Archive for 2011
A Sweet Opportunity
February 14, 2011 | Friends
During the day, Celia Kyle is an Assistant Controller of a multi-million dollar company that manages a billion dollar portfolio of apartment communities and commercial buildings. By night, she’s a multi-published author of over thirty works. Celia has created several multi-author series’ including Strange Hollow at Liquid Silver Books and the Big, Blooming & Wild and Dragon Kin series’ with Changeling Press. She also worked as the Art Director for Aspen Mountain Press. So what does a high energy person do to round out her career? Found out in our Q & A session.
What prompted you to open Summerhouse Publishing house?
I had a few “edgier” stories that I wanted to publish but was worried that they’d be too much for some of my current publishers and the idea of self-publishing came to mind. Unfortunately, there are a few stigmas surrounding self-published works, costs for artwork that can cost a pretty penny as well as the need for quality editing before publication. I figured that if I had those concerns, others probably did as well. SHP provides authors a “house” to stand behind, quality editing, gorgeous artwork and two owners dedicated to marketing their authors to their fullest.
I felt there was a gap within the industry. With the growing popularity of self-publishing, Summerhouse Publishing acts as a middle ground between authors self-publishing their works and a full scale publishing house. We take well-written manuscripts and give them a final polish with copy-editing, provide professional cover art, wide spread distribution and extensive marketing. We help eliminate the stigma surrounding self-publishing by giving those authors a “house” to stand behind.
How will your house be different than anything we’ve seen before?
We showcase works different from the norm, sweet romances with space pirates and legends of King Arthur to books where a sexy djinn is trapped in a treadmill and not a lamp. Also, our “taboo” list is a smidge shorter than other publishers. We want envelopes pushed and stories that aren’t the “norm”.
What kind of product will you deliver to your readers?
Engaging, exciting and captivating books. Short or long, sweet or erotic, SHP wants to be a go-to place for readers. We’ve got three lines of short works geared toward readers searching for something on their lunch hour to novels for those that like to settle in for a night spent in another world.
When is the grand opening?
We open March 14th. Our release program is one book every other week, but on opening day we feature two books.
The first is HER DARK FAIRY by Ella Vines, an engaging historical paranormal erotic romance that touches your heart and *ahem* other places.
The second is INDIGO RAIN by Taige Crenshaw, an action-packed paranormal erotic romance with plenty of fighting both in and out of the bedroom.
Tell us a little about your future releases and their authors.
Davida McLea brings us some roadside lovin’ and Darragha Foster is the source of the aforementioned treadmill djinn. Wayne Greenough tugs us into space while KG McAbee hurls us into the past with her gothic romance. Scottie Blaine shows us her love of horses and manlove. Then there’s Mina Carter who always manages to get your heart pumping with both fighting and sex…occasionally at the same time. And Lizzie Lynn Lee brings us a lot of passion in many unusual locations.
What sort of stories will SHP offer and in what lengths and formats?
Everything from straight contemporary to paranormal to BDSM and everything in between. There are no limits to the sub-genres and sexual encounters we are interested in. We publish works as short as 3,000 words and actually have three short story lines specifically targeted for readers who like a quick shot of love on their lunch hours. Can’t Think Straight features same-sex couples, both male/male and female/female while Digital Decadence features heterosexual couples. And Electronic Excess welcomes multiple partner relationships/sexual encounters.
Do you have any specific lines that readers watch for?
We’ve got three special short story lines featuring same-sex relationships (Can’t Think Straight), heterosexual relationships (Digital Decadence) as well as multi-partner relationships (Electronic Excess).
Why will readers want to keep SHP books on their readers?
We’ll constantly be offering new books that touch their hearts and *ahem* other places. Not necessarily in the same book. We’ll have all flavors of romance and erotica with something sure to tempt the most discerning reader.
Are you open for submissions? Do you accept unagented, unpublished authors, and unsolicited submissions?
Of course! Authors are authors, plain and simple. We welcome everyone.
What type of stories is Summerhouse Publishing seeking? What are your submission requirements?
We accept works as short as 3,000 words to full-length novels. Those manuscripts are well-written, with no plot holes, head hopping and have been thoroughly self-edited. Currently I’m interested in interesting stories. I know that’s pretty vague, but there are so many sub-genres that I enjoy in romance and erotica that I have a hard time settling on just a handful right now.
Why will authors want to write for SHP?
Authors that want a house that encourages their imaginations to fly free, that crave fewer limitations, should consider us. We are transparent in our dealings with authors and staff. Short of providing my social security number, I’m more than happy to answer any questions authors may have. I actually encourage any authors even thinking of submitting to SHP to contact me with any and all concerns. I want authors and staff happy to be associated with SHP, to be proud to have their manuscripts accepted and thrilled to list SHP on their resumes. Also, our pay rate start at 60% net. Those rates rise up to 70% net as sales rise.
Do you have a strategy to make your company get known?
We’ll be actively marketing books in a variety of ways including social networking, advertising on blogs and press releases.
Will you be making any appearances at conferences this year?
2011 is a year of growth and setting roots for SHP. We’re reinvesting any profits made into the house, its authors and staff. While I believe that appearances will be an important part of networking in the future, we want to make sure that establishing SHP is our first priority.
How can readers easily find the latest updates on SHP, its books, its authors?
On our website. We also have a blog. It’s updated regularly during our pre-opening days, then it will be Shanghaied by our authors. We can also be found on twitter and facebook.
Besides your website, where else will your books be available for purchase?
We’ll be at the major distributors including Amazon, Barnes & Noble and the iBookstore.
Thanks, Celia, for coming out. With your acumen and talent, I know you’ll have a huge success with Summerhouse Publishing.
I’ll be back tomorrow with a new Tuesday Teaser. Until then…
Happy Reading.
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
ABIGAIL COTTAGE
February 11, 2011 | Author Friend New Releases
Our guest author, Margaret West, is an awesome romance and paranormal writer. Born in England, Margaret and her family moved to the Kent countryside five years ago to get away from the busy life in London. She has worked in various fields and is a Clair-knowing medium, Crystal Therapist, Parapsychologist and Psychic development tutor.
Margaret has been writing over 20 years and has numerous short stories, novels and articles published. She incorporates her spiritual experiences into her novels with thrilling results. ABIGAIL COTTAGE is a perfect example of her excellent talent.
ABIGAIL COTTAGE
Margaret West
ISBN 978-1-9079-6305-6
Hedge-Witchery Books
BUY LINKS:
Hedge-Witchery Books
Amazon
Amazon UK
BLURB:
After receiving an inheritance of a cottage in Ireland and discovering she is adopted, Abbey Newlands goes in search of her real family. But before she arrives at the cottage, a chain of events and a whirlwind romance leaves her deeply in love with Shaun O’Donnell.
When Shaun’s mother, Aveline, reveals a dark twist of fate that means they can never be together, Abbey flees to the cottage alone, pregnant and unaware that it is cursed by two demons who reside there. One who will love her, and one who wants her dead.
Only Shaun has the power to save them both and lock the demons away behind Hell’s door.
EXCERPT:
Abbey moved her hand and touched the ground. A cold breeze ran its icy fingers Along her body and she felt her flesh recoil. “What’s happening?”
She turned her head and saw the cottage outlined in the darkness. A deeper reasoning told her he was dreaming, yet fear warped any logic. She stared, trying to see through the veil of darkness. No one was there, yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention and told her otherwise. Panic made her heart beat uncomfortably and she placed her hand on her chest to calm the rhythmic ache.
Abbey got to her feet. She felt wobbly, unsure why she couldn’t run to the cottage. Fear nagged her like an irritating itch, but the more she hurried the further away it became. The freezing wind whipped by. It was strong, pushing her back, away from safety – away from her home. Huge trees whipped down their branches, slicing the air above her head as though trying to spear her flesh. She screamed when one snagged her hair and tore a piece from her scalp. Abbey ran until her lungs felt they would explode with pressure. Her legs grew heavy, as though she were carrying a great weight. She stopped, gasping for breath. It was then she saw her grotesquely distended stomach. A sharp stab of fiery pain, spread across it.
“Shaun, help me,” she screamed into the darkness.
The pain came in waves, with little retribution, until her legs buckled and the ground came up to meet her with a sickening thud. Abbey winced as her body jarred against its firmness. When she saw shadowy figures moving towards her, she almost cried with relief.
“Please – someone help me.”
“You have the cheek to ask for help with that abomination you carry,” a woman’s voice replied.
“Why I heard tell it’s spawned from your brother’s seed!” A man shouted.
Abbey’s mouth dried out with terror. How did they know?
“It’s my child,” she argued. “You’ve no right to condemn me.” She forced herself to sit upright and held her head rigid in defiance. “Do you hear me, this is MY baby.”
When something warm trickled between her legs, Abbey looked down at the spreading puddle. Another contraction robbed her of coherent thought and she followed a primeval urge to push. This child was arriving, whether it was convenient or not.
“You’ve committed the worst sin of all,” a man’s voice condemned.
Abbey knew that she had to get inside the cottage. Once she was there her child would be safe.
“Please, help me get home,” she begged. When she felt a light touch on her arm, she turned. A grateful smile teetered on the edge of her lips until she saw the furious emerald eyes of her saviour.
BUY LINKS:
Hedge-Witchery Books
Amazon
Amazon UK
Learn more about Margaret West on her website and blog. She also has an informative blog Connecting With Spirit you’ll enjoy.
Have a great weekend. I’ll be back Monday with information on an innovative company, Summerhouse Publishing, and its energetic owner, Celia Kyle.
Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
TRICKS
February 9, 2011 | Author Friend Promo
The incomparable Rick R. Reed is here with a book filled with passion and suspense. TRICKS is a step away from the horror Rick usually writes, but this magical novel is engrossing and guaranteed to satisfy.
TRICKS
Rick R. Reed
ISBN-13: 978-1-60820-214-0 Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-1-60820-215-7 Electronic
MLR Press
BUY LINK Paperback
BUY LINK E-book
BLURB:
Tricks can mean many things: sex partners, deceptions, even magic. In Rick R. Reed’s searing love story, it means all three. Arliss is a gorgeous young dancer at Tricks, the hottest club in Chicago’s Boystown. Sean is the classic nerd, out of place in Tricks, but nursing his wounds from a recent break-up.
When the two spy each other, magic blooms.
But this opposites-attract tale does not run smooth. What happens when Arliss is approached by one of the biggest porn producers in the business? Can he make his dreams of stardom come true without throwing away the only real love he’s ever known? And will this question even matter if the mysterious producers realize their dark intentions?
EXCERPT:
Arliss had everything he needed right in front of him for that night’s performance-hardhat, check, steel-toed boots, check, tool belt, check, black mesh thong with pouch for his rather prodigious endowment, big check. Yes, Arliss was just about ready for his turn on the stage at Tricks, located in Chicago’s infamous Boystown neighborhood, at its epicenter on the corner of Belmont and Halsted. He also had before him a tall tumbler of Stoli vodka with just a whisper of cranberry juice cocktail in it for color, and a half-empty pack of Marlboro Ultralights. The latter two items helped the twenty-one-year-old calm himself before a performance, and the vodka in particular went a long way toward reducing backstage jitters.
He lit up a cigarette and regarded himself through the smoke. The lights in the crowded dressing room, which he shared with the other eight or so exotic dancers, were unforgiving. Fluorescent did little to hide any imperfections like rings under the eyes, reddened noses from too much partying, and, for those on their way out of the club, track marks on the arms. But Arliss didn’t have to worry about signs of drug abuse showing up on his person. He had learned to just say no a long time ago, in a manner that he preferred not to dredge up, at least not now, when he was trying to put himself in a cheerful, high-energy mode.
Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he struggled into his costume, ending by stuffing his dick into the pouch that protruded from his black thong. His member stuck out in such a way that invited grasping hands, which is what Arliss wanted, as long as there was cash in those hands to stuff the thong even more fully.
Attired in a costume that would make the construction worker from the Village People look demure, Arliss turned in front of the mirror to ensure he was the perfect fantasy specimen of pornographic machismo. He was grateful he had added the angel wing tattoo to his back and the snakes that twisted around each bicep. And the one on his chest, the tiny heart with the name “Helena” in it, always brought a lump to his throat-or a splash of bile to the back of it, depending on his mood and how forgiving he felt.
He set the cigarette down in a tin ashtray and took a swig of vodka. He could feel as much as hear the heavy bass of the techno music playing in the bar and knew that Antonio, a Puerto Rican dude with a shaved head and heavy stubble, was probably just about finished with his set, which meant his boxing ensemble cluttered the small stage.
Arliss would come out, dance briefly and flirtatiously with Antonio, and then have the stage to himself. He didn’t know how he did it, night after night, but somehow he managed. He had always been the shyest boy in Ruskin, Florida, where he had grown up. If they could see me now… Well, if they could see me now, they’d probably still call me a fag and try to beat the crap out of me. Once again, my dear, now is not the time for sentimentality. He took another swig of vodka, draining the glass and feeling the warmth of the liquor as it spread through his chest and extremities. Show time!
Arliss hurried to the door that separated the cramped dressing room from the bar proper. Tricks didn’t really have a stage, although the dancers liked to think of the bar upon which they danced as one. It was Friday night and, from the burble of conversation beneath the pounding beat, sounded as though they had a good crowd. He sucked in a breath, looked down at his perfectly smooth pale skin and six-pack abs and told himself he was gorgeous.
“Don’t forget to smile, Toots! You always look like some gloomy Gus out there!” Leave it to Emmett Myers, owner of Tricks, to try and unsettle him just before he went on stage.
Arliss flashed the man a big, Farrah Fawcett smile. If the prissy older man with the pencil moustache recognized it as fake, he gave no indication.
“There! That’s what they like to see! For heaven’s sakes, you have to remember that if they think you’re having a good time, they’ll have a good time. And a good time means more money for all of us.”
Arliss listened as the song wound down, morphing into yet another bass beat that signaled him it was time to stride out through the door, amble across the crowded room, ignore the covert feels and pinches he got as he made his way to the bar, and climb up on it to join Antonio in front of the crowd.
“Get out there, gorgeous! Shake your groove thing!” Emmett cackled and placed a hand on Arliss’ back to propel him forward. Just as much to get the hand off his back as to get to the stage, Arliss threw open the door, plastered on a big smile, threw his shoulders back and strode through the crowd, keeping his eye on the narrow strip of bar that would, for the next fifteen minutes, be his stage.
* * *
Sean didn’t know what he was doing in Tricks. It was the kind of bar he never frequented. Hell, he rarely frequented any bars. He felt out of place among these older men, all of them leering at the strippers. He supposed he couldn’t fault these men for coming here. The strippers, after all, were the bar’s reason for being-providing “adult” entertainment…and to charge outrageously high prices for watered down cocktails.
I mean, really, eight dollars for a vodka and tonic? And the vodka wasn’t even a call brand! Sean peered into the clear liquid, with its bubbles, slice of lime, and more than generous helping of ice cubes, and wondered again what could have possessed him to set foot inside this place. Tricks was a sleazy bar, a destination where he was certain the boys on stage probably made offstage deals with the clientele for more intimate, and less legal, behavior. It was the kind of place he and his friends once made fun of, painting the characters who frequented it with terms like “desperate” and “lecherous.”
So what was he doing here? On a Friday night, no less, when other gay men his own age, thirty something, were on the prowl in countless other places on Halsted and further north, in the newer crop of bars in the neighborhood known as Andersonville.
He shook his head, knowing exactly what had brought him here. He stared morosely into his drink, the men around him hooting and catcalling as the next dancer hoisted himself up on the bar to begin his routine. The boy (to call him a man, really, would have been a stretch) was what was known in gay parlance as a twink. He barely looked old enough to drink, let alone wag his weenie at the patrons to a Lady GaGa beat. Was this kid really of legal age? Really? Sure, he had the requisite tattoos and piercings of a professional wrestler, and his smooth, almost hairless body was firm and well-defined, but Sean had to wonder what would compel someone so young to make his living in a way Sean had always thought of as demeaning.
And if what the kid’s selling is demeaning, what does that make you?
He knew he should just get up from the bar stool on legs that were still steady and head home to his apartment and his live-in lover-an overweight black and white cat named Bergamot who was always willing to pay attention to him when no one else seemed up to the task. He shook his head, imagining his lonely evening eating a Lean Cuisine, watching recorded episodes of Glee.
It was enough to make him stay put and, for something to do, he turned his gaze to the boy on the bar, who was moving his hips suggestively, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the room all at once, and grinning like he was having the best time a boy could have this side of having an orgasm..
The boy was beautiful, in his own sordid, runaway sort of manner. His eyes were a piercing blue that somehow, when focused on Sean for the briefest of moments, made him feel he was the only guy in the room. But there was something otherworldly about him too, almost a glow, something that went far beyond his vitality and youth. It was as though he were performing to some inner music, something lurid and sexual.
Sean wondered what the kid thought about as he went through the motions of what could only loosely be defined as dancing. Did he really like being here? Why had he chosen this life over something with a more promising future, like college or some sort of employment that didn’t involve shedding his clothes? Did he do it out of desperation? Was he on drugs?
Or was it that he was using to his best advantage what he had to work with? Sean had to admit-and the little man down below, the one between his legs, raised his purple head to agree-that the boy was sexy, extremely so. He had about him something that was at once alluring and needy: you wanted to take this boy in your arms and comfort him; you also wanted to fuck the shit out of him and slap his ass and whisper foul nothings in his ear as you thrust into him. Sean squirmed as his little man lengthened and thickened to his full size, which was actually about six and a half inches, and not the eight he claimed in various online profiles.
The boy shed the tool belt he wore, letting it drop to the bar’s surface with a thud, then the hard hat, finally swaying in nothing more than a black mesh thong and steel-toed boots. His legs were long, lean, and well-muscled, and like every other letch in the bar, Sean could not keep his eyes off the boy’s member, which bounced around in front of him like a mini baseball bat, looking absurd and breathtakingly tantalizing at the same time. Sean didn’t know whether to laugh or just open his mouth and drool. How big was that thing, anyway? This boy, Sean was sure, would not have to lie about having eight inches. From the basis of the flaccid member barely concealed, the boy could honestly claim all that…and maybe even more.
Sean felt heat rise to his face as he gulped at his drink, finding the tall glass contained only ice. Where was that bartender?
And now the boy was moving along the bar, smiling and squatting down with those same magnificent legs spread, exhorting the bar revelers to stuff his thong with dollar bills.
He had no shortage of takers. The bills were testing the elastic of the thong’s waistband and a few errant bills would slip to the stage; the boy discreetly snatched them up and held them in his hand as he made his way down this lascivious receiving line, letting the patrons dip their hands inside the thong to ensure that what he had on display was real. Sean assumed it was-no way to fake that. He also let them pat his ass, running their hands over its smooth contours. When Sean watched one guy wet his finger and slip it inside the boy’s butt…
BUY LINK Paperback
BUY LINK E-book
Learn more about Rick R. Reed on his website or at his blog. You can also catch Rick on Twitter and Facebook.
I’ll be back Friday. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
TUESDAY TEASER
February 8, 2011 | Tuesday Teasers
Time to take the edge off this winter freeze with an excerpt from book three in my series the Magnificent Men of Munich.
FRANCINE ON FIRE
Sloane Taylor
ISBN 978-1-60168-060-0
Aspen Mountain Press
BLURB:
Francine Daniels doesn’t trust men. Not since two husbands and a con artist ruined her life. After years of struggle – during which she took back control and soared to new heights – there is no place in her plans for a German hottie…Even if she does burst into flames at his touch.
Heicke Brewer already made one disastrous trip down the aisle, and never plans to go that route again. He prefers the parade of international beauties lined up outside his bedroom door to enjoy his ‘satisfaction guaranteed’ reputation…Until he meets an American pixie too hot not to handle.
Francine is working a golf outing when nature decides to step in.
EXCERPT:
Francie swiped a hand across her shoulder, hoping her over exuberant co-worker had splashed water and not that a bird had decided her new shirt looked good as a sweet dump site. Dammit, another drop landed on her forearm.
“Gretchen, be more…” She spun around to see the blonde bombshell in deep conversation with a gorgeous golfer that included more body contact than a good lap dance. If they weren’t careful, the entire course would see them humping like dogs in heat.
A quick glance at the sky showed thick black clouds heading toward the golf course, but it was the streaks of dark green reaching the treetops that startled her.
“Hey, Gretchen. Stud Muffin. We need to get all this stuff on the cart.” She dropped the plastic liquor bottles into their cases and brushed the rain from her eyelashes. The few drops had exploded into a full blown downpour. Pissed at the lack of help, Francie turned just as a crack of thunder split the air and she saw a blonde ponytail bouncing as the golf cart sped down the asphalt path.
“You rotten little bitch,” she shouted, but screaming and waving her fist did little to ease her anger.
The sky blazed with jagged arcs of lightning as they streaked upward from the ground. She clamped her hands over her ears as the double explosion of thunder rattled her teeth. Making a snap decision that she could make better time darting to the clubhouse barefooted, Francie yanked off her squishy walking shoes then scooped up the flimsy cashbox and groaned as the sodden mess dissolved in her hands. Coins spilled onto the mushy grass as the notes spun into a whirlpool. Her hands flew as she racked up the currency, stuffing it into the shallow pockets of her capris. She yanked at the soaked shirt clinging to her skin, and decided she had no other choice. A shiver ran down her spine as she slid the heavy euro coins into her bra. The damned things weighed a ton and froze her nipples into tight buds. She turned to sprint down the lane and careened into an oncoming golf cart.
“Shit.” Her knee hurt like hell, but she didn’t have time to worry about it as another bolt of lightning ripped a heavy branch off the tree a few feet away.
“Get in.” A booming voice wiped away her panic. She jumped into the cart, clutching her breasts as the money tumbled to the ground. “Do not worry about them. We will return after the storm, but right now we must get to shelter.”
She nodded in relief, swiping raindrops from her face and glanced into the sexy eyes of the hotel handyman. Of all the asinine times to worry about looks, she thought as she maneuvered her fingertips in a sorry attempt at spiking her hair into its familiar style.
“There is a shelter around this next curve.” He shot a quick glance her way, careful to keep the cart on the narrow lane.
“I can’t believe how the temperature dropped so fast.”
“It is always that way in Germany. Cold in one minute.” His eyes smoldered as he stared at her mouth and she shivered, heat coiling in her belly. “But I have hopes it will warm up soon.”
I’ll be back Wednesday with Rick R. Reed. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Scotland with a Bite
February 4, 2011 | Author Friend New Releases
If you like vampires, along with hot males in kilts, you’re going to love SEDUCING SCOTS, the latest release from multi-published Marie Treanor.
Here’s a little to warm you on this cold February day.
SEDUCING SCOTS
Marie Treanor
ISBN: 9781419962363
Ellora’s Cave
BLURB:
You’re not meant to fall for the bad guy, are you? Not the vampire, nor the possessed, nor the ex-con…
Reluctant Scottish psychic Jenny discovers her true talent is hunting vampires. Yet when that vampire is the evil, sexy gorgeous Karoly, in his quite inappropriate antique kilt, will she be able to fulfill her potential?
Ellie is a strong psychic with a messy personal life. When she decides to clean up the latter, the last person she needs to encounter is carefree Scottish busker Chris, the best ever one night stand from her naughty past. Especially when something evil within him threatens them both.
When the vampiress Draguta, Karoly’s ex, comes to the Scottish Highlands with a social mission, she’s distracted by local pub landlord, Al MacNab – a large, sexy man with a dubious past, a lot of secrets, and some alluring bondage gadgetry in his cellar.
EXCERPT:
“Well? What do you eat, little vampire hunter?”
Vampire hunter? Who did he think I was? Buffy? Right now I would have given much for just one of the Slayer’s powerful kicks. Even the ability to shuffle one foot would have been good. Still, at least I managed to gather my wildly confused wits enough to demand, “Did you hurt Maggie?”
“Who is Maggie?” he asked without much interest. His gaze had fallen to my throat again. One thin, pale hand lifted, two long, finely tapering fingers brushed the skin of my neck. I gasped. Though neither warm nor cold, they didn’t feel remotely neutral. Electricity sparked, tingling through me, and more worrying than anything, it wasn’t even unpleasant. The opposite, in fact.
“The bride!” I gasped. “She just left.”
“Poultry and cheap red wine,” he said disparagingly, without looking up from my neck. His fingers stroked my skin and those sparks were getting worse, shooting right through my whole body, creating some half-understood but overwhelming desire that was only mostly to do with sex.
“You did bite her!” I accused, trying to distract him before I became totally lost in what he was doing to my throat.
“Of course I did,” he chided. “I’m a vampire.”
His fingers slid around to the back of my neck and closed. I gasped again, involuntarily twisting my head. I prayed he would mistake my reaction for fear, but the truth was his touch gave me some fearful pleasure I had never encountered before, triggering new desires that were almost scarier than him.
Suddenly, every inch of me was aware of his tall, strong body. Backed into the table as I was, I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried and now I didn’t want to. I wanted him to touch me more. And the knowledge that it was wicked and forbidden and dangerous only added to the excitement. He hadn’t killed Maggie or Davie, after all, and he must have known that even if I recognized him for what he was, I was no threat. I wondered, with trembling anticipation, what his bite would feel like.
His fingers caressed the back of my neck. Without warning, his body came to rest against mine. This time there was warmth—or perhaps it was just my own flushed body heating his—and something hard, his sporran, pushed sweetly against my crotch. I realized I was moist down there, growing wetter and hotter by the instant. A small sound like a moan escaped my lips. My nipples felt painfully tight and hard against his chest and I wished very badly that I’d been laid in the last few months so that I didn’t disintegrate so quickly into this gibbering glob of desire for someone—something—so evil that even I had felt it across a crowded room.
But the truth was, I wished vampires fucked and I wished very badly that this one would fuck me quickly, here and now.
Involuntarily, my hips pressed forward into his and I saw him smile as he bent his head. Something flashed in his eyes just as they passed out of my view. His fingers gripped my nape more firmly, his other arm suddenly swept around my back to hold me to him and I closed my eyes, letting the wild sensations of pleasure and desire wash over me, fill me.
I felt his lips on my neck, silky smooth. My head fell back against his arm, my mouth opened with a soundless cry of want and anticipation. My hands clutched his biceps, clinging to the hard, muscled flesh for support. His lips felt so good, teasing, sensuously sucking, that I wanted them everywhere on me. His tongue flickered across my skin, tasting, and it was so wonderful, sending such delicious shivers of pleasure through my whole body that I would happily have died just to feel it again. But I wanted more, I wanted his teeth, which I would surely feel, any moment. I wondered if it would hurt, what sort of weird, perverse joy it would give my suddenly depraved body…
But his lips were still. I could hear my heart pounding. My fingers gripped convulsively on his arms, waiting. But he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were so dark they looked black, almost opaque save for those flashing flecks of gold as they stared down into mine. Bewildered, stupid with unsatisfied hunger, I stared back.
He said, “Do you know, I drank from a homeless man when I first came here and I was out cold for three nights?”
I drew in my breath, hearing it shudder.
“What is it with me?” I demanded. “Why do men only want to talk?”
Remember, you can find out more about Marie Treanor and her engrossing books on her website. Catch all her latest news on Facebook or subscribe to her Newsletter. Be sure to join the party on her new blog: Marie Treanor’s Romantic Theme Party.
I’ll be back Monday with a review on the awesome hit musical Million Dollar Quartet. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Hot Vampires for a Cold Day
February 3, 2011 | Author Friend Promo
Our guest author today is the incredibly talented Marie Treanor who lives in Scotland with her eccentric husband and three much-too-smart children. After the family grew bored with city life, they moved to a picturesque village by the sea where Marie is lucky enough to enjoy herself avoiding housework and writing sensual stories of paranormal romance and fantasy much to this fan’s delight.
Please allow me to give you an example of this superb author.
BLOOD ON SILK
An AWAKENED BY BLOOD Novel
Marie Treanor
ISBN: 978-0451231567 Paperback
NAL – Signet Eclipse
Temptation begins at sunset…
BLURB:
Scottish academic Elizabeth Silk is spending the summer in Romania researching historical superstitions for her PhD. While she is tracing local folktales, one subject in particular sparks her imagination. His name is Saloman, legend’s most powerful vampire, a seductive prince staked centuries ago. Now, in the ruins of a castle crypt, Elizabeth discovers the legends are real. Her blood has awakened him. Her innocence has aroused him. But Elizabeth unleashes more than Saloman’s hunger.
An army of vampire hunters has amassed to send Saloman back to hell. Sworn to help – yet fearing Saloman’s deadly blood lust – Elizabeth seeks to entrap him, offering her body as bait. But something stronger than dread, more powerful than revenge, is uniting Elizabeth to her prey. Caught between desire and rage, Elizabeth must decide where her loyalties lie…and what the limits are to a yearning she can no longer control.
EXCERPT:
There was nowhere to go but backward, until the wall ground into her shoulder blades and buttocks, and still he kept coming. Tall and broad-shouldered as he was, his very size threatened her. Most of his handsome face was in shadow, hiding any expression. She could make out only his eyes, blacker than the surrounding darkness, yet glistening with some deep, wild hunger it hurt to look at.
He lifted his hand once more to the wound in her throat. His fingertip was cold, yet seemed to burn her skin. She gasped, quivering, and when he bent his head toward her again, gazing at her bleeding injury, she began to fight, crashing her fists into his chest, pushing uselessly against his shoulders.
He smelled of earth and cold stone, gave off no sense of human warmth. So why did her body begin to weaken its resistance? Her fists, her struggles, made no impression on him. He continued to lower his head to her wounded neck. At least she could no longer see those terrible eyes…
At the first touch of his lips, she gave up: she could do nothing against him and some dark, perverse part of her remembered the unique, agonizing thrill of his first bite.
But he didn’t bite. He surrounded the wound with his lips and licked it once. She shuddered, helpless in the grip of fear and something she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – name. Then he lifted his head and she stared at him, speechless, because the pain had gone.
The hunger hadn’t left his eyes, but in the glimmer of torchlight, she thought it was overlaid with mockery. The bastard was laughing at her.
“I’m saving the rest for later,” he explained.
Her eyes widened. He was letting her live after all? At least for another minute. “L-later?” she stammered.
His fingers trailed across her throat, butterfly light, making her gasp. “Later. Your blood is strong and heady. I’m taking time to absorb it.” He bent nearer her, inhaling, almost sniffing the air around her head and throat. The skin of his face looked so smooth she had an insane urge to reach up and touch it. His sculpted lips moved faintly, as if a smile almost danced across them, never quite forming before it faded.
“Interesting,” he observed, and his voice was different now, quiet, almost whispering, with just a hint of hoarseness. “I have to thank you for waking me…What is your name?”
She swallowed. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Silk.”
The almost smile tugged at his lips and vanished. His cheek brushed against hers, barely touching, yet her stomach seemed to plunge. “Silk. How apt,” he murmured. “Like your hair…and your skin, so soft and warm…”
His fingertips caressed her face, then slid down over her chin to her throat and she gasped, jerking in panic. But the movement only brought her into contact with his body. He was hard and solid, and surely that stiff ridge against her stomach was his erection… Vampires had erections? Unless that part of him was still made of stone?
Oh Jesus Christ and fuck!
She shrank, pressing her back into the wall once more. Shocked, she could feel wetness between her legs. It’s just fear, not lust, it can’t be…
“And you are English,” he said, changing to that language without warning.
“Scottish,” she returned mechanically. What the hell does that matter?
He inclined his head, clearly humoring her. His body touched hers at breast and hips, hardening her nipples into aching peaks. Perhaps he felt them, for he said, “Do you know how long it has been since I have had a meal or a woman?”
Her stomach seemed to melt into her womb. Sweat had broken out on her palms and was trickling down between her breasts. But somehow she managed to do the math. “Three hundred and twelve years?”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “Don’t ask me. After the first couple of centuries, those decades just fly by.” He lifted his hand from her neck, tracing one tapered fingertip along her lower lip. She was afraid to move.
“Do they really?” she managed.
“No. But they let me work up some heady appetites.”
“For what?” She sounded more suspicious than terrified. Was that good? Perhaps. The almost-smile reappeared and vanished as his face leaned nearer hers.
“For dinner,” he answered. “And dalliance.”
His finger slid to the corner of her lips, pushing gently until she gasped, and when her mouth opened he took it with his.
Heat consumed her, drowning her in some strange, welcome weakness. His cool lips moved across hers, sampling, parting them. He should have tasted of dust and death and corruption. At the very least he hadn’t brushed his teeth in three hundred and twelve years. Yet what she inhaled in panic was something overwhelmingly seductive, an earthy sweetness, powerful and masculine, and God help her, she wanted it. She wanted to give herself to his mouth, feel his kiss deepen and dominate while he pressed that large, hard body closer into her. She wanted to push herself against the hardness nudging her abdomen. She wanted it between her legs, pushing into her, because she’d never known a kiss as arousing as this, and the sex would be so…
Oh God!
You can find out more about Marie Treanor and her engrossing books on her website. Catch all her latest news on Facebook or subscribe to her Newsletter. Be sure to join the party on her new blog: Marie Treanor’s Romantic Theme Party.
I’ll be back tomorrow with a new release from the spellbinding Marie Treanor. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Let the Game Begin
February 1, 2011 | Tuesday Teasers
With all the cold and snow, it seems a hot game of strip checkers is in order. 🙂
LONNIE HEATS UP
ISBN 978-1-60168-155-3
Aspen Mountain Press
BLURB:
Lost in the Austrian Alps, psychologist Lonnie Copley is forced to accept help from a Hell’s Angel wannabe. She never expected to be trapped with the Aryan god in deserted Castle Flophouse.
Disgusted with cleaning up his client’s dirty lives, attorney Wolfe Deider is in major career throes. He doesn’t need some insolent woman mucking up his mind, even if she does have a mouth made for kissing.
EXCERPT:
He shoved a red circle onto the appropriate square. She concentrated for a moment then moved her black disk onto the square that forced him to conquer her. He considered the consequences and decided she was just as eager as him to get into bed.
“I believe you lose your first disk, Eleanor.” His dick was tingling as she frowned.
“Guess so.” She kicked off a boot. Grinning, she lifted a black checker and slowly jumped his disk then glanced up. “Not just yet, Herr Deider. You see? I have another move.” She swooped up the next disk.
Both of his shoes clomped to the floor. Apparently she was not as easy as he thought.
He leaned across the board, his elbows propped on the table. A strategy was mandatory if he wanted the outcome in his favor. Looking her in the eyes, he slid a disk on the diagonal keeping his finger on top of it.
She glanced down, a slow smile tweaking her lips, and raised her hand as if to play.
“Not just yet, Eleanor.” He slid the red circle back onto its original square. “I think this is a better move,” he said as he crossed jumped two of her disks.
She never flinched. Her other shoe hit the floor, followed by a sock.
“You are a good sport.” He raised his glass in a salute. “If not my best opponent.”
“And you may live to regret those words, mister.”
Another play on her part and he pulled off both of his socks.
He moved, she snorted, and flung her other sock into the air.
She made an outstanding move he never suspected. His shirt flew onto a side chair.
With a grin he glanced up. The doctor did not look as if she were enjoying herself. Her wine left untouched. Perhaps she will enjoy herself later, he thought as he conquered another checker.
She grabbed her sweater at the hem. Slowly peeled it up her body and over her head then tossed it onto the floor. Her low cut purple bra barely covered her puckered nipples. And his dick stood at attention.
His hands shook as he lifted another red disk over her black one.
She slid back the chair then stood. Her graceful fingers worked the button free. The rasp of her zipper was the only sound in the room. Wolfe held his breath as she wiggled the pants past her curvy hips. She glanced at him over her shoulder with the look of a woman who knew what she wanted. Her hands glided over her sleek ass, guiding the material down her long, toned legs. She bent over to pull them off and he almost came at the sight of her ass cheeks gripping a purple thong.
With the next move his stack of black disks grew taller and his balls ached.
In a quick motion, she swiped a strand of hair from her face. Gracefully she reached behind with both of her hands to unhook her bra. Her shoulders stretched back and her breasts thrust forward. And his cock throbbed.
With one arm under her bra, she brought the other across, hiding his view of those beautiful more-than-a-mouthful tits, and slid down the strap. She changed the position of her arms and peeled down the other satin strip. The bra fell into her lap and he clenched the table. Her rosy nipples were right there, budded, and inviting the touch of his hands and lips until she screamed his name in her orgasm.
He did not care how he lost the game. He would throw it if he could just get off his damned jeans and give his cock some room. No matter what move he made she did not fall into his trap of jumping him.
His cock swelled larger, the pain intense but sweet, as he added her last disk to his pile.
She stood, her breasts bobbing from the movement and his mouth watered. If he did not slip inside her hot pussy soon, he would come in his pants.
I’ll be back tomorrow with author Marie Treanor. Be sure to stop in. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
Rick R. Reed Does It Again
January 28, 2011 | Author Friend New Releases
By creating another fantastic book, DIGNITY TAKES A HOLIDAY, which is sure to be a best seller. No surprise there since the writing world has only high praise for today’s guest author Rick R. Reed. With my limited space, I can only share two;
In their October 2006 issue, Unzipped magazine said:
“You could call Rick R. Reed the Stephen King of gay horror.”
And Dark Scribe magazine proclaimed:
“Reed is an established brand – perhaps the most reliable contemporary author for thrillers that cross over between the gay fiction market and speculative fiction.”
In spite of this—or perhaps because of it—Rick has been lately turning more and more to writing romance and illuminating the emotional lives of gay men.
To date, Reed has more than sixteen books in print, and his short fiction has appeared in more than 20 anthologies. His novel, ORIENTATION, won the EPPIE Award for best LGBT novel of 2008.
Rick lives in Seattle, WA with his partner and a very spoiled Boston Terrier. Visit Rick on his website to see all his wonderful work.
Here’s a glimpse of his latest release.
DIGNITY TAKES A HOLIDAY
Rick R. Reed
ISBN-13: 978-1-61581-721-4 (Paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-61581-722-1 (Electronic)
Dreamspinner Press
BLURB:
Pete Thickwhistle doesn’t live what one might call a charmed life. At age forty-seven, he’s a flamboyant gay man who believes no one knows he’s gay, still living at home with his harpy of a mother. Worse, he’s still a virgin, longing to find just the right man to make his life complete. Pete’s an upbeat kind of guy, yet he’s never learned that the answer to his motto “What could possibly go wrong?” is always: “Everything.”
Pete’s road to love and happiness is full of potholes, yet he never tires of searching, despite job losses, weight battles, clothing faux pas, and disastrous vacations, parties, and dating debacles. Pete is the ultimate underdog living a television situation comedy, one named Dignity Takes a Holiday.
EXCERPT
The Beginning of the End
“You’re not bringing that, are you? My God, they’ll laugh you out of town.” Helen snickered and pointed at Pete’s open suitcase.
Pete gnawed on a hangnail, staring down at the chalk stripe suit he had just purchased from the International Male catalog. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Other than it looking like one of those zoot suits they used to wear back when I was a little girl… nothing, I guess.”
Pete made a “tsk” sound and shook his head. “You have no fashion sense. If you did, you’d know this is retro, it’s very in. This is how all the guys in Chicago dress.”
“And what about this?” Helen snatched up a black sweater with a gold glitter owl emblazoned across the front. “Retro?”
“Oh, would you just shut up and let me get packed? I have a lot to do, and I don’t need you in here questioning my fashion choices. I’m nervous enough as it is!” Pete put a trembling hand to his forehead.
Helen hurried from the room. Pete wondered why he couldn’t have a mother like other men, someone they called their “best friend” rather than their “worst nightmare.”
But this mystery would have to wait for further pondering. Pittsburgh International Airport was more than an hour away, and Pete would have to “get his ass jumpin’” (as Helen would have so delicately put it) if he wanted to make his flight.
Pete allowed himself to sit down on his bed, closing his eyes and imagining the upcoming trip for a moment. Chicago… Pete pictured towering skyscrapers rising up against a vast expanse of blue waters and thought that his destiny could be made on this trip.
After all, he wondered, as he had so often in the past, what could possibly go wrong?
Learn more about Rick R. Reed on his Blog and catch up with him on Facebook and Twitter.
Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday with a new book review. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
WE HAVE WINNERS
January 27, 2011 | Contests
I run an easy contest in my quarterly newsletter with two winners, offering free downloads as the prize. The last contest was to email me with CAMERA typed in the subject line for a chance to win a copy of PHOTO OP!.
And the winners were:
LISA ANDERSON
LISA AVILA
Here’s a little about the book these happy people are now enjoying.
PHOTO OP!
ISBN 978-1-60168-139-3
Aspen Mountain Press
BLURB:
Photojournalist Emily Peters is in Paris when the opportunity to expose an infamous sex club sets her on fire. She never expects to be tied up in knots by the Devil.
Restaurateur Nicholas Caine prefers an inconspicuous lifestyle, but when a sex goddess enters his lair there’s only one thing he can do…take her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To join in the fun and a chance to win, go to my website and click the Newsletter link in the sidebar.
I’ll be back tomorrow with a new release from Rick R. Reed. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
The Angel Singers
January 26, 2011 | Author Friend Promo
If it is possible to have a split personality without being schizophrenic, Dorien Grey qualifies. When long-time book and magazine editor Roger Margason chose the pseudonym “Dorien Grey” for his first book, it set off a chain of circumstances which has led to the comfortable division of labor and responsibility. Roger has charge of day-to-day existence, freeing Dorien—with the help of Roger’s fingers—to write. It has reached the point where Roger merely sits back and reads the stories Dorien brings forth on the computer screen.
One such intriguing book is The Angel Singers which you’ll enjoy reading again and again.
THE ANGEL SINGERS
Book #12 of the Dick Hardesty Mystery Series
Dorien Grey
ISBN 978-1-934841-06-8
Zumaya Boundless
All Dorien Grey’s novels are available in or on order from any bookstore or on-line from AMAZON.
BLURB:
Take a group of men who love to sing, a devoted director, a wealthy backer, a lot of individual talent, clashing egos, and an upcoming concert. Throw in the backer’s “protege,” a five-year-old boy, a harried private detective, and a car bomb and…welcome to the maze.
EXCERPT:
Over the course of the weeks, I got to know not only something of how a chorus was made up, but a few through-Jonathan’s-eyes glimpses into what went on behind the scenes.
The night of Jonathan’s first rehearsal Roger Rothenberger, the chorus’s director, had, as he did with all new members, assigned him a “Buddy,” to help ease his way into the organization; introduce him around, show him the ropes, and explain and answer questions on procedures. Jonathan’s Buddy was a kid named Eric Speers, and the two of them hit it off immediately. So when Jonathan suggested inviting Eric over for dinner, I readily agreed. I was curious to meet him, and figured it would give me a little better insight into this new part of Jonathan’s life. He had indicated that Eric had been with the chorus since it had begun five years previously, and was deeply devoted to and involved in it. He was also the peacemaker of the group, which was apparently, as are most groups, both tight-knit and contentious.
It was inevitable that whenever you get 50 or so artistic gay men together, the road was not without its bumpy stretches. There were the inevitable cliques, feuds, and rivalries that afflict any group of humans, and Jonathan always brought home a doggie bag of the latest bits of gossip he’d heard at rehearsals. I’ve never gone in much for gossip, but Jonathan got such a kick out of observing all the various behind-the-risers intrigues and took such delight in sharing them with me that I couldn’t complain. It was rather like watching one of those guilty-pleasure soap operas on TV, although the cast members of the chorus dramas were not all as drop-dead gorgeous as their on-screen counterparts. There were even a few hush-hush allusions to a conflict between Rothenberger and Crandall Booth, and to Booth’s alleged financial ties to some rather shady types. I didn’t give any weight to the latter, since I knew that Glen O’Banyon, the city’s preeminent gay lawyer, for whom I frequently did work, was also a member of the chorus’s board, and if there were any solid basis to the allegations, Glen would not be associated with Booth in any way.
Rothenberger, Jonathan had told me, had been born and raised here, then moved to New York and started singing with the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus and became an assistant director. He’d then gone on to direct one or two other groups before moving back here. In addition to the Gay Men’s Chorus, he also directed the choir at the M.C.C. I’d seen him at the chorus’s last concert—the one that had prompted Jonathan to want to join. Rothenberger had reminded me of an opera star; portly to the point of being rotund, full beard, somewhat imperious manner; in absolute control when it came to leading the chorus. Jonathan reported that Rothenberger’s mantra at every rehearsal and before every concert was: “Remember; when you talk, you’re human. When you sing, you’re angels,” and everyone in the chorus apparently thought the world of him.
The most recent tempest in the choral teapot was created by a member who joined not too long before Jonathan, and who happened to be Crandall Booth’s nephew. There’s nothing like a little nepotism to get things heated up, and the controversy was compounded by the nephew, Grant Jefferson, apparently being something of a pain in the ass. Jonathan, of course, always prefers to see the good in everyone, but even he found it a little difficult to find much positive to say about Grant. “He’s really good looking,” he conceded, “and he does have a nice voice,” which, coming from Jonathan, I took to be something of a case of damning with faint praise.
Possibly another reason why I allowed myself to be vicariously caught up on the goings on of the chorus was that my work, while fairly steady, had lately tended to be far less than the stuff of which detective novels are made. For the past two weeks or so I had been caught up in a “case”…if it could even be called that…so stupifyingly dull I’d have much preferred to watch paint dry. Suffice it to say it involved a client with more money than intelligence who was on a vendetta against a former business partner and wasn’t going to let a little thing like his case not having a leg to stand on get in his way. I finally gave up trying to convince him that he was wasting his money, and resigned myself to the conclusion that if he was going to throw his money away, he might as well throw some of it at me. So I spent an inordinate amount of time running off in whatever new direction he pointed me. I could and should have quit; however, my mantra was: “It isn’t the principle of the thing, it’s the money.”
All Dorien Grey’s novels are available in or on order from any bookstore or on-line from AMAZON.
Learn more about Dorien Grey and his excellent books on his website and his blog. For further insight into this remarkable author, check out his photolife.
I’ll be back tomorrow to announce the winners from my newsletter contest. Until then…
Happy Reading!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
