Category Archives: guest blogger

Fallen Leaves (Rocking Summer Romances) by Tina Gayle

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As autumn comes to the Winston estate in Ohio, Amber Harrison learns further lessons in her new position as keeper for the spirits and ghosts who haunt the estate–and further lessons in love, too. She and her love, Carter Miller, grapple with the fears and passions of new love, while caught up in the storm of ancient family drama.

This is the second book in the unfolding saga of the psychics and talents associated with the Winston estate, a sheltered place where past, present, and future are woven into a single dramatic tapestry of love and desire. The tale spans multiple generations, multiple eras, and offers something special for all ages of reader. A sexy, erotic winner!

 *

 

“How long before you install the new cabinets?”

He turned on the ladder. His dark brown eyes captured her, engulfing her in an encompassing warmth. She melted under his heated gaze, which ran from the top of her head to the white socks on her feet. He lifted a brow at her attire, but he didn’t comment on her pink sweat suit.

“With the old cabinets out of the way, I need to knock down this wall and tear up the flooring. The electrical work is next on the agenda.” He climbed off the ladder, yanked off his gloves, and slid a hand through his thick, wavy hair.

“It might be awhile before we install the new cabinets. Right now, we’re simply working to remove the old stuff so we can start fresh.” He smiled, which didn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes or the fatigue in the slump of his shoulders.

“There’s no hurry. If you’re busy with something else, this can wait until your Dad and Mattie come home next week.”

“No, Dad doesn’t want her dealing with this mess.” Carter unbuckled his tool belt and placed it on a workbench. “I promised him I’d have it done.”

“Is Grant helping?” Amber stepped around several pieces of sheetrock and stray bits of wood, to the bottom of the stairs.

He walked to the backdoor. “Friday, his classes are over at noon.”

With his hand resting on the doorknob, he appeared anxious to leave. “I’m headed to lunch, and then I need to drop by the office for a while. Are you sure you’re okay here by yourself?”

Amber toyed with the idea of saying no. She missed the taste of his lips and the strength of his arms, but she nodded instead. “Yes, I’m fine.”

After opening the door, he paused. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

She waved and turned to head to her room, satisfied she’d at least gotten him to talk. Her leaden feet trudged up the steps. Unexcited, she contemplated her latest assignment from the family council. How could she achieve such an impossible task of convincing her great grandmother’s ghost to cross over?

 

 

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So, Tina, tell us a bit about yourself:

– After years of working in the business sector

– Doing what?

– A variety of jobs, I then decided to try my hand at writing.

– Enjoying it?

– Definitely! Whether I’m good or not, you tell me! I’m currently working on a series about four executive wives. The first three books have been released. The last one will be out this year. I’ve  also started a paranormal romantic mystery series called the Family Tree series. With a family of spirits guiding the lives of their keeper, Amber has a number of tasks to accomplish like solving a two hundred year old mystery.

Summer’s Growth is in that series, right?

– You’re right!

– So what else? With all this writing, do you even find time for anything else?

– I like to play golf, to travel, and to do both with my husband, Mike. Can’t wait for him to retire so we can do more of both.

– Where can I get more of you?

– Well, you can read the first chapter of any of my books by visiting my website. And you’ll find me practically everywhere on the internet:

homepage   blog    twitter   Linkedin      goodreads  facebook   Google+

 

 

Somewhere:

The letter home arrives to a flatfooted father whose Uncle had never spoken of sitting in a hole in the mud, curled into a ball, helmet and teeth and hands clattering to the tune of incoming shells.
And the letter arrives from a man with one arm who cannot shake with his right.
The father does not go hunting next season;
He buys his meat all winter from the butchers with the widows, and they smile hollow smiles, smiles that will fill themselves with time and the spring.
Somewhere a soldier dies without permission
And three old men will never forget his name although they know new recruits only by the name Green until they’ve proven they can survive a thing or two.
Somewhere a child soldier dies without permission;
A stray shot while boiling oranges still hard,
atrocity and addiction and aversion and attack, attack, attack.
No less a good soldier, no field of white concrete crosses, no etching, just the abandoned campsite,
the scattering of warm empty casings,
empty villages, crowded refugee camps, dead men running through the night to the nearest well
And pickup truck headlights and muzzle flash
hollow bellies, helpless mothers, eyes that have seen now unblinking, and old men not worth the bullet.
No such thing as undisturbed sleep
No such thing as a dull machette
No such thing as a good war

 

 

from Somewhere a Soldier Dies Without Permission, by Bill Johnston

Ornamental Vagina

Sitting on that see-saw between science(of fiction) and fiction(of science), switching gears, switching frames. It not only feels good, it feels right:

i. Make up (verb): to invent, to create.

ii. Make up (verb): to embellish, to enhance.

iii. Make up (verb): to reconcile, put together again, to re-member.

iv. Make-up (noun): components, elements, constituents

To learn is to make up…?

I think of the language games young children so delight in when learning to read and write. The type we find cute for a time, before we decide to talk such nonsense out of them, so they learn to do it right. Pity. It is precisely this type of play that is characteristic of one of my favourite writers. She makes up. And I, now adult –  head full of jargon I’m constantly questioning –  listen, admire and learn:

i want to live without words

call him pink torpedo

he imagined himself & he was lady dagger lizard lobster apple-headed melon baster x-rated cannon supreme
& he loved the gutted hamster
& he wore the velvet glove

i want to live where everyone is alive
i want to live where there are so many people, where night trembles, where busy streets fall away as we move closer
I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE
i want to live where we lose it, off our faces in some garden, climbing to a place where none are more silent than us
i want dumb flesh to speak louder
i want that cunny-catcher bending light over the twisted sheets
i want you muffled and incoherent beside me
i want to live where nothing dies

DON’T TALK TO ME
I DON’T CARE

i imagined you & you were lady dagger lizard lobster apple-headed melon baster x-rated
bed in my room
& you shed old skin
& you wished new lies
& you kissed hot tears
& i do i do
i kiss the moving closer
where bad days bleed on the sheets
where bad dreams bleed from these my arms, these my fingers, these my eyes
where good days cling damp to the skin
where good dreams spread on the mattress
where good days cling damp to the skin under soft & ridiculous lips
& i feed my eyes
& i wish vodka morning
& i kiss the colour of laughter

I DON’T CARE WHERE YOU ARE
& i don’t care why you are, i just want to go too far. i just want to get in your head & show you what goes unsaid

(from Ornamental Vagina, by Penny Goring)

Speaks to the child in me. The scientist in me. The artist in me. The woman in me. The me in the tree. It looks good from up here. I do and I do and I don’t care either. Cos sometimes we think so hard we think ourselves into the wrong places. Let go. Fly.

00-12-20 swimmers

Naked Rebel (Rocking Summer Romances) by Anita Philmar

Naked Rebel

A spy that prefers to work alone, Nick Royster’s assignment is turned upside down when his superiors sends him a personal companion. Not appreciating the need to watch someone else’s back, he attends a dinner of Salsar’s inner group. Only to learn; he has to sacrifice Rane to get the information he needs to end the war.

Rane knows the importance of winning. Her family slaughtered by Salsar, this is her homeland and she plans to do whatever it takes to win her people’s freedom.

With everything on the line, can these two have any future together or does love and war equal heartache?

*

 

“I know it’s not much, but its home.” At least for the last few months it’d been. Once he’d reached the rank of top miner, it’d taken less than a year to make head foreman. Yet, he still didn’t know the location of Nustru’s purification plant.

“Nice.” A muffled voice rang through his small two room unit.

He glanced around at the bare walls. She couldn’t be serious.

Yes, he didn’t have to live in a tent, but the place wasn’t a proper home for a woman either. An ugly brown couch stood right by the door while a yellow counter with a cooler and stove occupied the opposite wall. The doorway to the back led to a tiny bathroom and an even smaller bedroom.

Not willing to argue about how she never should have been sent here, Nick walked over and looked inside the cooler. “Would you like something to drink?”

“That would be great,” she whispered through her veil.

Nick grabbed a protein drink and turned to see her struggling with the hood covering her head. He set down her drink and stepped to her side. The black cloak covering her really did its job. He couldn’t see any part of her except her small hands.

“Let’s see, how can we free you from this contraption?” He fingered the rough fabric covering her shoulders and lifted the lip of the cloth running along her biceps.

She stepped back and lowered her head.

He pulled. The hood fell away, revealing her reddish-gold hair.

A loud rip preceded a soft feminine scent, which filled the room. The cloak covering her body tore into long strips and crumbled to the floor at her feet.

A bullet of lust shot straight to his loins at the spectacular view. Full, creamy breasts covered by a skimpy piece of pink lace led to a narrow waist. Another strip hung on her curvy hips and restricted his view of her luscious center. A dark stain on her panties made him wonder if she was already wet with need.

“Nick?”

 

 

For once, I, Tatar, man of many words, thought I’d keep out of this presentation of a new Rocking Summer Romance so you can make your own mind up without knowing beforehand what was going through mine. What I will tell you though, is: redhead. The woman who took my virginity:

Cup it… squeeze it… not so hard… kiss it (she halfwhispered)… if you pull on it with your tongue, it’ll feel like, let me show you… Do you know any Latin terms, she asked me. I hardly heard a word of what she was saying I was so bloody nervous. I’ll teach you one, she said. No, I’ll teach you two…

Had a soft spot for redheads ever since, so: Rane, rebellious, redhead, (naked…), of whom I’m told you will do ‘whatever it takes to save your people’, what else am I going to find out about you?

 

More on  Amazon

Also check out Anita’s free read: Hot Prairie Nights on smashwords

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Lady Elinor’s Escape (Rocking Summer Romances) by Linda McLaughlin

 

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Linda McLaughlin. A woman of many faces. Here she’ll treat us to some historical romance. Elsewhere, writing under the name of Lyndi Lamont, she co-writes ‘steamy to erotic romance’ with Lyn O’Farrell. Yeah, you heard me. With her good girl’s face on she can be pleasantly improper. Lady Elinor can’t make up her mind how much she wants to wait. And her abusive aunt’s probably uptight cos she’s not getting it anymore (if she ever did). Linda tells me she’s bipolar, there’s nothing wrong with her that a little lithium in the water wouldn’t cure. The aunt, of course, not Linda. Some Greek philosopher it was who said there isn’t a thing a good rodgering can’t put straight. Good man!

Lady Elinor. Here’s her dilemma:

‘Lady Elinor Ashworth always longed for adventure, but when she runs away from her abusive aunt, she finds more than she bargained for. Elinor fears her aunt who is irrational and dangerous, threatening Elinor and anyone she associates with. When she encounters an inquisitive gentleman, she accepts his help, but fearing for his safety, hides her identity by pretending to be a seamstress. She resists his every attempt to draw her out, all the while fighting her attraction to him.

There are too many women in barrister Stephen Chaplin’s life, but he has never been able to turn his back on a damsel in distress. The younger son of a baronet is a rescuer of troubled females, an unusual vocation fueled guilt over his failure to save the woman he loved from her brutal husband. He cannot help falling in love with his secretive seamstress, but to his dismay, the truth of her background reveals Stephen as the ineligible party.’

 *

“Would you like to take a walk? There is a remarkable view of the city from the top of the hill, but do not forget your bonnet. You do not wish to get freckles on that lovely complexion.” He playfully touched the tip of her nose with one finger.

She laughed and donned the straw hat, but left her gloves on the blanket. “I never freckle.”

He moved closer to tie the ribbons under her chin. The brush of his hands on her neck sent shivers through her.

“We do not want your hat to blow off. It can be windy on the hill.”

He stood and held out his hand to help her up. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his bare hand enfolding hers. It was quite improper but also quite pleasant. Fingers linked, they trudged up the hill.

“Oh,” Elinor gasped softly when they reached the top. London lay before her, viewed through a slight haze. Nevertheless, she could see the spires of the city’s many churches. The sheer size and scope of the panorama comforted her. Surely, in such a large city, Aunt Sarah would not find her.

“Worth the walk, is it not?” Stephen Chaplin said as he let go her hand and stood behind her. He put one hand on her shoulder and used the other one to point out various landmarks. “There is St. Paul’s. Do you see the dome?”

“Yes,” she whispered, acutely aware of his closeness. The heat of his body seemed to envelope her and she breathed in his scent, a combination of soap and musk. She had to force herself to concentrate on what he was saying.

“That is the City, and over there,” his arm swept to the right, “is Westminster and Mayfair. And in the distance, you can see the hills of Kent.”

She looked past the city and saw the faint outline of hills. Turning around, she smiled up at him. “It is a lovely view. How can I thank you for such a pleasant day?”

His gaze grew more intense and he leaned toward her. Was he going to kiss her? Should she let him? Of course not, her head answered, but her heart sped up and she leaned toward him.

Then he blinked and abruptly drew back. “There is no need to thank me. It has been my pleasure. Now we had best return. Madame Latour will be wondering what has happened to you.”

Oddly disappointed, Elinor let him lead her back down the hill. For just a second she had thought he might kiss her. Had wanted him to kiss her. She sighed. What was wrong with her? Under the circumstances, it would be beyond the pale for her to lead him on. After all, she would only be in London a short time, just until her father sent for her. She needed to concentrate on getting word to him about her predicament.

Before she lost all sense of the propriety demanded of the daughter of an earl.

 

 

All form and propriety it was back in those days. Playing the waiting game. Talk about making life hard for yourself. But I love reads like this one. You get to see how ingenious people can be. Women in particular. The cunning behind the beauty. Stiff upper lips will melt, believe me!

 

Find out for yourself:

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under my skin: The Nothing Caper by Amy Jo Sprague

Someone once said of me: ‘this is writing from which I stand back in admiration’. Now it’s time for me to pass on the compliment:

 

‘It came in the night. We were all sleeping in the creaky house and I woke to it lifting my sheets; it made my nightgown bleed. My doll saw it all so I ripped out her eyes the next morning before breakfast. Then it started coming in my dreams, and I thought a monster was asleep beneath my bed, gathering my things. On the scratchy carpet where the sun comes in, it branded my skin with its tongue, so I gave it my voice. Mother and father swallowed it up.
They found me in corners and closets and they didn’t hear their words running from my mouth. I didn’t know so I swallowed the words whole; they fed me spoonfuls of aches that echoed deep into my belly, burning my insides until it dulled.
I began to sweat them out my pores like a broken fever. I washed and raked my skin when I saw them in the mirror. They curdled and clotted the mainstreams of my heart as I took their pieces and ate them. I choked and spewed out a doll that didn’t have eyes. Her messy dress had burned away so they stitched her a new one and kept it inside, and I ran away, hungry.’

 

The Nothing Caper, by  Amy Jo Sprague

 

 

It is time (by Anna Bayes)

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Anna Bayes. She’s shameless. She’s bisexual. She’s submissive. She says. I say: if only I had met you sooner, I could’ve spared myself the trip to North Africa (see I’ve slept with a man (course I have)). Anna writes contemporary, paranormal, BDSM and LGBT erotic romances: lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender. I’m not saying you’re asking yourself what LGBT is. I’m just making sure you know.

It is Time. For what? For  ‘15 bite-size tales of love and lust’. Bite, in French, means dick, if you pronounce it right: ‘beat’. The ‘t’ is important, so don’t gobble it.

Anna’s excerpt’s PG to stay on the right side of the rules, no doubt, though heaven knows there’s hardly a thing your average 12-year-old hasn’t heard of or even tried out these days. Like nature, and criminals, they’re mostly one step ahead of our attempts to cage and/or define them.

 

It is time, I believe.
My heart beats in my throat, and a chilling cold freezes my fingers, but I urge myself to speak my mind. “How many women do you have?”
He regards me calmly.
I gulp, and feel a whirlwind stirring in my stomach, but I look back at him with as much strength as I can muster.
“There are you, Robyn — you already know Robyn, and another girl called Tess.” He articulates slowly and clearly. “Three.”
A dull pain settles in my heart, but I accept it without letting it flare up. “Do they know as well?” I ask.
“Robyn possibly suspected that I had already met you before we had our threesome.” He says. “But no, basically. You are the only one who’ve ever asked.”
I nod.
The question, “Who’s your favorite?” circles in my head, but I know better than to ask that. Instead, I enquire, “You looked so peaceful when I asked you, were you expecting that question?”
“Not exactly.” He brushes a loose strand of hair out of my view as he continues. “But you’re easily the smartest girl I’ve met in my whole life. Whatever query you have, I think it’s best if I answer plainly, instead of trying to lie.”
I take a sip from my lukewarm tea and look around the apartment. The walls are bare; his suitcase is still leaning against the farthest wall, near the window. Except for the drinks on the kitchen counter, our shoes in the doorway and our clothes flung about casually on the floor, the place is empty.
He is in town every month or so, staying for about ten days each time. His business is good, so he can easily afford a spare apartment in the choicest region only for sleep and sex dates. The dingy brown sofa-bed does not bother him; he fucks hard and long on it, then cradles me to sleep.
I had known he was not for keeps, but the way he remembered details from our pillow talk, the meticulous attention he paid my body whenever he enjoyed me, and the sweet nothingness he consistently texted me everyday when he was away gradually built a cage around my heart. I grew attached to him and yearned for him earnestly.
To be fair, there is nothing to blame in him, because he has never deceived. Girls believed what they wanted; he never had to lie. I willingly accepted his sorry excuses whenever I wished to see him; it had always been him setting the time and date, and I showed up each time without fail.
I place the tea on the side, shift my position to face him and drink in his handsome features. His blue-green eyes effortlessly capture my soul; I drown in their watery symmetry. I often wonder if he truly speaks through his eyes, or am I the one convincing myself that I can read loving messages in his gaze. Perhaps I simply recite what my heart craves to hear in my mind when I worship his beauty.

 

When I think of that threesome, and of what Anna’s not saying, I fast forward in my mind, imagining it from the point of view one of the girls…

Some like it. Some don’t. Some people spend their time reading reviews so they know what they’re supposed to think. I think: I’ve got a brain and I’m a man of taste. That should do.

Can’t wait to see what such scenes look like in Anna’s stories when she’s not playing it safe.  

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00INCJFI0
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00INCJFI0
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/412890

For more about her:
Blog http://annabayes.wordpress.com
Facebook http://www.facebook.com/anna.bayes.author
Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/annabayes
Google Plus: https://plus.google.com/104589609500466060030/posts
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Twitter (@anna_bayes) http://www.twitter.com/anna_bayes

Deathbone by Penny Goring

This woman kinds of scares the shit out of me. For all the right reasons. Penny Goring. Rouge allure palpitante. Like it or love it. Actually, I don’t even feel up to summing her up. I’ll let her get on with it:

ART IS A SOLID ERECTION

Every word is an object I can see clearly, I could draw them ALL… the things it can say when its on its back… some are purely from the sound if you pinch it or what it does when you spin it in circles (it throws shadows, i can see them) (oops, now it’s throwing up) or take it out for a visit somewhere special and it turns purple & smells posh

TO SAY WHAT YOU MEAN IS THE GIFT-CURSE

It would take guts to hand over the power one can have, as a woman. You can be any sex you like when you write. Or none at all. You can be a tree

I WANT TO HURT YOU THEN MAKE IT WORSER

I’m facing a brick wall built by men, by tradition, and I find my own ways to dissolve the grout (…) Wall built by dullards. My only tool is the slippery part of me that is very me. Very me speaks my words, not theirs. Very me speaks their words in my own way. Their words – used by me – can become my words.

 

Penny Goring Deathbonevag bone connected to the heart bone
heart bone connected to the hate bone
hate bone connected to the love bone
love bone connected to the death bone
death bone connected to the birth bone
birth bone connected to the lonely bone
lonely bone connected to the fuck bone
i love the skyy i fuck with
i fuck death with my love bone
i fuck love with my lost bone
i have never been unfaithful to the skyy

“Love this so much. The last line, “i have never been unfaithful to the skyy” left me with my mouth wide open. Awesome sauce.” (Frausto)

 

Get back to her blog if you know what’s good for you.

I once, I am and then: what, William Thomas?

 one manner of hunger cover picture

Unknown great man William Thomas Johnston. Aching, but never giving up. Suffering into truth, Aeschylus-style.
Take the time to visit his blog. Take the time to buy his book. He’ll be set reading one day and if not, he bloody ought to be.
You say you once saved a man’s life but that’s not true. How can you know how many other lives you’ve saved unwittingly? And as for that ungrateful bastard who didn’t even think to tip you after you had saved his life, don’t let it get to you. The number of people I’ve said Hello to, who’ve turned around and looked at me as though they’d just been spat at. Reason isn’t always reasonable!

‘I once, I am, and then’: came more:
God is nothing without his courtroom. He is a very bored, arguably theoretical being.
I have always refused to be brought to my knees by these things any longer than is necessary to rest.
When I write, I pretty much consistently ask myself if the average slightly drunk person could pick up this poem and read it as well as enjoy it.
The better I get, the more I must improve. The more often I write only adds to how often I should.

(from the private writings of W.T. Johnston)

 

I once flashed three hundred and fifty people
Long blonde, curvaceous, thick white stockings, thick everything in a knee-length white dress “a most unladylike way to sit,” said the adjudicator, but God did the crowd blanket me in smiles
I once climbed peaks
Arms burning worse than the sweat in my eyes, scrambling, rocks slipping, legs dangling, prayers in every gasp as I strain for another handhold, toehold, for a small tree’s roots to hold, no rope
Bleeding calluses, scratches upon thick skin, upon blisters, a grasp so strong I once straightened a bent screwdriver with my bare hands
I once saved a man’s life
Blue face, unconscious, screaming girlfriend, frail marine in my arms, squeeze, one palm a fist the other laid over it, push, choking on the steak I served him, colors returning to flesh, I kid you not when I say he finished his meal after returning to the world and did not tip
I once, and with all sincerity, asked a doctor if I was dying
Clothes cut away, naked, bloody from head to toe, three men asking me to tell them where it hurt, probing hands over an entire body of agony, weeks with a scab for a torso, months of shattered leg and fractured collarbone, and a lifetime of double looks crossing the road
I once lost my mind
Blinding white light in my insanity, Jesus delusions, psych ward scrambled eggs, so sleepy psych meds to this day, voices insistent in an empty room, electroshock therapy, missing years, foggy memories, and a decade wasted adrift in the groggy
I once wrote a book
Paper bound existence, agony adrift in its pages, catharsis, grey matter smashed between covers, lifetime ambition, one hundred copies sold, three hundred sixty five days of sweat, no best selling miracle, merely typed pages for sale, merely my thoughts for sale, merely paper
And what now
Lock myself away, the trap door to my hermitage the next great American novel, beer every night all night until the sun rises and then more, budget blown on camels with no humps, studies placed on classes with a career one merely settles for, fistfuls of friends so true you question their presence, life so long you’re closer to the end, welcoming death’s shadow with patience, budget so tight it bursts the zipper, and when the zipper bursts you merely wear the one pair of shorts, belly growing fat and stretched unrecognizable, hairline so far back it leaves old photos a joke, hands that cannot recall being held
But enough of what now, enough of what was, what next
Find it, throw myself from a plane with my life wrapped in silk, kiss a beautiful creature, carve at a hunk of wood for three weeks and give it to a stranger, sell seashells to tourists, sing badly on a street corner until I have enough change for dinner, dance badly until I collapse, turn my back on every sharp-beaked tentacled memory, mean it when I wrap arms around someone, climb a far-off mountain until I am the first white man anyone has ever seen and tell them all how much I love them, pick an Indian god and find her, pick a Native American god and bring the animal back to life, swim hard every day until I can dive to the bottom to sit cross-legged in silence, stop seeing potential in my bank account alone, fast until I am flush with food stamps
I do not know if I can accomplish all of these things but I will unsheathe the moment again
As surely as I looked just like my mother in drag.

 

(William Thomas Johnston, published in his blog, One Manner of Hunger.)

Happy Birthday, Baby! (by Tory Richards)

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Tory Richards is a further author from the Eggcerpt Exchange to be featured here. She describes herself as a grandma who likes to write smut. Why smut, Tory? Cos you’re American? Cos over there you hide your booze in a brown paper bag though it might as well be see-through?! I don’t get this false sense of modesty. A woman in her fifties’ll need a good (searching for a euphemism… what the hell, tell it like it is) a good f***, like anyone younger (or older!), even if they, some of them, will have to pay for it. It’s not smut. Stop listening to the wrong people! Sex is as necessary as all the other bodily functions we’re too prudish to mention, only this one’s far more enjoyable. And how you do it or write about it’ll tell me a whole lot about who you are, Tory…

No harm meant. None taken? Good. I know you don’t really think it’s smut. I’m just being a provocateur. You know that. So are you:
‘What better way to spend your fiftieth birthday than with the hot male stripper you’ve been coveting for months!’

 

I took a breath and decided to plunge ahead. What did it matter if he knew how I felt now? After all, I was going home with him. “I stayed in the shadows so I could watch you without my friends commenting about it. Satisfied?”

“You’ll know when I’m satisfied.” He glanced over at me. “So, you were watching me, too. Maybe if you’d given me a hint or two that you were interested I would have made a move sooner.”

All of a sudden, his warm hand was on my knee. Even that light touch excited me and had my senses swimming. For a stripper his palm wasn’t as soft as I expected it to be. The roughness and calluses revealed he might do something else for a living besides dancing. Only now, I didn’t care because his hand was slowly gliding under my skirt and continuing up my thigh.
Well, I’m sure you haven’t been lonely.” I swallowed with difficulty. If what I said angered him, he didn’t show it. His hand was within an inch of going as far as it could, and I was about to have heart failure.

“Maybe not, but you’re the one I want now. Since the first time I laid eyes on you I’ve wondered what it would be like sinking my cock inside you.” His finger flicked over my pussy and it was all I could do not to jump off the seat. “Jesus, you’re soaked.”

Oh, God! His finger flicking back and forth over my pussy felt so good! I found myself straining toward it, lifting my hips off the seat just a little. He made a right hand turn down a residential street, passing a sign that said it was a dead end. I wished I didn’t have on any underwear; I wanted to feel his finger inside my pussy, and against my clit. My breathing picked up with excitement, and I didn’t even try to disguise it.

Joe made another turn, and the car came to a hard stop. Then he switched off the ignition and everything went dark. I closed my eyes, working my hips against his intimate caress as I felt the pleasure build inside my body. I began to tremble, reaching for something that remained just out of my grasp.

“Joe–” I could hear the frustration in my tone. I wanted to tell him something, yet I couldn’t find the words.

“Tell me what you want, Lana.” His voice was low and a little raspy.

I heard a noise and realized he’d released his seat belt. Then he moved across my body and I felt my seat belt give. As he started to go back to his side, he paused and kissed me, at the same time his finger nudged aside my thong and sank deeply inside my pussy. My body arched with pleasure, and our kiss turned wild. Moans filled the inside of the car, the sounds urging us into a more intimate moment. And then, oh God, he found my clit.

Having been aroused to the point of almost coming more than once this evening, dreaming about Joe for months and wondering what sex would be like with him, it all added up to one colossal orgasm. A couple pinches, a few hard flicks, and I was coming like the geyser at Yosemite. Our mouths locked together, preventing me from expressing my intense pleasure. My first orgasm at the age of fifty seemed to last forever.

I was helpless to do anything but ride it out and wait for the convulsions to die down. More than once Joe’s fingers brushed against my clit, making me jerk wildly. I felt his smile before he removed his mouth from mine. Finally, I was able to take a deep breath, and I leaned my head back against the seat, exhausted. I don’t know how much time went by before he slipped his finger away.

“Would you like to go inside and finish this?”

 

Happy Birthday Baby is available at Liquid Silver Books: http://www.lsbooks.com/search_results.php

For more of/about Tory, check out her website: http://www.toryrichards.com/

find her also on Twitter: https://twitter.com/ToryRichards

and Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authortoryrichards

 

I’m not through.

1. Tory, why did you decide to have a 50-year-old protagonist? Is that a critical  age in the sex life of a woman?

I actually wrote the 50-year-old heroine for one of my publishers as they’d requested a new theme where the heroines were fifty and older.

2. What kind of a 50-year-old were you? What were your routines, concerns, ideas about your future etc?

I was still working for Disney at 50, and taking care of my ailing hubby. Also, that was the age when my first book was published. My life was so wrapped up with my hubby that I don’t think I gave the future any thought. I was living day to day most of the time.

3. Have you ever or would you ever go to a brothel?

No.

4. What do you think about the sex industry in general?

I think I’m a little old-fashioned. Even though I write erotic romance you’ll notice it’s always between one man and one woman. For me sex has to involve emotions and a strong connection. Even in the short stories I write I try to weave some kind of commitment that explains why they’re having sex. Not to say I might venture out of my comfort zone some day because writers evolve.

5. Do you think American women are less daring than, say, their French counterpart?

Probably. It seems we’re always a little behind with what’s acceptable to the public.

6. What’s the hottest book you’ve read so far?

Can’t really answer that but one of my favorite authors is Lisa Bradley. She knows how to write a steamy erotic romance!

7. How do your friends and family feel about the fact that you’re a ‘grandma who likes to read and write smut’?

Supportive, but they don’t read my work. After the first two contemporary romances I wrote I switched to erotica, and it was just too explicit for them. I never get reviews from my family or friends, either.

8. Is there anything you found particularly hard (no pun intended!) about writing erotica?

Definitely! The first time I had to write cock and fuck I must have erased them several times before I finally left them. I’d always considered them strictly bedroom words. But in the end they’re just words.

9. Last question: why do you think erotic fiction is so popular today?

Because it’s exciting, and crosses the boundaries by using the real words and explicit scenes between the characters. No flowery words that imply body parts. And the doors are open. Also, because these stories have plots, unlike porn.