I'm seeking those who want nothing more than to relax and find something fun--and free--to do while  your menfolk watch football. If you have an e-reader, or have one on your list, then allow me the privilege of helping you put new books on it.

I'm planning a huge, kick-off-your-shoes-and-unhook-your-bra romance e-book giveaway party on Facebook, from 10 am ET until midnite on December 26th.

Yep. Nothing will be sold. My author friends and I are giving back to our readers--old and new. Jump into quickie contests and win new books for your reading enjoyment. Hang out in the room and chat about all the things you love about romance novels, meet the authors and publishers, and generally unwind.

Don't have an e-reader? No problem, there is free software galore that will let you read in the Cloud, on your PC, tablet, or Smartphone.

So no excuses. Join the event page and prepare to have fun while Santa's Smutty Elves stuff those electronic devices with stories.

Hope to see you there. I'll be the general emcee, in the room all day. That alone has to be worth the price of admission. <grin> I even wrote a poem, just for the event:

'Twas the day after Christmas and I'd spent down to my last ounce,
The kids were hyper and ready to pounce.
My pockets were empty, my new Kindle was too,
Oh what in the world is a poor mother to do?

Hubby in his recliner and me in my flannel
I thought I might scream if he flipped one more channel.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
But a room full of authors, bringing good cheer.

They wore naughty grins and one crooked a finger
"Come over here, so we might linger
Christmas is done, but the fun's just beginning
We're giving you e-books and want you to leave grinning!

"Books filled with smut and good, sexy stories,
we want you to read of our heroes glories!"
"Why would you do this?" I ask in surprise
"There must be a catch to this fabulous prize."

"Nay" they replied with eyes that did wink,
"We'd just like you to read, and to know what you think!
So we're giving you books to brighten a cold winter's night,
in hopes you might tell your friends of the ones you did like!"

"So pull up a chair and ignore all the groaning and shouting
if hubby's football team is getting a routing.
For in this room we will celebrate falling in love,
And you won't even need to shave your legs, my little doves.

"That's all there is to it, it's really quite simple,
All you need is a love of romance and a PC, a Nook, or a Kindle.
We'll have some fun contests, we'll show off our blurbs,
to help keep you from kicking your spouse to the curb."

"We're offering our words; warm, loving and tender
imaginary men so brave and alpha, you're certain to shiver
Tied up in sex scenes sure to make your heart quiver.
and wrapped up in dramas so intense you might cry a river."

"Come make new friends and find some new faves,
enter a contest, 'like' an author's page.
For romance isn't dead and neither is friendship,
We treasure each reader and we're here for the kinship."

"Smut isn't bad, nor vivid images of sexual positions,
If your love life heats up, then we've accomplished our missions.
But above all I say, on behalf of this merry crew,
DEAR READER OF ROMANCE, WE APPRECIATE YOU!"
I heard all that groaning! My parties are much better than my poetry, I promise.

(NOTE: There are still plenty of open slots for authors. The sign-up sheet is linked in the event room.)

Sawdust and Comfort ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday

Six more from Incidental Contact.


Snorting aloud, Amy rose on her toes and tossed the huge towel over the top of the rail holding the shower curtain before adjusting the water temperature. As though every woman in town hadn't tried to 'comfort' Eric De Marco? Now that Daniel and Colton were off the relationship market, competition was sure to increase for the last unattached De Marco brother. This year would likely be a banner one for adding new notches to his bedpost. Assuming he had any bedposts left. Rumor had it the man was a sex machine. If he actually carved notches in his bedposts, he probably had to suck up the sawdust with a Dyson and buy a new bed every six months. Thanks for dropping in. please visit the original Six Sentence Sunday blog to find more six sentence excerpts from other authors.

Barter ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday

Six more from Incidental Contact

"Lila said not to expect cash for rent," he informed her, his sexy grin seeming to grow hotter. "Maybe we can work out some kind of barter." Barter. Amy's normally agile mind went completely blank. An image of the frozen doe she'd dodged when driving down the remote private road leading to the cabin the night before morphed into her head. "I… um… I suck at c-c-ooking," she finally stammered.
Thanks for dropping in. Have a great week! 

When a Soldier Cries ~ Men of the Military Giveaway Hop

Men of the Military Giveaway Hop

I wrote a story with a military hero. In fact, of everything I've written to date, that story is my favorite It's called When a Soldier Cries and when I joined this hop, I expected it would be released by now. I parted ways with the publisher who had accepted it, and it will be 2013 before that story makes it to press. To stay informed on the story's status, you can join the blog, sign up for e-mail updates, join my Facebook page, or add me on Twitter.


(unedited excerpt)

Sure, steady movements of his wonderful fingers had chills chasing hot flashes up her torso as her back began to bow. She teetered on the edge of something dark and wonderful, but scary in its unfamiliarity. Anthony had never spent much time touching her this way. By now he’d be ordering her to turn over, just as it was starting to feel good, but a part of her feared what she’d never felt before. What was he doing to her? Strong sensations began to resonate in her pussy as she began to squirm, instinctively trying to hold onto her self-control, yet wanting more. “Don’t stop.” Which one of them was she talking to? He didn’t stop. Time disappeared. All there was to her world was his mouth and his hand and the pleasure they evoked as she writhed, instinctively still trying to escape, but he wasn’t letting her go. His fingers sped up, driving her toward some dark and unknown place.She wanted more. She wanted less. She didn’t know what she wanted, but whatever it was, she sensed he knew, and he was about to give it to her. She grabbed onto the sheets with both hands. She had to hold onto something or she else she was going to spin off into space, but who was that shrieking ‘ohmigodohmigodohmiGOD’?  Tori didn’t know, couldn’t care, then lost her ability to hear at all as the darkness exploded into bright, vivid shards of red and blue and green while sharp waves of pleasure detonated inside her. Ruthless, diabolical,wonderful man that he was, he didn’t let her catch her breath before she felt one large finger slide through the wetness of her slit, both heightening and relieving the blissful ache that had settled there. Her hips instinctively pushed toward the invasion, needing something inside her with a desperation she’d never felt, and a frustrated cry escaped as he held back, refusing to push into her.He raised his head. She cried aloud at the loss of his mouth on her nipple. The expression of male pride on his face made the forfeit bearable as he gazed at her, his expression every bit as heated as the slickened muscles she was tightening inside her core, silently urging him to give her what she needed as she pushed herself toward his hand. His finger retreated, and he chuckled at the exasperated sound she made.“How long, peaches?  How long has it been for you, Tori?” His finger circled her opening slowly. Tease.She wasn’t sure which of two possible questions he was asking. Intense feelings of gratitude and need swept over her, and in their wake, she blurted out the shameful truth. “Three years. Never. Never like that.”****Tanner studied her from her flushed face to the pale curls covering her mound as he began to work his finger inside her. She was unbelievably snug, yet the tightness of her flesh around his invading finger bore out her shocking statement. Three years?  His cock was a column of agony, but he’d be damned if he was going to try entering her until he’d stretched her a bit. Hell if he’d hurt her.He’d never felt humbled by the gift of a woman’s body before, but he knew that was what this was, a gift he hadn’t earned, and that feeling of awe kept rolling through him. The most important thing to him now became giving her the most possible pleasure; he’d get his. Rotating his wrist, he pushed deeper as he felt along her upper wall for the spongy bit that some women had, grinning again when he felt hers. Slowly stroking it, he watched her intently, adding a second finger when she was writhing beside him, tearing at her abused sheets again.The sexy sight of her, off-balance and completely under his control detonated heavy throbs in his cock, demanding he fuck her, but her confession challenged him to give her more, tempted him to see how high he could make her fly. He was never going to forget her, so goddammit, she wasn’t gonna forget him either.Semper fucking Fi, he thought with a tight grin, assigning himself a brand-new mission. He’d never in a million years have guessed the cool little doc was a screamer, but he was a long damn way from having heard enough of her cries. If he’d ever met a woman who downright needed to lose control, it was Tori.

Meanwhile, I'm giving away a copy of my current release, Wildly Inappropriate, to a random commenter. You must leave a valid e-mail address in order to be entered into the drawing. Thanks for dropping in! 

Pierced ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday

Six more from Incidental Contact.

Working toward her mouth with his lips, he eased the palm of his other hand down her spine, over the curve of her ass, seeking her slit. With his middle finger, he pierced her slick little cunt roughly. At the same time, he pushed past her lips. He thrilled at the vibration of her moan against his invading tongue; his heart soared at the way she pushed back onto his hand. Her pussy was so tight he could barely get a finger inside her. 

Thanks for dropping in. Don't forget to return to the main Six Sentence Sunday blog for more six sentence excerpts from other authors. Have a great week!