Liz Everly's Blog, page 39

Yes! Yes! 365 Times, Yes!

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By Alexa Day

Shonda Rhimes’s book, Year of Yes, came out a little over a year ago, and I jumped on it as soon as it was released. I picked it up again a few days ago, now that I’m deciding what the next year is going to look like. I’ve tried to say yes more often that I’ve said no this past year, and 2016 has been pretty exciting as a result. As I start looking into 2017, I thought I’d share with you all some of the high points from Shonda’s Year of Yes — and one high point from my own journey.

(In my head, Shonda and I are on a first-name basis. Someday she’ll challenge me on that, I’m sure, but I doubt today will be that day.)

The Year of Yes began shortly after Shonda’s sister observed that her famous sibling never said yes to anything. After some reflection, Shonda pledged to say yes to everything that scared her. One week later, the president of Dartmouth College asked her to deliver the commencement address.

She said yes.

After dropping the f-bomb at a back-to-school meeting in response to the suggestion that contributions to the bake sale must be homemade, she said yes to storebought baked goods and to a nanny. Enlisting help and support when necessary does not equate to failure in parenthood, she writes. Finding help and support makes the well rounded life — or even moderate levels of sanity — possible.

She said yes to her body, to the physical vehicle she depended on as she created a body of work and raised her children. During the Year of Yes, she lost 100 pounds, and she did that without making any one food off-limits. Shonda lost 100 pounds during the Year of Yes without saying no to food.

She said yes to herself by saying no to others. She did not respond to work communications after 7 p.m. during the week or at any time on the weekend. She said no to poor casting decisions. She left a long-term relationship because she didn’t want to be married.

I tend to think of myself as being comfortable with yes. I’m even better with why not? But I saw myself in Shonda’s journey to saying yes to praise, compliments, and recognition. Like Shonda, I used to be the sort of person who deflected compliments with explanations and reductions. I think I’ve made my way out of that phase — it’s a lot less stressful just to say thank you and keep it moving. I also know that recognizing that one’s own talents does not diminish anyone else or their talents.

And yet …

I made the USA Today Bestseller List this past July. It’s been about five months now. I still have trouble telling people that.

Oh, sure. It’s one thing to type it here, there and everywhere. If I could put it on a nametag and be done with it for good, I wouldn’t have any problems at all. But I’ve only told a handful of people, and very few of them are other authors. When it comes to telling other authors, I’m all deflections and explanations. It was a box set, I said. I was with a lot of very talented people, I said. I didn’t expect that from myself; I’m a firm believer in tooting one’s own horn. And yet here I was.

Finally, I confessed to someone the other day that I didn’t actually feel like I had done it.

“Okay,” she said. “Well, you did do it. So you may as well tell people you did it.”

And she’s right. This is how Shonda had to take on the Year of Yes, by taking hold of these uncomfortable acts and following through anyway.

It’s good to have an example to follow. And a whole year to get better at saying yes. And also The Year of Yes Journal, while we’re appreciating things.

What do you need to say yes to? Find your people in the comments.

And follow Lady Smut. We know all about saying yes.

Do You Dig It In The Dark?

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the new TV show Good Behavior, calling it the dark romance you should be watching. Here’s what I said then about the dark romance:

Lately in Romancelandia, the dark romance has become a thing–or a thing again as some form of dark romance has been around since the late eighteenth century. In its current conception, these are romances where the hero is a mobster or something nefarious and comes into the heroine’s orbit through some criminal manner. He proceeds to do some pretty terrible things to the heroine, despite having feelings for her. Often, these terrible things are sexual and there’s a lot of explanation about how the heroine shouldn’t like what she’s doing and oh this is so bad but she can’t stop it or A Bad Thing will happen. Things proceed, bad guys often show up putting lives in danger, feelings grow, behavior is forgiven, lather, rinse, repeat. I’m blasé about this sub genre because to me, it smacks too much of the rapetastic, forced seduction, Great Misunderstanding historicals of the 80s and early 90s only updated from disenfranchised Scottish bandits and English roses to Russian Bratva and the daughters of their mortal enemy. That’s not to say I don’t like romances with heroes and heroines of dubious character and motivation. Done right, I *love* them, but I’ve yet to find a “dark romance” that makes me care enough to send my very best. Even after reading all of the Dark Mafia Prince books and Kresley Cole’s The Master, The Professional, and The Player series, both highly recommend dark romances series, yet I remain unmoved. Though I will add the caveat that the biker romance sub genre could absolutely be seen as dark romances and, as any regular Lady Smut reader will know by now, with those books I am totally on board.

I wanted to talk more about dark romances today, because I’m still doing the facial expression of “da hell?” when I read them. I can’t figure out why it’s not clicking for me. It should be my crack–bad boys struggling with angst about their feelings for the woman who’s making them question everything in their lives plus a bunch of suspense stuff thrown in for shits and giggles.

But it’s not.

First, let’s figure out what we’re talking about when we say ‘dark romance’. A quick Google search brings up a bunch of links to Goodreads list of dark romances, but few clear defining descriptions. I found this analysis of what makes a dark romance from romance writer Roni Loren:

“Now, the definition of ‘dark’ can vary widely from person to person. A really gritty romantic suspense could be considered dark if you focus on the fact that there is violence or murders or serial killers. But that’s not what I’m talking about today. For my purposes, a dark romance is one that has an anti-hero, a villain type as the lead guy, and/or completely mindf*cks you. The usual lines of morality are blurred. These are the guys who you really wouldn’t want to mess with in real life, but who are so interesting to read about…

When I read these, I have that thought–wow, I really shouldn’t be rooting for these people or liking this hero or wanting this person to get the girl. But I do. And I can’t help it…I love when an author can pull that off.”

Now, I dig me an anti-hero, no question. But I fail to see the pleasure in reading about mindf*cks making for relationship exploration. Roni Loren says she shouldn’t be wanting for this person to get the girl or rooting for these kinds of people, but she is anyway.

I very much am not.

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I read the Mafia Prince series on the strong, strong recommendation of fellow romance writer pal. “Oh my God, how are *you* of all people not reading this yet?!” she said to me when I admitted to never having heard of the series. Soon after, I downloaded Dark Mafia Prince. Russian mobsters, check. Brothers split apart at a young age when their parents were murdered, check. History between the H&H that goes back to childhood, check. A blood feud with another mafia family, check. An actual prophecy, check, check, and mate. Sounds like catnip to me. Honestly, I should *love* this series.

And I don’t. It’s perfectly serviceable. It’s not a *bad* series. It’s actually really well composed and densely plotted. There are a number of aspects I found unique and gutsy–no clichés need apply here. There’s even a thoroughly three-dimensional series villain who reportedly is getting his own book later on (possibly next) and who has a particularly clever quirk that feels wholly original and organic. Even when this series is “out there” it’s believable “out there”. But I didn’t finish the books and want to read them again. I wanted to read the next one because I’m pathologically incapable of not knowing what happens next. But I wasn’t jonesing for a reread and I don’t much remember the particulars of either three books in the series.

My love for certain biker romance series is well-documented on this site, but I’ve read a lot of biker romances I haven’t written about because I didn’t have that same mad, crackalicious love for them as I do for, say, Kristen Ashley’s Chaos men or Megan Crane’s post-apocalyptic Vikings or bayou bikers. There’s an argument to be made that these “heroes” are just as anti-heroic as any dark romance mafioso (there does seem to be a prevalence of made men in these dark romances.)

I felt the same way for Kresley Cole’s erotic, dark romance series, the Game Maker series. Here again we have somewhat estranged, Russian billionaire brothers with variant mafia ties and a serious preference for control. Like, pathological preference. And yet, my general response was meh when not eye-rolling at specifics. Not pain and dominance isn’t my thing, in life or on the page, which makes some of my reading choices odd given their tendency for both these things. (I’m thinking my re-read of the Kit Rocha opus applies here). In my defense, it’s hard to find an erotic romance these days that doesn’t feature such proclivities.

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One caveat here: I really liked The Player. I think that’s because it was the brother with the least megalomania tendencies, and likely because of the heroine’s modern-day, gypsy thieves family (a sub genre for which I’ve long had an inexplicable fondness, probably due to the Irish Travelers ties), but also for the Big Reveal at the end that, if not 100% a surprise (surely, at least 95%), was absolutely perfectly crafted and seamlessly woven from the start. Actually, like the Dark Prince books, each of the Game Maker novels are perfectly good novels in the dark romance genre. I’m just meh overall. But I don’t have the urge to return for a reread or stay in these worlds.

Which continues to perplex me, because, really, this should be right in my wheelhouse.

I think it’s because I see in these stories resonance of the rape-fantasies of the 80s heyday of historical romance. Perhaps this is simply because I just read the in-depth Jezebel article on the same (which I highly recommend). But, for example, in Dark Mafia Prince, the “hero” holds a gun to the heroine’s head while she gives him a forced blow job (which, eventually, turns her on, of course) while he films it with his phone. This is so he can send it to her father (she’s his hostage against his enemy) as proof of what he’ll do to her if said father doesn’t meet his demands. Hey, it’s better than the original plan, to cut off one of her fingers and send that instead. The guy’s not a total psychopath, obviously. He’s trying to preserve her finger! What a prince!

Guys, this is foreplay for our H&H. No. Just no. When I told my friend who’d recommended the series that I’d read it and didn’t love it, she immediately referenced the blow job scene as being seriously hot. I honestly couldn’t remember the scene until prompted. Guess I wanted to block it from my memory.

But, as I mentioned briefly in that outtake at the start of this post, how is such a scene any different from the forced seductions of those original 80s bodice-rippers? How is being forced to give a blow job at gunpoint to save a digit (and not his favorite digit either) any different? Look, there are a lot of books I’ve read with a lot of highly questionable and often potentially offensive activities that, safe behind the pages of fiction, I’ve found to be seriously hot. My feminism is strong and durable, but not so naïve as to be unable to acknowledge the fact that sometimes the strong attraction is because it’s forbidden. Taboo. That’s hardly new. But there’s taboo and then there’s “oh hell no!” and–sorry, not sorry–blow jobs at gun point are the latter.

Guess I’m not dark enough for the dark romance.

What do you think? Have you dabbled in the dark romance sub genre? Do you dig it in the dark?

Follow Lady Smut. We’ll show you all our dark places.

 

Sexy Saturday Round Up

Henry wishes you a happy holiday!

Hello Kittens! Sexy Saturday Round Up is going on Holiday.  We’re off ice-skating, making Christmas cookies, and enjoying the other delights of winter.  We’ll see you back after the New Year, so savor this post. However, if you’re addicted to SSRU and looking for more, try clicking on our Sexy Saturday Round Up category over to your right–that should keep you entertained for a while! :>

From Madeline:

Take a day off from work–while you’re having your period.

Virtual Sex Workers are never off the clock while selling access to their real lives.

From Jezebel: The Bodice Ripper and a short history of where it all began.

Why sex advice in women’s magazines is wrong, wrong, wrong!

Looking for transgender romance recommendations? SBTB has recs in the comment section of this post.

 

 

All I want for Christmas…a basic primer on the female orgasm

By Isabelle Drake

Something you already know: the female orgasm is more (much more) complex than the male counterpart. While men reach orgasm more quickly and frequently, 90% of the time as compared to the woman’s 25%, the male orgasm is usually shorter, reportedly less intense and requires a longer recovery time.

Quick facts:

26-32, estimated peak age for a woman’s sexuality, but equal amounts of research show sexual satisfaction is more connected to overall life satisfaction.
relaxation, studies shows its single most important element in regard to reaching bliss.
15-40 minutes, that’s the average length of time it takes for a woman to orgasm.
women are much more likely to need a “reset” due to distraction or unexpected position changes during those 15-40 minutes.
muscular contraction in the lower abdomen precedes the orgasm and can be used by a lover to determine whether a technique is getting the desired results.
the labia deepens in color as blood flow increases, another signal lovers can watch for.
too much clitoral stimulation is counterproductive as it becomes desensitized, yep–another factor for partners to consider.

That list alone isn’t enough to make things complicated. Here’s more: there are four types of female orgasms.

Clitoral:

With 8,000 nerve endings its no wonder this ultra sensitive spot is the most common way for women to achieve orgasm. Good news, stimulation there is quick and easy and works consistently. Less good news, the result is not as physically powerful as the other possibilities.

Vaginal:

While there is some controversy as to whether or not the G-spot exists, many women state that they have had an orgasm as a result of stimulation inside the vagina alone (excluding clitoral stimulation). The G-spot is an area, not a particular “spot,” of sensitive tissue. Achieving the big O this way can take longer and require more mixing it up via positions, but this type delivers legendary results.

Never had a vaginal orgasm or lost touch with your G-spot? Consider trying Ben Wa Balls to tone up your interior.

Blended:

Ahhh…yes, the best of both worlds–clitoral and vaginal orgasms simultaneously. This mind-blowing experience is the longest lasting and most physically intense, but also the most difficult to achieve. The trick to achieving this Mecca of Satisfaction is persistence and patience. Lots of foreplay in the form of touching everywhere, kissing everywhere, and–dare I suggest it–gentle, intimate conversation.

Multiple:

Not to be confused with several orgasms that occur at different times in the same session, multiple orgasms occur one after the other, a roll of mind-melting pleasure. Not all women are cut out for this one, as the continual stimulation may not “work” for some; however, those who do achieve it reach their peak several times in a row, usually with altered positions. A possible method to increase your chances and avoid the over-stimulation that can prevent multiple orgasms, ask your partner to stroke your clit over a silk scarf or your panties.

The female orgasm is in some ways the icing on the intimacy cake. It’s part of the process of that leads to pregnancy, but not a required part. So, its technically “unnecessary.”

Ha! Says who? Scientists. What do they know?

Okay, they do know a lot. But on this issue, they just might be wrong. I’d say the big O is necessary and ought to be on everyone’s holiday wish list. Thoughts? Shout out in the comments.

And – follow us here at Lady Smut. We’re always here to inform, entertain, and keep you up to date.

Isabelle Drake writes erotica, erotic romance, urban fantasy, and young adult thrillers.

 

 

Transgender Romance, Anyone?

Andreja Pejic–a globally successful trans model.

by Madeline Iva

In a wonderfully reassuring moment on Facebook — yes, I *know* how strange that sounds — I was in the middle of a discussion about transgender romances.  They’re out there.  And if you’re looking for something new when it comes to contemporary romance–something a little m/m but not–transgender romance might just be the ticket.

How do you come out to your folks that you’re trans? “Mom, Dad, there’s this really funny TV show I’d like you both to watch,” could be your conversation starter.

Meanwhile, I would consider the last year to be “Year of the Trans”.  From Laverne Cox to Transparent, to using bathrooms, we’ve had more exposure and acceptance of this tiny group of individuals than ever before.

With that increase in recognition and acceptance, of course the romance community has swelled to include romances starring trans hero/heroines.  HERE’S A GOODREADS LINK TO SOME TRANS ROMANCES you can scroll through. The descriptions at first may not SOUND like the romances are typical m/f.  But read closely and follow the reviews–you’ll see they are a bit more wiggly and complicated–breathing fresh life into familiar romance tropes.

Trans models are rocking the fashion world–which seems totally open to anyone and everyone–as long as they’re skinny. It’s a twisted kind of radical acceptance, I guess.

For my part, I’ve become fascinated with trans model Andreja Pejic and this interview with Madeira Darling got me all revved up imagining a trans-sexual hijinks vampire plot that my obsessive brain will not leave alone.

Also, G.G. Andrews has started this whole #ReadHotter challenge at Lady Smut.  Trans romance really fits the bill for stretching my reading boundaries–how about you?  ; >

Carry on my wayward kittens! And if you’re bored and looking for sparkly-bright distractions, follow us at Lady Smut where we purr and snarl over all things fascinating in the world.

Madeline Iva writes fantasy and paranormal romance.  Her fantasy romance, WICKED APPRENTICE, featuring a magic geek heroine, is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and through iTunes.  Sign up for Madeline Iva news & give aways.

Getting Off On A Perfectly Fake Man

I’m here for you, baby, however, you want me.

By Elizabeth Shore

If you’re a guy lusting for an ideal woman who’s agreeable to every pervy thought in your mind, whose body measurements are precisely what you like, and who won’t leave you twisting in terror when she says she wants to “talk,” what do you do? Troll around Tinder? Slap up a posting on Craig’s List? Fuhgeddaboudit! Why go through all that trouble? All you need to do is get yourself a sex doll.

Sex dolls have been servicing men in all their kinky glory for years now, and their realistic look and feel have only gotten better. Which is all well and fine for those among us with x and y chromosomes, but what about the ladies? What are we to do when all we want is to literally get f**ked by a perfect man and not have to deal with post-coitus snoring? Male sex dolls haven’t been available, so apart from hiring a gigolo alternate options were limited. Until now.

Nearly two years ago I blogged about the vajankle, a custom horror movie prop sex toy made by Sinthetics, the world’s leading manufacturer of anatomically accurate sex dolls. Wacked-out vajankle aside, the Sinthetics’ dolls do look (and apparently feel) incredibly realistic. Until recently, the L.A.-based company was solely manufacturing female dolls. But no more! Good news for the gals – male dolls have arrived.

In almost creepy I Sing the Body Electric! style, every male doll is custom made. Owners select eye color, hair color, amount of chest hair, freckles, blemishes, birth marks, tattoos. Do you hunger after Asians? Latinos? Blond hair and blue eyes? Whatever qualities you want are yours for the asking. And the price. To be sure, these boys don’t come cheap. The base price begins at $6,100 and any custom add-ons rack up the final bill. And don’t forget about shipping. That’s an add-on, too.

So is anyone buying these fellas? You betcha! Bronwen Keller, Co-Owner of Sinthetics and in charge of customer service, says that over the past 3-4 months the sales of male dolls have been equal to sales of the gals. And what do the female customers want from their perfect fake man? Common themes Bronwen sees are female clients going for the “boy next door” look, with light chest hair and…wait for it…a big bush! Say what?! You read me right. Apparently guys who keep the garden trimmed but not bald are what the ladies want. They also want some imperfections. Turns out, the perfect guy isn’t perfect. Bronwen says women routinely order freckles, birthmarks, scars, or other “imperfections” to make their perfect guys just right.

Of course, the one thing we haven’t discussed yet and which is, naturally, of utmost importance, is the tool downstairs. How, exactly, does that work on a doll? Is there a pump to get him up when the need arises? Apparently not. Instead, what the male doll has is his own, literal, snap-on tool. Your guy can go from wet noodle to hard granite with a quick flick of the rest. Pop out Mr. Flaccid, pop in Mr. Wood. BJ not required.

So now your fake man is ready to perform. Well, technically speaking, the lady is the one doing the actual performing. Mr. Wood just lies there, ready for his female owner to impale herself on his never-soft battering ram. It’s kind of like having your own sybian except shaped like a man. That doesn’t vibrate.

It all sounds pretty good, and I have to say the dolls look awfully realistic. They’re not, of course, which does raise the question of what kind of woman would want a fake man? And why?

I watched a fascinating short video on Vice done by reporter Karley Sciortino. She visited Sinthetics’ factory and did her best to find women who’d purchased a male doll to talk on camera about their experience. According to the video she had a hard time – until she found adult film actress Jessica Ryan. Jessica recently purchased her own male doll and is one happy customer. But, ah, she’s an adult film actress, so….

The thing with Jessica, according to the video, is that she’s engaged in a long-distance relationship. She’s tried f**k buddies, but they’re either too distant or grow too attached, neither of which she wants. Enter Mr. Silicon, who fulfills her need “for a dick, without being a dick.” Well put, Jessica.

What do you think? Is a made-to-order man in your future or do you stay old school and stick with the kind who breathe? Let us know in the comments and be sure to follow us at Lady Smut, where our posts will always be 100% real.

Elizabeth Shore writes both contemporary and historical erotic romance. Her newest book is an erotic historical novella, Desire Rising, from The Wild Rose Press. Other releases include Hot Bayou Nights and The Lady Smut Book of Dark Desires. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nutcracker? Sweeeeet.

Remember that time you fell in love? So does Clara. Click and see.

(Hello there, neighbors! It’s the Season of Deadlines in my corner of the world, but I didn’t want to leave you empty-handed this Tuesday morning. The Ovation network is starting the Tenth Annual Battle of the Nutcrackers next Monday. With that in mind, I’ve updated this classic Nutcracker post for your perusal and enjoyment. Enjoy!)

By Alexa Day

The holiday season rests on tradition, which is to say that most of us, regardless of how we feel about the holidays themselves, spend part of that time doing things because we do them every year and for no other real reason.

We have holiday movies and holiday music that only comes out once a year. We gorge on holiday foods with the defense that we don’t always eat like this. We tolerate the behavior of others more than usual because “it’s only once a year.”

And then there’s the annual Dance of the Exes. This is the yearly ritual in which one’s exes emerge from the woodwork to send a holiday greeting, usually via text, after being wonderfully absent all year long. The Dance of the Exes is a mystery to me. Do they think holiday spirit will keep me from reminding them of how they became exes in the first place? Are they actually hoping for holiday hookup? Are they purging their phone address books? Who knows?

I try hard to keep my holiday traditions on the joyous side, since holidays tend to be stressful for me. A couple of years ago, I found out about the Battle of the Nutcrackers on the Ovation network. Each year, the arts channel presents five productions of The Nutcracker and invites viewers to vote for their favorite. The Battle is getting me through the holidays.

The Battle is a fabulous way to discover the less traditional Nutcracker productions. One of my favorites, The Nutcracker- The Story Of Clara, follows an older Clara as she remembers her past. I watched it shortly after turning 40, and it’s a perfect story about how full life has been and how much fuller it might yet become. Have a peek at its Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Now, as lovely as that was, I can’t pretend there’s not another reason I like spending my holiday with the ballet. I like football as much as the next girl who likes football, but given the choice, I’d rather watch the glorious beauty of the male form moving with majestic purpose, without crashing into anything … and without the obstruction of all those pads. If there’s one thing ballet has in spades, it’s hot men. Feel free to ogle them here and here, and then take a second and watch these fellows from the National Ballet of Canada.

Whoa-ho, Canada! That’s actually part one of three. If the National Ballet of Canada isn’t on your greeting card list, it might be time to put them there.

The Battle of the Nutcrackers begins next Monday on the 12th, so you’ll want to check now to see if you get Ovation. Once the battle’s over, I’m sure the hot men of ballet will keep your holidays nice and toasty warm.

Aren’t you following Lady Smut yet?

 

It’s the End of the World and They Know It: Kit Rocha’s Beyond Surrender

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

This is it. Beyond Surrender is the ninth and final installment in the erotic romance, dystopian Beyond series from Kit Rocha. The end of the world as they know it.

And everyone does not feel fine.

(For all of the Lady Smut reviews on Kit Rocha’s Beyond series, click here.)

Look! A blurb!

The final book in the bestselling, award-winning series…

She’s the heart of O’Kane liquor.

He’s the brains of the revolution.

They’re facing a war that could end their world. Again.

On December 13th, the Beyond series comes to its climactic conclusion with Nessa and Ryder’s story–and the final battle between the sectors and Eden.

Well, that didn’t say much, did it?

Beyond Surrender is structured around the final romantic match up of Ryder and Nessa. Nessa is the O’Kane princess, the one who brews the liquor that the O’Kanes bootleg out to other sectors and Eden–the booze that keeps the money coming in. Ryder is the blunt instrument of the inevitable revolution, raised by Jim Jernigan, the once-mighty, now dead leader of Sector Eight, with the sole purpose of someday being the blunt instrument of the inevitable revolution.

That day has come.

Click on image to buy!

After the rash of assassinations in game-changing Beyond Ruin (Book #7) that wiped out whole sectors and their leaders, Ryder is the heir to Sector Eight and the leader of Sector Five after years spent undercover for Jernigan as a lieutenant to the execrable Mac Fleming. Now that war has come to the sectors, his teaming up with Dallas O’Kane, leader of the revolution, to marry years of Jernigan’s precise preparation with Dallas’ ruthless ambition for freedom. Ryder has spent his entire life in the service of someone else’s ambition. As the conclusion to his life’s work finally plays out, he realizes he has no idea what life to lead when it’s over–providing he survives.

Nessa has known Dallas O’Kane her entire life. She arrived in Sector Four barely a girl and has been the kid sister of the O’Kane gang ever since. She’s been sheltered in Sector Four; though not ignorant, she’s spends most of her time with her casks, brewing and stewing about the next batch. She’s removed from the day-to-day struggles of life in Sector Four, removed and protected, rarely even needing to leave the safety of the compound, especially when the apocalypse is knocking. Although, when you have a gang full of growling, grouchy older brothers and murderously protective older sisters, getting laid becomes can be more than problematic, but finding a real relationship in the slums of paradise is near impossible. Nessa’s watched from the sidelines as members of her extended family have found their mates of the soul and body, sure she’ll never find a man with whom to share that deep connection. Enter Ryder, who never looks at her or treats her as anything less than who she is–a complicated, intriguing, sexy woman.

But this is Sector Four, so of course, it’s not that easy. Nessa keenly feels the responsibility that’s been on her shoulders all her life, that of keeping the O’Kanes in business and money. One mistake could wipe out their livelihood and plunge them back into the madness and need that heralded the early years after the solar flares. To make matters worse, everyone she’s ever known and loved is now in acute danger. She fears seeing who will and who won’t survive The War now that it is upon them. Draw to Ryder for a number of complex reasons, she decides to cling to the pleasure and comfort he offers for as long as they have it–and the time in which to enjoy it. If it’s the end of the world as they know it, best go out with a spectacular bang. It’s the O’Kane way.

Ryder’s entire life has been planned for him, by his mother and by Jim Jernigan who made Ryder the tip of the paranoia sword for the war Jernigan saw coming decades ago. He aligns himself with Sector Four and the notorious Dallas O’Kane to keep on the front lines of the war; leading a sector was never his goal nor his training. Nessa is an unexpected if welcomed surprise, but as they cling together in the days before the final battle, living whatever moments they have left to the fullest, Ryder finds himself worrying what happens next. Any future he sees after the war is hazy: a cabin in the woods far from the complications of whatever is left over when the battle haze clears. Slowly he begins to realize this too was never his dream, merely a fixation to honor his dead father’s dreams. But when all his lifelong plans and strategies are no longer required, when the world he knows is no longer the world he lives in, how will he live in a future he never expected to see–and where might Nessa fit there?

For a while now, for me, the Beyond books have been less about the romantic relationships and more about the exceptionally drawn and deeply believable world in which they’re taking place. Rocha’s Eden and sectors with its complicated loyalties, interwoven alliances, and fierce allegiances has offered more layered and complex intrigue for me than who’s banging whom. Interestingly, in a series that’s featured enthusiastic orgies and polyamorous relationships, this final couple seems to be the sweetest–the most innocent of the O’Kanes (not an easy thing to find in Sector Four) falling for the most noble of spies. Ryder’s shown up in a number of previous books, most notably in Beyond Addiction (one of my faves) and the question of his true purpose and loyalties has been teased for a while. Nessa has floated on the fringes since the beginning, with her wild nail polish and multi-colored hair, and it’s fitting that this last book should be hers.

Beyond Surrender is a deeply satisfying conclusion to this series. I have great respect for an author who can put an end date on a popular series rather than drawing it out ad infinitum to keep the credits rolling. It’s hard to let go of something this all-encompassing and, even though there is more on the horizon for this world, leaving Sector Four and all its denizen is no easy decision to make. Which is why it’s extra sweet to see all the favorites return, some more briefly than others, in Beyond Surrender to take their curtain calls while two people, whose lives were planned for them one way or another, decide to fall for one another literally as the end of their world approaches, and it’s that hope, that gentle push of burgeoning love, that gives them the courage to plan for a future.

I *highly* recommend re-reading the Beyond books and novellas from the beginning as a refresher course in who’s who, who’s where, and who’s doing what to whom. It’d do a body good to refresh yourself before diving into Beyond Surrender. This series has a lot of players and they all show up for the final reckoning. And there is loss; seems like an apocalyptic requirement. Plus, Gideon’s Riders, the heroes of the upcoming eponymous series, make an appearance, including the couple of the first book of that series as Ashwin, that twisted, superior killing machine takes another step toward possessing or destroying Doctor Kora.

With Beyond Surrender, Kit Rocha ends this best-selling series with all the fucked up madness and fun and sexy times that defines the world of the O’Kanes. It may be the end of the series as we know it, but you’ll feel more than fine.

O’Kane for life.

Follow Lady Smut. We’ll mark you for life.

Writer, singer, editor, traveler, tequila drinker, and cat herder, Kiersten Hallie Krum avoids pen names since keeping her multiple personalities strait is hard enough work. She writes smart, sharp, and sexy romantic suspense. Her debut romantic suspense novel,   Wild on the Rocks,  is now available. Visit her website at  www.kierstenkrum.com  and find her regularly over sharing on various social media via @kierstenkrum.

Brutal Game: Sexy Sunday Snippets From Cara McKenna

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

Click on image to buy!

It’s another installment of Sexy Sunday Snippets, and boy, howdy, are we pulling out the big guns today

A couple of weeks ago, I reviewed the mind-bogglingly, amazing erotic romance Brutal Game (now on sale), by wunderkind author Cara McKenna. Today, you can get a taste of one of the most deeply layered, complicated, emotional reads of the year.

To jog your memory: Look! A blurb!

The long-awaited sequel to Willing Victim.

Eight months ago, Laurel walked into an underground boxing gym and found herself mesmerized by a stranger named Flynn—a man who fights hard and loves harder. Since then he’s taken her places where fear and curiosity clash in exquisite pleasure, where trust is the price of ecstasy, and in time their brutal games have become her kink as much as his.

But when real life intrudes and hard decisions demand action, will these two whose bond is rooted in fantasy take shelter in each other’s arms, or discover that lust is no substitute for a lasting commitment?

The following excerpt is one of the intensely emotional, almost too-real feeling scenes from Brutal Game. It reveals a major plot point of the story, so SPOILER WARNING.

EXCERPT OF BRUTAL GAME, by Cara McKenna

At long last, a hmm, a yawn. A dozy groan and Laurel turned onto her side, eyes blinking open to find him there.

“Dinner smells good. Is it ready?”

“It is.”

“What time is it?”

Flynn looked to the microwave. “Ten twenty-one.”

“Whoa. What?”

“You were beat.”

She sat up. “Jesus. I napped for three hours?”

“Hungry?”

She looked down at her stomach as though conferring. “Very.”

“Good. Me too.”

Beyond hungry, in Flynn’s case. He’d only eaten a fistful of cheese and a few slices of sausage since before his workout. His gut was packed with butterflies, but they weren’t particularly filling.

Laurel moved to the couch and he loaded a couple bowls with dried-out casserole. He made it a whole minute before the clinking of forks drove him to blurt, “You buy a pregnancy test?”

Pausing mid-chew, she studied him with still-sleepy eyes. She swallowed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Not to sound paranoid, but when’d you get your period last?”

She frowned, thinking. “Oh—it was New Year’s morning. I remember I had a champagne hangover and that showed up on top of it.”

“That was almost two months ago.”

“I know, but like I said, sometimes they don’t come at all on the Pill, or just a mini one.”

That didn’t do much to slow his pulse. “Maybe I should go out and get one now. Just so we can rule it out.”

She nibbled her lip.

“Just ask me to. I don’t mind.” And I’m fucking dying inside. No news was not good news. Whoever’d come up with that saying was so full of shit.

“It’s after ten. And it’s snowing.”

“Someplace’ll be open. Star Market.”

“What, in Dorchester?”

“Wouldn’t you sleep better?” He would. He might sleep at all, in fact. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. I’ll get you some Nyquil while I’m at it, in case it’s the flu. I’ll go right now.”

“Maybe…”

“I’m going,” he announced, setting his bowl on the coffee table and reaching for one of his boots. “And I’ll grab tampons, in case it’s just PMS. And Kettle Chips.”

She smiled, seeming to surrender. “You know, there’s something surpassingly manly about a guy who’ll pick tampons up for you without batting an eye.”

“Your pussy doesn’t scare me, honey.”

“No, I daresay it doesn’t. I could come—”

“Nope, you couldn’t. Eat up. Stay warm. Back soon.”

She smiled and shook her head, watching him lace his boots and pull on a hat, something simultaneously soft and fierce about her expression. Or maybe that was a fever brewing.

Twenty minutes later, Flynn was unloading his basket onto the checkout conveyer belt. The young clerk passed his purchases stoically across the scanner—tampons, Nyquil, potato chips, pregnancy test, plus a bottle of red wine. It wasn’t until he handed over the plastic bag that the kid showed any sign of life, saying flatly, “Party time.”

Flynn was tempted to meet the snark with a verbal backhand, but he didn’t have it in him just now. Instead he muttered, “You know it,” and headed for the door.

Pregnant. Pregnant. The word had grown larger and larger over the course of the drive, thundering now, echoing and huge. He let it tumble around his skull as he started the trip back home, windshield wipers batting harmless fluffy flakes aside.

What if she was pregnant? He’d been preoccupied with the thought all day, but it changed now, with the test in his possession. With an actual answer at hand.

Plus that’s not really the question, is it?

The real question for Flynn was, what would she want to do about it if she was?

It wasn’t his decision, but if she asked what he wanted her to do… Shit, be honest? Or refuse to say so she wouldn’t feel pressured? But refusing to say, was that supporting her choice or was that forcing her to make it completely on her own? He thought he knew what he’d want her to do, but it felt so goddamn delicate, the question of whether or not to say.

She might not be pregnant. Probably isn’t. Some cramps and hot flashes could be anything, and feeling exhausted after waitressing all day was to be expected. The female body was like a car with no manual, a mystery designed to confound and bewitch the simple male brain. A man was lucky to get invited to dick around under the hood and go for a spin, but fuck if any of them knew how to service the thing.

He pulled up behind his building, yellow streetlight making the steadily fattening snowflakes glow like gold. The plastic bag felt monumental in his grip, as though he were lugging a bomb, not a couple pounds of snacks and feminine hygiene products.

Not a bomb, he corrected. A pregnancy was scary and profound and life-altering, but that was a metaphor too far. Still, his hand was shaking unmistakably as he unlocked the door.

“Honey, I’m home. Got you booze and chips and a stick for peeing on. You on the rag yet?”

A laugh answered that crass greeting, loosening his chest, if only by a fraction. “No, I am not.”

He flipped the deadbolt, rummaged in the bag and pitched the box toward the bed where she was lounging. “Best pee on a stick then, woman.”

She’d changed into her pajamas—or rather, her pajama bottoms and one of his tee shirts. Why was that so fucking sexy? Though he was grateful to register any reaction apart from anxiety, he set the thought aside. Answers first, then depravity. We can fuck to celebrate, if it’s negative.

Laurel knelt and picked up the box, studying it. She opened it while Flynn peeled off his layers.

“Thanks for doing this.” She unfolded the instructions. “Going out in that.”

“It was nothing. Go pee on a stick,” he repeated.

“The snow’s picking up,” she said, still reading.

“Go pee on a stick.”

She met his eyes, smiled dryly. “I guess I’ll go pee on a stick, then.”

“What a good idea. How long does it take to get the answer?”

She scanned the paper. “Three minutes. Wow, that sounds really fast and like forever at the same time.”

Well put. “There’s chips and wine, while you wait.”

She smiled. “Classy. If it comes back a plus sign I better spit the booze out, huh?”

There was a joke in there, but he barely heard it, caught too completely on plus sign. Plus sign. How could one shape—two fucking little perpendicular lines—possibly be so powerful?

Then he thought of the cross, that symbol that had dominated his childhood and bullied his psyche, and somehow it made perfect sense.

Fuck you, lines.

At least these lines would bring answers. The other kind had done nothing but torment and confuse and contradict.

Right. Now, to survive the longest three minutes of his entire life.

About Cara McKenna: Since she began writing in 2008, Cara McKenna has published nearly forty romances and erotic novels with a variety of publishers, sometimes under the pen names Meg Maguire and C.M. McKenna. Her stories have been acclaimed for their smart, modern voice and defiance of convention. She was a 2015 RITA Award finalist, a 2014 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award winner, a 2012 and 2011 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee, and a 2010 Golden Heart Award finalist. She lives with her husband and baby son in the Pacific Northwest, though she’ll always be a Boston girl at heart.

Writer, singer, editor, traveler, tequila drinker, and cat herder, Kiersten Hallie Krum avoids pen names since keeping her multiple personalities strait is hard enough work. She writes smart, sharp, and sexy romantic suspense. Her debut romantic suspense novel,   Wild on the Rocks,  is now available. Visit her website at  www.kierstenkrum.com  and find her regularly over sharing on various social media via @kierstenkrum.

Sexy Saturday Round Up

December is here! If you’re already seeking relief from the holiday madness and holiday commercials that started before Thanksgiving, we have the solution. Kick back, get a big mug o’ tea and settle in to your relaxing Sexy Saturday Round Up routine…you won’t regret it.

This week–

From Madeline:

Decorate your Xmas tree with vagina baubles!

Some fascinating conclusions about human sexuality.

What is the gray sweatpants challenge? Here are some of the funniest twitter posts mocking the challenge?

Man Repeller talks about the avocado theory with men approaching 30.

Could you be a super-recognizer???? Take these quizzes to find out!

From Elizabeth Shore:

Gaining everyday access to a sex worker’s real life. You can see her naked whenever you want!

Guys wanna look pretty, too. The growing trend of male beauty treatments.

17 exciting must-reads for 2017. Note to self: apparently if you have “Girl” in your book title it gets turned into a movie.

Nice guys finish last. Why women find them boring.

Need a pick-me-up for 2017? How about a calendar of hot French farmers? Oui! Oui!

What happened to the “revolutionary” Lelo condom, The Hex? You know, the one promoted by none other than that misogynistic wacko, Charlie Sheen.

It’s creepy, it’s comical, it’s one of the weirdest damn things I’ve ever seen: a mask that turns your face into a vagina. Yeah, you read that right.