Sci-fi Hesitation to the Max

Despite the fact that I think the new Dr. Who is the sexiest version on the planet, that the new Star Trek movie  made my panties wet, and that I just finished Megan Hart's time travel--sorta--story, Collide, and loved every damn second of it, there is one serious flaw in my brain when it comes to all these things. Writing sci-fi makes me nervous. Like shaky hands, meltdown brain nervous. Like I'm going on a first date nervous. It borders on embarrassing.

And yet, two or three of my next few books will be in that genre. They've been spinning around in my head for awhile though I keep pushing them back, but my ideas won't be denied anymore. This is the year I write them. But that statement is almost unfathomable when I have completely unlimited possibilities at my disposal for these stories and structure and I are besties of the best kind. I know I'm throwing out my normal plan and going willy-nilly into the imaginary sunset with these stories, letting down my guard so that anything goes in my world. Of course there still have to be logic, every action has a reaction, and every good point in world building makes some kind of sense in the long run. Duh.

But the idea that I'll be working from scratch creating whatever I damn well please at the drop of a hat for my new world? Kinda freaks me out. Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense because for the most part I'm a pantser by nature with very loose plotter tendencies. So why should going with the flow of a imaginary world make me want to curl into a ball and whimper? Maybe because I knew readers are more critical of those worlds, of their consistences, how a new world measures up inside someelse's brain other than mine. I can't predict whether or not I'll make that world real for a reader while it's real for myself purely because I'm the author.

It's a lot of pressure.

My Christmas List

Yeah, I know Christmas is all about family and togetherness and not purchases--but this year, I want to show you my list for Santa anyway. Just for fun. No weird hallmark blogs here about the spirit of giving for me. One straight up, greedy list is my path for this year. So, if you're interested, check out goodies below. No, not like that...geez, you people need your minds scrubbed with bleach!

• I want an Xbox 360 so I can play my Buffy the Vampire Slayer video games again from like 2004. I have no shame about loving them both. Though I think I lost the newest one and that makes me really sad.
•  I want a few more pairs of my favorite thermal pajamas from Victoria Secret. I got my first pair last year and I wash them a lot so I can practically live in them every day. They are so damn comfy.
• I want a pair of slippers, I don't know how I manage to do it, but every couple years I loose them like hats or gloves...but it's slippers. And I don't wear them out of the house. It's very strange.
• DH all ready got me this one on my list because he's awesome. Vampire Diaries Season 1 and 2 with Damon at my disposal whenever I damn well please. That's a great deal for me. I know what I'll be watching like a mad woman until Jan 5th when the third season comes back on the air. Unlimited Ian Somerholder? Priceless.
• A B and N gift card. Because, seriously, what writer doesn't want books for Christmas?
• If things work out the way I want them to, I'll also have enough money to go on a cruise this spring with my best friend to the Caribbean. I've never been on a cruise so I'm excited for the new experience, even if I get seasick on most water vessels. I'm taking a lot of seasick meds and my laptop. Here's hoping I'll come back with a lot of work done and a lot of inspiration tucked away for later use.

So that's my greedy little list for this year. I think I've been good enough and worked hard enough not to get a lump of coal in my stocking. But who am I to judge? My scale of naughty is a little skewed.

The Best of Sommer Marsden's Mind and Reading List

I have the lovely and super kick ass Sommer Marsden on my blog today so excuse me as faint away like Scarlett O'Hara and then when I come out of it start kicking my feet with giddy, fiendish joy. (Psssst...I love her so hard) So, here she is!

Since my current tour is for THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN, Elise, clever girl that she is, asked me to discuss the best books I’ve read in the last three months.

First I said…let me try to remember the last three months.

And then I said…that would be hard for me seeing as I read Charlotte Stein’s CONTROL in July and ate it in three big bites and July was like…five months ago! And I loved that book and would totally not be able to mention it…at all. See how sad I am that I was unable to mention CONTROL by Charlotte Stein?

Anyhoo…

Then I said…I’m in!

Here goes:

The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan: Oh my god. He creates such envy in me. The way the man turns a phrase is maddening and addictive. His take on werewolves captivating. His werewolf lusty worthy and also empathy worthy.  It led to me picking up…

I, Lucifer by Glen Duncan: It took me a few chapter to get the swing, but the book is incredibly clever without being nauseating. And there are some genuine moments of laugh out loud giddiness, if you’re paying attention. Gasp inducing sentences if you were raised with Bible stories and prayers before dinner.

Death by Fiction by Ashley Lister: Agatha Christie meets John Waters meets the Sopranos (sorta). A one of a kind mystery that can’t decide if it wants to be a cozy or smut. In other words: awesome.

Juliet Immortal by Stacey Jay: Totally original to the point of creating writer envy. Fun and fast and believable and just really good freaking fun!

Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell: A lyrical, heart breaking book that grabs you by the cajones and won’t let go. The kind of book that makes me wonder why I don’t just hang up my pen and go work at a fast food joint. Seriously humbling writing.

And tada! As you can see, I don’t read nearly as much as I’d like. So to bulk up my anorexic list from the last three months, I’ll break all rules and will also throw in there K.D. Grace’s The Initiations of Miss Holly (read that over the summer too on the exercise bike) for some sizzling hot naughty fun and Smokin’ Seventeen by Janet Evanovich if you’re a Stephanie Plum addict like me.

Blurb for THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN:

From edgy and intense, to light and comedic, this collection of over twenty hand-picked dirty tales runs the gamut of erotic fiction.

Stories include a supernatural spurred ménage, a captivating Dom who takes control at a crowded house party, an irresistible alpha who makes recycling kind to the body and the planet. A husband encouraging his wife to take advantage of a girl crush and a woman who can’t help but lose herself between two of her two best friends in a night of passion. A curvaceous woman gets stuck in her boot—that’s right, just one—before an important interview with a handsome applicant and a public spanking makes a young woman reconsider the disposable nature of her rebound guy.  

Find out why Sommer Marsden’s been called “…one of the top storytellers in the erotica genre” (Violet Blue), “Unapologetic” (Alison Tyler) and “…the whirling dervish of erotica” (Craig J. Sorensen). It’s all right here in this collection. All you have to do is step inside.

Excerpt from The Best of Sommer Marsden:

She was rushing past the cottage two doors up from hers when she heard, ‘Hey there Little Red Ryder Hood ...’ and froze.

The deep baritone with accompanying backup slammed her back ten years. The hair on Ryder’s neck rose up in a ghostly wave of fine blonde down and she spun, feeling off kilter already. Her eyes sought but could not find the singer, until she heard a deep chuckle that slammed her in the belly like a cotton-wrapped fist.

‘Hubie! Joe?’ she called. Feeling a little desperate, a lot crazy. ‘Guys?’

There was no way. She had not seen them in nearly a year. No way at all, and yet she knew it now. Could feel it in her bones, that heavy knowing that mimicked the feeling she got after recovering from a long illness like flu or a drawn-out bout with a fever. A deep-seated awareness came over her.

The song that was being hummed somewhere in the trees sealed the deal. It was the boys out there. Ryder stomped her foot. ‘Hubert Sullivan Usher! Joseph Michael Palmer! Come out this instant!’

And then she waited. Was she crazy?

No. They stepped into the clearing, one tall and dark and gruff like a bear in a man suit. The other long and lean and ethereal. Ice blue eyes and pale blond hair. The boys.

They had been friends all through college. Inseparable – the three of them. Friends, only, no funny business. But for that one night.

‘So no man yet? No marriage, no kiddies, no picket fences? It’s been nearly a year, woman,’ Hubie said. His deep voice was like a warm hand sliding up her neck and in the orange glow of the fire pit Ryder shivered.

‘Nope. I have a thriving jewellery business. I have books, friends, good wine, nights out, invoices and paycheques.’ She grinned. ‘But none of that.’

Joe smiled, his eyes somehow surreal in the glowing flash of heated light. ‘Hubie doesn’t either, so don’t listen to him. Nor do I.’

He said the last in that prissy, proper way that made him so endearing to her. She loved his almost stuck-up, uptight ways. But in Joe was a heart of gold and an old soul.

And a cock that could work miracles. Soft lips that know how to kiss. Really know how to kiss – and eat pussy. He rocked you to more than one orgasm while Hubie was …

But she let that memory drift away on a curl of wood smoke. She couldn’t go there. It had been one night a long, long time ago. Her 20th birthday. It had happened – just happened – after her drunken salute to herself and their youth. Her long monologue about their love for each other and how it would still fade, because nothing lasted for ever. It would fade and so would their youth. They were only going to be young once, only going to love each other this fiercely once. And how special were they that they had found each other. Three kindred spirits, friends, almost family but something more. She had let all the muzzy-headed words tumble out and then she had toasted herself and then them.

And then the boys had taken her. No one discussed it. It had just happened. A mix and turn and shift of three bodies. A mélange of forms and naked parts and soft words and cries. Orgasms and skin on skin and laughter and, at the end, a satiated peace and sleep.

The morning brought reality and no one had ever mentioned it again.

‘... selling to?’ Hubie said.

Ryder shook her head and tried to draw back the words that had come before the end of his sentence. She couldn’t. ‘I’m sorry. I spaced out on that. What?’

Hubie grinned, and cocked his head as if he had been tiptoeing through her mind. Reliving that night so long ago with her. ‘I said, Ryder the daydreamer, your jewellery, who are you selling it to?’

‘Oh! Tourists and some local new channels have been purchasing. Which is great, because then it ends up on TV and in the credits. And some local boutiques.’

‘What were you thinking?’ Joe said softly, grinning, poking the embers with a stick as he tapped his toe in the sand around the fire pit. His big foot was sheathed in his normal boat shoes, his khaki shorts knee length, his button-down shirt rolled and pushed to his elbows. Normal Joe – preppy chic.

‘I was thinking about the jewellery show I’m doing tomorrow. How I should head off to my cabin and go to bed. I was thinking that this beer sucks ass,’ she lied, taking the final swig.

‘You were thinking about us,’ Joe said, calling her bluff.

‘Never,’ she said, trying to tease with her tone.

‘True story,’ Hubie grunted, agreeing with Joe.

Ryder steadfastly refused to cave. It was that one time – a lifetime ago. No reason to even think about it.

At one point they were in you at the same time. You never thought that sweet full pressure could make you come, but it did. You straddled Hubie and drove yourself down on him over and over; he held your hands to his chest so you could feel his heart. All the while Joe rocked into your bottom, slipping into you on a cool river of lube. Working your ass, brushing your g-spot from a totally new angle. His hands on your hips, holding you so you didn’t float away, or so it felt. Both of them. Holding you. You’ve never felt so safe.

‘... fishing,’ Joe said. His smile was ornery, knowing and smart-assed.

Ryder swallowed hard. Once they had been her very best friends. And for that one night they had been her lovers. Something she’d never been good at with Hubie and Joe was lying. She cleared her throat and steeled her nerves to admit it. ‘What? I missed that.’

Joe laughed softly, drawing a heart in the sand with the stick he held. The tip was charred from him poking it into the fire every few moments. He drank the last of his beer and said. ‘We are here on a boys’ weekend. Haven’t gotten together for months. Figured we’d come down for some fishing.’

‘Oh,’ she said and set her empty bottle on the ground.

‘Yes, oh,’ Hubie said and his voice was a little gruff. A bit clogged sounding. His eyes seemed to stroke her like a hand in the firelight – over her breasts, her belly, her legs in her denim shorts and flip-flops. Ryder wanted to eye up his jeans to see if he had a hard-on but she refused. She kept her eyes above his belt. Joe’s too.

‘I’d better go to bed. I have to get up early. Vendors need to arrive at seven sharp. Doors open at nine.’

She kissed them each chastely, hugged them too. She pretended not to notice Joe’s hard cock brushing her thigh when he pulled her into the embrace. She hurried through the woods to her dark cabin and resolved to put it out of her mind.

For two hours she lay there, not thinking. Deliberately not thinking. When every decadent sinful image drifted into her mind, she resolutely pushed it aside. At midnight, she got up and poured a glass of wine. At 12.15 a.m., she considered it and at 12.16 a.m. she banished the thought. At 12.30 a.m. she knocked on their cabin door.

It was Hubie who answered. His dark hair in a tangle and his chin sprouted with dark stubble that clouded his tanned skin with shadow. ‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ he said softly and swung the door wide for her to enter.

Ryder still wore her white nightgown. She had tossed a grey cardigan over it and her feet were bare, and now dirty, from the beaten path from her cabin to theirs. ‘Were you sleeping? Did I wake you?

‘Hell, no, woman. We’re watching some dumb-ass movie on cable and drinking beer.’

‘What movie?’ she asked dumbly.

‘Shit if I know.’ He touched her lower lip and Ryder felt her pussy go liquid and soft. A fierce surge of lust swelled in her chest and she breathed out like he’d squeezed her too hard.

‘Who’s there?’

She turned to see Joe and, when she did, her heart raced at his pale good looks. A smile lit his face and she realised that she still loved them. After all these years. Loved who they were, what they had meant to her once and what they still meant to her now. ‘Little Red Ryder Hood,’ Joe whispered and crossed his arms over his chest.

‘I ...’ Ryder lost her words then. It hadn’t taken long to feel that old familiar belonging with them. Something she had rarely experienced thus far in her adult life. She loved her life and her business, but she was missing the rush of real life. The visceral reaction to love and lust and fucking. She didn’t have time.

‘You what?’ Joe asked, cocking an eyebrow.

‘You ...?’ Hubie echoed.

‘I want it back,’ she sighed. She blew all the words out on a rush of air. She was so eager for them to hear her that she rushed it out of her mouth in a tumble of soft speech. ‘I want it back. I want that night back. That feeling – you two. I want one more night.’

Then she waited. Her heart pounding like some tribal drum, her throat shaking with the force of it, her stomach dipping almost sickly from nerves. Joe turned on his heels and Hubie took her hand.

What did it mean?

‘Come on, Ry,’ Hubie said and tugged her gently.

‘We thought you’d never come to your senses,’ Joe said over his shoulder and her whole body seemed to relax.

It would be OK.

In the living room it was Joe who pulled her in for a hug. Engulfing her in his strong but lean arms while Hubie – his best friend in the world – closed in behind her. His broad chest pressed to her back, his cock pressing the small of her back. Joe kissed her, hands in her hair, his hard-on pressed to the cleft of her sex through the thin nightgown.

‘I just want it back for one more night,’ she said again.

‘We can do that,’ Hubie said, pressing his lips to her shoulder, her neck, the crown of her head. His kisses rained down along her back and his hands pushed up her nightie as she shivered like she was cold.

‘No problem,’ Joe said, pushing at the nightie too. Together they got off her cardigan, her nightgown, her panties. She worried briefly, stupidly, about her dirty feet but the thought drifted away as Joe’s tongue touched hers and Hubie’s fingers came from behind and started slow, lazy circles on her clit.

Buy links:

Ebook: http://www.erotica-romance-ebooks.com/the-best-of-sommer-marsden.html

Paperback:  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Best-Sommer-Marsden/dp/1908086084/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_2

Favorite Spicy Holiday Reads with KJ Reed

Today I'm stumbling over to KJ Reed's Blog to chat about my favorite holiday hot and spicy reads! Come join in on the fun and tell me yours!

Share of Furious Lust

I figured I'd finally give you all a little tidbit of the Work in Progress I've been toiling away on for quite some time. Here is a rough draft snippet of the first few pages of Furious Lust, Book 1 in a BDSM paranormal erotic romance series I'm writing about the Three Furies of the Underworld. Hopefully to be published in the next couple months after the holidays, editing and contracts pending, that is.

Most humans would assume being banished from the Underworld would be a blessing. Not so when every step on this earth reminds me of the longevity of human life—short and sweet. Unlike me. I suppose I should be pleased there’s a place for me on Earth at all. Not many demons stripped of their powers make it up above or learn to adapt as well as I have—or perhaps they don’t even try.

With a small shudder and an echo the door of my baby blue locker clicked back into place. There wasn’t much time for philosophizing about my existence. At least not when I wanted to get out of the nondescript locker room without being offered another double shift, which I wasn’t inclined to turn down. Work was a welcome distraction. One I used as an excuse to get away from reality far too often—even the mistress had begged me to take a vacation before I converted all our clientele to my legions of devoted subjects.

Business at the snug, safe, and discrete dungeon was booming. How could I be blamed for taking advantage? A swift turn of my fingers and the combination lock was set. Now to keep to myself until I exited through the plush, purple hallway out the iron-worked double doors. Only a few more paces before the bustle of strangers on the sidewalk would swallow me up.

However, there was more to worry about than my work as a dominatrix at one of New York’s premiere dungeons. Tonight was my five year meeting with the Underworld’s high council to assess how my banishment was suiting. Whether or not I’ve learned my lesson. The council was always keen to gloat on their best banishment work. They sent me away from my sisters in the Underworld for the slaying of a treasured human. It had been in a moment of blind passion and truthfully, I question whether it was my fault at all though I live with my guilt every day.

But the Underworld had solved several problems. They had appeased the gods in Mount Olympus who mourned the human and my punishment kept both parties thin alliance in place. Hades retained my sisters to do my dirty work. I’m sure I was barely missed because a sacrifice must be made for the greater good. It put me in the mind to slay them all once I returned to the sweet, fiery depths.

Tonight the slick, twisting humidity of New York’s summer heat would have to ease my longing for home. There was no hope that the council would provide me with any solace. Yet, there was enough time before the meeting for my pleasure. The bustle of cab horns and human shouts assaulted me as I walked up from the underground warehouse onto the sidewalk. I breathed in deep the scent of smog mixed with the fragrance of slightly old garbage.

I made a beeline for the subway station that would take me to the Meatpacking District toward the most popular dance halls in the city. Tonight was a night to lose myself in the steady hum and pulse of music. But small spaces with large crowds never sat well with me—I prefer large spaces jammed with people. A shudder passed up my spine as I clamored on the crowded, late night subway car. A sense of uneasiness twisted low in my belly as I snatched a spot of free metal railing above my head.

Unease was typical for me in the subway—but this was different. All of my muscles were wound tight enough to snap and a sharp, uncomfortable heat pressed beneath the surface of my skin. A steady prickle along the back of my neck raising my hackles. Someone was watching me.

Tonight was a good night to paranoid, certainly with my meeting looming in the wings.

When I glanced back through the sea of people nothing was out of place. Or as little that could be out of place in a New York subway car. But there was much to be distracted by as my limbs tingled like there wasn’t enough air in the whole world to sustain me. Perhaps I was becoming worked up over nothing. However, in centuries of living on this earth my instincts were rarely wrong.

My hands shook from the unsettling emotion rising up in my throat. Without a doubt, if I concentrated hard enough I sensed the weight of their gaze along every inch of me—but there was menacing undertone to it. Dressed as I was in my usual attire with tight black leather swathing my curved figure I was used to stares from strangers. This held something more than idle attraction or dumbfounded curiosity. If the later was the case they would have stopped staring by now.

Though I was completely stripped of my powers as a demonness, on nights like this I won’t turn away from intuitive caution. No one has any specific reason to keep me alive. At least none that they’ve made plain to me—so as far as I know anyone could hunt me down at any time with one word from the council. How would I defend myself?

This whole situation set my teeth on edge. Pulses of pain jolted up my jaw as I attempted to regain control over my fingers fidgeting along the warm steel bar. How could I be drawn into coming undone? I—who pride myself on the steady speed and dexterous delights my hands can wield along a man—I have been reduced to a wary, thundering-hearted ninny. Before my punishment, my blazing anger knew no bounds. Now time has taught me caution, patience, and above all, fear.

This is not the first time I’ve been acquainted with a sense of being followed because paranoia comes on more and more of late—with familiar suspicions of being watched, hunted. Every instance with the same haunting, terrified symptoms. A bodily impulse born of self-preservation that I won’t be able to leave behind until I’m out of sight. And perhaps, not even then. Tonight dodging this sensation is worth a try. I won’t let this swallow me when my time before my meeting is fleeting.

 The dry crackle of the conductor calls out the 14^th street stop and I hastily exit the car knowing that my actual destination is several blocks away. At least I won’t be so smothered by people that I won’t be able to think straight.

I’ve been dodging this imaginary foe for months. It’s one of the points I mean to bring up at my meeting tonight because this mental torment can’t be the result of anything else than a concoction of the Underworld. My bare skin pinches tight against my frame as if I can’t get enough warmth. Even here, swathed in the muggy atmosphere of the underground station in mid-July, there’s not enough heat to warm me. For now I can no longer sense the steady presence beating against my back. But every clack of my high heels against the concrete echoes between my ears like a gun shot.

A one-time demoness unsettled by a presence she cannot name. No wonder they blighted me from my one, true home. I’m a disgrace to my kind. No matter. I’ll confront them tonight until I’m assured of their answers. Once I’ve set my mind, there is no turning back. And by Beelzebub, I’m determined to have a good night tonight come ruin or rapture.

Though I do wish the Underworld hadn’t stripped me of my powers. Other than pushing the worry from my mind, it would be nice to conjure an aura of terror around me. At least my powers of terror would make the next few blocks down W 13^th Street easier, spreading out all the foot traffic as they ran in opposite directions tearing their hair out. It’s little perks of the trade I miss most. Before I can catch myself, my mouth curves into an impish smile that leaves the rest of me cold down to my toes.

I can never go back.

Or, if I can redeem myself in some way, those demons higher up have given no indication of how to go about it. What, it’s been—well over eleven centuries since I committed my crime? A burden evermore. Tonight, they will ask if I were to do anything different, would I? They will be disappointed. If given another chance I would change nothing because I’m unsure where exactly to alter time.

It’s as stupid an inquiry as asking a damned soul if they would choose to go to Heaven or the Underworld. Neither wish matters because we are who we are, nothing fades our true selves and we continue to make the same mistakes again and again and again. My conviction behind this idea is only strengthened by mortal’s mistakes.

Who are they if not the perfect indicator of my philosophy?

Ah, another night wasted on my deep thoughts. When will I ever learn to skim only the surface of things instead of trying to read into every nuance? Not even time can divest me of the thirst for understanding—even if curiosity was the catalyst for my banishment. My need to know him—to possess him completely so that perhaps my life could have some kind of distraction, a certain naive charm. I wanted more than screams of agony and death, who wouldn’t?

Sometimes, when I’m not concentrating hard enough to draw the memories away, I can recall the planes of his tan profile dappled with early morning sunlight. His stormy gray eyes concentrating on any possible distant threat to his herd of sheep. The casual way his lean forearm passed across his brow, flicking away his wheat gold bangs. When he smiled it was as if the atmosphere altered because of his simple pleasure in his life. He truly had the ability to live—and I envied him that.

But why that man?

I ask myself the same question every morning when I wake from nightmares of baking pies, cleaning house, and getting sucked into the mediocrity that is mortal existence. Was getting to know one human worth this trouble? With a quick roll of my shoulders I dismiss my pointless inquiry knowing that my long, quick stride has delivered me to the dancehall in good time. Not since I exited the subway have I had any odd tingling’s on the back of my neck.

But here I’m safe. Waiting to surround myself with the stomping, claustrophobic heat that reminds me so much of home. A relaxing night out before I reenact the same scene before the council, only five years later. Nothing more than a pantomime so that they can elongate my sentence on earth. Even a deep breath can’t shove my rage down far enough.

“You’re definitely in, go on.”

The thick-muscled, unremarkable bodyguard waved me through the ropes and I politely nodded in his direction before being swallowed by the crowd. At Echo the crush of patrons begins at the confining copper-lined hallway leading toward the bar before humans have the privilege of entering the giant, raw industrial space.

Three floors of debauchery, white noise, and flashy light shows. I never wait at the long, polished steel bar because I can’t imbibe anything from it. That leaves me with my most cherished option—making my way onto the dance floor. A space taking up the whole first floor with solid metal beams holding aloft the next three floors in intermittent patterns. But the floor is constructed in checkerboard squares of corrugated copper and steel so every step makes patron’s feel like they’re walking on stars bursting with light.

It’s a weaving process against the hot press of strangers, but I make it to the floor where a myriad of people grind to the pounding bass-beat. Sound slithers through my body and nestles inside my core to become a part of me. Not a thought to be had as I close my eyes. Against the slick heat and oppressive sound I gladly lose myself.

This is where I go to when I don’t want to be found.

It’s as close to any kind Underworld I can find along with my personal heaven. Reflections of the blinding lights paint the insides of my eyelids. Flashes of red, green, and blue. I lift my arms to the sky in a pantomime of a human giving thanks for a bountiful harvest. My arms and hips snake back and forth to the seductive, energetic pull of my music.

My dance is a communion of sorts searching deep inside my heartbroken body to the harsher, primal mechanics that keep me alive. These movements tie me to the moment with smooth wrist flicks and powerful gyrations. In my mind I own the room. Against the crowd I’m protected from my memories, lost to the sounds. I lick my salty lips, tasting the air and my freedom.

Paralyzed

Confession time--I haven't written any new words in a while. I've edited my entire backlist until March with Excessica, I've thought about plot points, series, and outlines--but not one single word on a new story. I hate that state. Where I can't write anything to save my life, like my creativity's all dried up and might never come back. This happens maybe twice or three times a year, though I don't always keep track of it because once I'm in it, it's kind of like a foggy depression where I sleep too much and watch a lot of TV to get out of my own head.

I still work, but it's passionless. Plus every new idea I come across to get everything back to normal seems like a colossal effort, until part of me thinks I'll never get the story right. What's the point of writing it when you know its going to come out so flawed you'll hate it and it won't even compare to the thing in your mind that seemed so cool five minutes ago? I never diagnosed these symptoms to burn out, but it's as close as I come to it. And with my schedule this swiftly approaching 2012, I can't really have much wiggle room for hmmming and hawwwing when it comes to my work.

Somehow, I've got to get back to that place where words are like flighty little snowflakes, all magical and different. I know it'll happen eventually, I just never know when. I can never bring my creativity back with one sure fire thing. Tricky doesn't begin to cover it.

In the mean time, I've got a pile of short stories and a new book that's ready to come into the world in the next few months. So it's not like I've been idle. Just different.

Lucy Felthouse Interview of Epicness with Epic Sauce

Today, I have the fabulous Lucy Felthouse on my blog answering some fun questions and talking about her new books. I'm very excited because Lucy will be featured with me in Rachel Kramer Bussel's newest erotica anthology, Best Bondage Erotica 2012, which came out in most stores for e-book and print December 7th. So go pick up a copy!

       Why did you get started writing?

I honestly can't remember. I've been writing from a very young age, then for publication since 2006. I first wrote erotica on a dare and started sending work off when I became interested in the genre as a reader, too. Now, each new publication spurs me on to write more. That and the deadlines, of course!

 

      What was the first real joy you had when writing professionally?

It would have to be my first acceptance, which was for the now-defunct Scarlet Magazine. I was incredibly excited that someone wanted to publish me and pay for my work! Thankfully, several years down the line, publishers are still accepting my work, but it's still exciting each and every time.

 

       What was/is your biggest pitfall?

Discipline. I can be very easily distracted while writing, but I'm getting better. As my writing now makes up a part of my income, I find it easier to stay focused because if I don't write, I'll make less money!

      What did you learn while writing?

All kinds of things. I hope that I've improved in my writing, and will continue to do so. I've also learned things about sexual lifestyles that I haven't taken part in, but have researched for my work. In this line of work it pays to be open minded, which luckily I am. I'm also very inquisitive so I love to learn new things, anyway.

      What’s your favorite sexual position to write?

I don't have one. Writing for me is about the story and the characters rather than the mechanics. They just seem to come naturally as I start getting the words down on the page. I don't plan ahead, and certainly when it comes to sex scenes I just let the characters do their thing and see what happens.

 

     What’s your favorite genre to read?

I couldn't choose just one. I read erotica and erotic romance the most as that’s what I write, but I also love paranormal, chick lit, horror and crime.






If you could be one fairytale character for a day who would it be?

Oh, that's easy. That would be Snow White because she gets to star along the divine Chris Hemsworth in the upcoming film, Snow White and the Huntsman. :D

 

      Who are your author inspirations?

I don't think I really have any. I have tons of authors that I love to read, but my inspiration comes from being published and having readers that (hopefully) enjoy my work.

 

       Socks or Slippers?

Both – it's cold in the UK!

 

       Handcuffs or fuzzy tickler?

Ooh, handcuffs. Mainly because I don't like being tickled. I find it annoying, rather than erotic

 

       Where do you see yourself in a year as an author?

In a year, I would hope to have a couple of novella-length pieces released (up until now my releases have been short stories) and be well on my way to writing a novel.

 

    What are your new releases?

The past few months have been really busy in terms of releases. October and November saw several releases, a mixture of anthology appearances and standalone titles:

·         A Menu with a Difference

·         Brick Dust & Bedsprings

·         Love Through Time

·         Weekend at Wilderhope Manor

·         Immoral Views

·         Explicit Encounters

And December sees the release of Crimes of Passion from Xcite Books, and Best Bondage Erotica 2012 from Cleis Press, both of which feature stories I wrote.

For more info on all these titles, check out this page on my website: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/

 

    What are you working on now?

I recently completed my longest piece to date, a novella for one of my publishers, so I'm working on edits for that. I'm also working on a novella that I've been promising to another publisher for quite some time, so fingers crossed they accept it!

Will a weekend in a luxury hotel make Annette’s deepest fantasies come true?

When Jed and Annette spend a weekend in a luxury hotel, they’re planning to take full advantage of the hot tub and large bed – preferably with a third party. Annette’s never been with another woman before, but she’s eager to experience some Sapphic delight. When the couple meets waitress Tamara at the restaurant they’re lunching at, they agree she’s perfect in many ways; but is she on the menu?

Excerpt and buy links here: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-menu-with-a-difference/

 

Lucy is a graduate of the University of Derby, where she studied Creative Writing. During her first year, she was dared to write an erotic story - so she did. It went down a storm and she's never looked back. Lucy has had stories published by Cleis Press, Noble Romance, Ravenous Romance, Summerhouse Publishing, Sweetmeats Press and Xcite Books. She is also the editor of Uniform Behaviour and Seducing the Myth. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. You can also find her on Facebook and Twitter.

Beer and Cider Equals a Tipsy Writer

About two years ago, DH and I started making beer and alcoholic cider as a hobby that we could do together--though I rarely drink much. It's a lot of fun and whereas he does all the math related tasks of measuring and keeping track of the fermentation times, I handle the small details that slip his mind as well as bottling the actual beer since he has bad arthritis in both hands. It's just another corny example of how we're two sides of coin, even in everyday activity we balance and help each other. Beer making always remind me of how well we work together.

This year we're making our usual five gallons of hard apple cider with English mulling spice yeast and a newer creation, an orange porter, which if it comes out right should taste like chocolate oranges. But we won't know whether or not it's good until about two or three months after it's bottled and has had a chance to sit and stew. That's the hardest part about beer, waiting it out. Not knowing what your gonna get until the end and then there's no working against it because it's final product.

Well, unless you let it sit for longer, then the flavor gradually changes and morphs into something else entirely. But you have to give it time. Pay attention to it. It's a race to make sure it doesn't go "sour" since beer takes a truly long time to ever go bad. DH and I found a porter and an apple cider we'd done last year tucked away in our fresh bottles for this season--and they'd been bottled two years ago. DH opened them both and drank them greedily with more than a little excitement saying the porter was better than when we'd originally made it. I took a small sip and it was lighter, instead of tasting like dark chocolate it tasted like milk chocolate and flowed past your tongue like a milder beer. It was different and certainly better.

It reminded me of writing. Sometimes all you have to do it wait it out, come back, and everything's fermented while you were gone so it rolls on your tongue and is just delicious. More than you ever thought it could be while originally writing it. Wonder what my writing will taste like next year?

Cassandra Carr Interview

Today with me on my blog I have Cassandra Carr, erotic author with Siren and Loose ID answering some random and interesting questions that I posed to her for your random reading pleasure. Without further ado, here she is:

1. Why did you get started writing?

People are going to laugh when they hear this…I was writing fan fiction just for fun – just for something to do, really. My mom (who’s also a writer – her first book is coming out in Spring 2012 from Soul Mate Publishing – yes, I’m a proud daughter, lol) read one of my stories and told me I should fictionalize it and expand it to single title length. So I did and the rest is history! That story, by the way, has never been published. Maybe it will someday.

2. What was the first real joy you had when writing professionally?

I went on a writing retreat in August 2009 and wrote nearly one-third of the first draft of my debut novel, Talk to Me, in about two and a half days. It was awesome to be somewhere other than home, sitting there with my laptop and feeling like a “real writer”.

3. What was/is your biggest pitfall?

Probably two things – I have a finely-tuned ability to procrastinate, and my toddler is still home most of the time. When you combine those two things I’m probably not as productive as I could be.

4. What did you learn while writing?

Oh man, so much! I’d say one of the biggest things is to write “tight” – I don’t have much unnecessary prose, scenes to delete – that sort of thing. Makes editing easier.

5. What’s your favorite sexual position to write?

Position to write? *thinking* I think maybe from behind. For some reason I tend to skew sex scenes to the male POV and their view from behind is very evocative and fun to write.

6. What’s your favorite genre to read?

I do love erotic romance, but I also get sick of it. I read a lot of contemporary non-erotic romance and historical romance too. According to my little counter on Goodreads I just went over 100 books read for the year!

7. If you could be one fairytale character for a day who would it be?

Hmmmm. I think I’d like to be a villain, as long as it wasn’t her day to get her comeuppance. As far as which one? That’s a toughie – there are so many great villains in fairytales. Maybe the witch from Hansel & Gretel so I could eat candy all day.

8. Who are your author inspirations?

I’ve always liked Maya Banks, and if I would emulate her career that would be great. 

9. Socks or Slippers?

Depends on the time of year. In the summer, socks if anything at all, in the winter possibly both if it’s cold. I do like slippers. They’re very cozy.

10. Handcuffs or fuzzy tickler?

Handcuffs are hell on your wrists, from what I’ve read *cough*. I’m not ticklish, but me using a tickler on someone else sounds like great fun.

11. Where do you see yourself in a year as an author?

Hopefully with around ten releases and lots and lots and lots of fans.

12. What are your new releases?

Oh man, I’ve got a lot going on! I had a release on November 2^nd titled Head Games – it’s the first book in the Buffalo Intimidators series. On December 13^th Loose Id is releasing a holiday novella titled Caught. In early 2012 Ellora’s Cave will release a book of mine with a bull rider hero and also a short story which will help launch their new EC for Men line.

13. What are you working on now?

Right now I’m re-writing the second bull rider book, working on an anthology with a couple of friends, and about a million other projects that are totally slipping my mind at the moment.

BIO

 Cassandra Carr is a multi-published erotic romance writer who lives in Western New York with her husband, Inspiration, and her daughter, Too Cute for Words. When not writing she enjoys watching hockey and hanging out on Twitter. Her debut novel, Talk to Me, was released by Loose Id on March 22, 2011. Head Games, Buffalo Intimidators book 1, released on November 2, 2011 from Siren Bookstrand, Caught will release December 13, 2011 from Loose Id, and Impact is coming in early 2012 from Ellora's Cave. For more information about Cassandra, check out her website at http://www.booksbycassandracarr.com, "like" her Facebook fan page at http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCassandraCarr or follow her on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/Cassandra_Carr.

BLURB  

Leo Laporte and Scott Schaeffer are teammates on the ice and roommates off it who also share women. They’ve been coming into Kelly Chase’s bistro after games for months, and they know they want her. As the attraction grows, the men realize they want more than a one-night stand - they want forever.

Kelly’s not so sure. Yes, she wants both men. But a permanent ménage relationship? That’s taking giving her heart away to a whole new level, and a chance she’s hesitant to take. Then Leo is injured and Scott’s on the trading block, and she realizes this may be her only shot at true, everlasting love.

There are so many questions swirling around inside Kelly’s head. Can she believe in Leo and Scott’s love? And will her business and her reputation survive once people find out she’s with two men?

BUY LINK

Black Friday, Furious Lust, and Cable Craziness

A little known fact about me--I'm weirdly claustrophobic in large crowds. NYC Times Square can sometimes send me into a full blown panic. I suppose it comes from being small all my life, like really small, but it makes the appeal of Black Friday dip an incredible amount. I love shopping discounts as much as the next person, but do I want to die for a DVD? Nope. Not so much.

I'm really loving these online Black Friday shopping weeks retailers are doing online this year. Maybe they did it last year to, but I've never really cared about it all that much. This year, knowing I can get good deals without the crowds kinda blows my mind and makes me supremely happy. Now, if only I wasn't a working writer waiting on a paycheck and perpetually poor. I solved the crowd problem, but got another one. Oh well, next year I'll be more knowledgeable of the need to save my pennies. Besides, there weren't a whole lot of book deals :( Only good DVD deals. Can we say Season 1 and 2 of Vampire Diaries for twenty-six bucks? Yeah, I wanted that one.

In other, non-shopping, consumer driven news, Furious Lust, my first book in the Underworld series is almost completely edited. After this edit I'll be tacking on a few scenes and then it'll be off to the CP's for reading. One more step closer to my end of the year goals even though December 31st is coming around ruthlessly fast. Can I make it?

Furious Lust is the first paranormal book I've ever written where everything for the story fell into place. I think I've tried three or four paranormal books now and all of them either stalled halfway through or needed too much editing after I was done with them. They were good practice books, but I can tell this series is going to be the real deal for me. There's just something different about it that I can't put my finger on, but it feels good. *fingers crossed*

DH and I are ridding ourselves of cable for the holidays relying completely on Hulu+ and Netflix. A lot of people we know are using this method and it seems to be working out for everyone. Plus, the money saved will really help us with little things around the house. So far we've been testing it out and we both like it. I'm a little impatient about having to wait a little while to see episodes and the fact that some channels don't update reliably annoys me--but, hey, gives me more reasons to read more anyway. Did I mention how huge my TBR pile is right now?

Not So Pure Excerpt Monday Edition

Today I figured I'd give everyone a sneak peak at a little more of my new release, Not So Pure, an erotic romance novel from Ellora's Cave. Here's the blurb in case you missed it:

White runs from her prison of a past and enters into a sexual deal with seven men that alters the course of her life for eternity. Caught between her need to take control of her life, and her desire to make up for a serious lack of good sex, she enters a wonderland of kinky possibilities with men who show her that Prince Charmings come in all shapes and sizes. For White and her men, once upon a time doesn’t cut it—three or four times sound just about right.

With each partner—not always one at a time—White beats back her trust issues. But the shadow of her past comes back to haunt them all. Now she must introduce them to her personal battle, hoping they’ll fight beside her as their sinful nights turn into hellish days. Happily ever after isn’t by the book anymore.

And without further ado, here's my excerpt:

Okay, so this confirmed it.
 
White couldn’t deny what had been staring her in the face since she had turned eleven and had been confined to house arrest—her stepmother was a world-class bitch. These papers proved it. No way was this little legal oversight fair by a court of law. This discovery would have changed everything.
 
Forget the fact that she could overlook negligent homeschooling, the constant drugged-out parties and never a kind word from the woman. That was just life as usual since White’s father’s death. But when her hands skimmed over his last will and testament—a document hidden away for over a decade—her past all made sense.
 
So much of a normal life had been denied her—not just in the tender love and care department. These papers had been kept hidden. Now her past replayed inside her mind like a cruel mirror displaying what could have formed her life. But there was only now. Stark black and white with no room for gray. It would have been so much easier if her stepmother had kicked her out of the house with nothing on her back rather than setting up bodyguards at every exit point.
 
This wasn’t about money—it was about power.
 
If these stacks of pages ever saw the light of day, everything would change. For a brief moment she allowed her gaze to sweep across her father’s inner sanctum. She breathed in the scent of old paper and a certain mustiness that reminded her of him. Scattered books from the shelves lined every inch of available surface space as well as the wall-to-wall bookcases. So many stories that had gotten her through another day of this hell.
 
Either she found a way out of this house or her stepmother would find her a more permanent residency—in a pine box six feet underground. A sense of dread worked its way down her spine. She rolled her shoulders and shrugged off an odd sense that she was being watched. Sooner or later she would run out of chances to escape here—her stepmother would see to it. Even if it meant her stepmother had to dirty her hands with murder.
 
Several rapid blinks and she breathed through the eerie chill that seeped from head to toe. Someone would find her soon. That was for certain. Her gaze quickly darted around the office. No one lingered in the warped shadows that she made with the bright beam of her flashlight. Nonetheless, the towering Chippendale furniture was menacing, haunted by her father’s dead presence.
 
Luckily, this wasn’t a children’s movie. No animated tables and chairs were coming to life to attack her anytime soon. Though if her stepmother could have used living furniture as a security measure, she would have in a heartbeat. White shuffled through the paperwork and took three quick snaps with her digital camera. Because that was what late night television reruns had taught her to do with evidence. And this needed to be documented.
 
Every misconception of safety she held onto had been ripped from her in the last twenty-four hours. Though her stepmother claimed the security measures were all for White’s protection, there was no safety in this house. She now knew there was more to fear than disobeying long followed rules. Nothing could keep her safe. This was evident by the icy chill that swept across her nicked, stinging, patchy scalp.
 
They’d held her down. Two hulking bodyguards she’d grown up with, towering above her bed while her stepmother had gotten too close with the scissors. In the back of her mind she could see the sharp glint of moonlight off the silver blades as she whimpered and pleaded. Until there was nothing left to hack. Her wrists and upper arms smarted from the bruises as she slid the papers into order again.
 
She’d never been abusively touched before, normally just ignored. Now her pride was gone. Her body was a foreign, uncomfortable shell. But the act was done. She quickly shook her head to get rid of the memory. Another incident to give her courage to leave this place couldn’t hurt.
 
All she would leave behind were crazy, late-night conversations with her mother’s younger—much younger—partygoers and clientele, which at least gave her an excuse to keep her sanity. They were the root of her knowledge in the world. Through them she’d learned to adapt and keep herself up to date with pop culture, language, and fads. But she wouldn’t consider them friends. They wouldn’t be missed.
 
Screw ignoring the steady ache against her rib cage. It would always be there and would never go away. Where had her forced ignorance gotten her now? At the end of a noose and ready to jump—if only to be free. She had gone past desperation into a darkness that clouded every minute of every day—and there was no escaping it until she left her past behind.
 
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she shouldn’t be in her father’s study. Fuck it. She’d followed the rules for too long. What else could they do? There was barely anything left to take away.
 
A heavy backbeat from a large speaker outside the door shuddered inside her chest. No one would hear her retreat to her tiny bedroom. Maybe no one would catch her tonight either, as they were all preoccupied with the party. But that was always her vain hope. She’d thought of escaping so many times, but the threat of physical muscle always stopped her from setting anything into motion. Now there was no excuse.
 
No, just thinking about her plans would get her into a bind. Karma was a bitch like that. Just going up the stairs—what was the harm in that?
 
Well, unless her stepmother had dipped into her newest shipment of drugs again. Only one way to find out. 

White shuddered and padded out of the office. While she pushed the heavy wooden door back into place, a sudden rush of heat beat against her shoulders. She sensed his stare boring into the back of her skull. She stilled, taking in the towering shadow marring the mahogany door.
 
“That’s hardly the place for you to be tonight,” He was matter-of-fact—cold.
 
In the end, it would be better to turn around and face his bone-chilling monotone with an ounce of bravery. It was harder now that she knew the truth. With a quick inhale, she spun on her heel to face the man of her nightmares. Huntsman—her stepmother’s personal bodyguard and sometimes lover.
 
“Did you need me for something? Shouldn’t you be out there taking care of our privileged guests?”
 
When she met his flat, amber gaze, her stomach twisted. Half of his unkempt face was swathed in shadow. The way she liked it. She tensed, unwilling to retreat toward the solid wood at her back. What did she have to lose anymore?
 
Not only would her cowardice give him perverse glee, but she would later replay the scene with sinking shame. She tried to slow down her quick breaths, knowing he would notice. Underneath his wood smoke scent, an undertone of liquor stink assaulted her nose. Why didn’t it surprise her that he’d been celebrating with the rest of them?
 
He moved fully into the shadows. An action that should have held menace, but made most of the tension leave her body. Maybe he would go away? If he stayed in the dark she could dismiss him as nothing but an illusion—until he snatched her wrist.
 
She hissed at the contact, but didn’t pull back right away. There was no point. She thought his hard fingers would snap her bones, but she fought a whimper that pushed past her tight lips.
“Get. Off. Me.”
“I want to help you, princess. It would be better if you treated me nicely. Otherwise I don’t think you’ll be getting anything from me.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
 
She refused to yank her arm away—show no fear. His grin made her flinch and she cursed under her breath. What was the worst thing that could happen? She silently counted her uneven breaths. In the past he’d had a lot of opportunities to toy with her mind or shove her against a wall for a little pleasure. But he’d never done anything too horrible. He’d made enough trouble to skip under her stepmother’s radar and leave White with a sense of dread.
 
Mostly suggestive notes under her pillow and loud chats with the bodyguards about her curves. But this was the first time he’d flat-out touched her and his grip got his point across fine. He’d leave bruises. But if he moved any closer, she would aim for his balls and she wouldn’t stop kicking until he was infertile.
“Did you ever consider that I’m the only one who can get you out of this house undetected?”
Okay, that was valid. But she wouldn’t relax for that tidbit—not until he let go.
“What are you getting at?”
 
She briefly let his words stick until she blinked a few times. She glanced beyond his bulky frame down the narrow hallway. No one. If she screamed, the music would muffle it. So—what—this made him a good guy now?
 
The idea of him helping her didn’t seem all that feasible. What was in it for him? He couldn’t convince her that there was no motive. There was always a motive. Any sense of naiveté had been ripped out of her mind at around the age of twelve. He’d had years to help her—why now? She narrowed her eyes, tilted up her chin and waited for a good answer to her last question.
 
Besides, none of the possible escape routes that had made it to the master list throughout her years in this house had ever included someone’s help. Mostly because people couldn’t be trusted. Period.
 
“I suppose you know about the documents now. If that’s the case, it’s quicker for me to get you out of this house so you can play dead than actually going through the motions of killing you. I can split the earnings with the mistress. I’m a greedy, impatient bastard. Make sense?”
“No, that contradicts everything I know about you and yours.”
“Well, trust in this, little princess,” A sharp point traced down her cheekbone and the knife’s steel caught the light. “I could have killed you already and saved us this whole conversation. Have I killed you yet? No. But if you keep up this stupid charade, I will gut you quicker than a dying doe, do you understand me?”
 
Well, what was “understanding” anyway? White swallowed and tried to ignore the bitterness in the back of her throat. Her wrist twitched in his grasp. This was becoming a no-brainer pretty damn quick. Either she went with him and hopefully got the hell out of here or he would kill her where she stood—in her footy pajamas, no less. Not exactly a dignified dying outfit.
 
If there was a chance to break free from this prison, she’d take it. Trust be damned. All of his explanations made logical sense. He could have killed her—hell, right now, if he wanted to. But she was still kicking. If luck was on her side, she’d never have to see him again. But she’d stopped wishing on stars a long time ago.
 
“I’m changing before we leave.”
He chuckled and she knew she had him when he let go of her wrist.
“Sure. I’ll be close behind, though, so no funny business.”
 
She pushed past him into the sensory assault of a full-blown house party. Despite the distractions, she kept her gaze trained on the elaborate staircase that led to her small sanctuary. Against her back, Huntsman’s close warmth never wavered. She promised she wouldn’t look back over her shoulder. They were already going back to her room for her to change and there was no need to encourage him.
 
Especially since she planned to throw the closest thing in her closet onto her body and get the hell out of there. Why would she want to pack anything from a room that held such horrible memories? It would be better to start from scratch. If there was nothing left to define her, then there would be nothing holding her back. Nothing screamed “burden” like the past.
 
“Wait here.”
 
She slipped inside her bedroom and threw the deadbolt.
 
The lock was last year’s Christmas present. It had taken her two weeks to bribe a bodyguard to go out and buy it. Now, with her whole body trembling, she was pleased with the choice. She changed into an outfit without looking and took a deep breath. When she opened the door, she half expected him to be gone.
 
Nope. Not a chance.
 
He idly leaned against the wall. With a soft grunt of male satisfaction, he ran his large hand over the black stubble on his cheeks. Most women would find him ruggedly handsome. A delicious bad boy in need of some love to tame the savage beast.
 
Until they had a swollen black eye—a sign of his deep affection.
 
Clearly, these women had let their fantasies run away with them. Huntsman was danger—pure and simple. The only deep-seated need she had with her stepmother’s right-hand man was the need to make him go “poof” into thin air.
 
She wasn’t shocked when he put his bone-crushing hold back on her wrist and started weaving her through the tight, sweaty crowd of house guests. Maybe no one would notice them? A man slipped his steroid-laced arms around her waist from behind and she cringed. Too late. That not so subtle come-on was something she wouldn’t ignore—especially on a time constraint. She went to give the stranger a piece of her mind—
Huntsman pulled her away. 

Before she breathed a sigh of relief that they could continue toward the doors, he possessively yanked her tight against his damp, solid chest. The party’s surroundings faded as her vision blurred and her chest tightened from the uncomfortable implications. Against her ear, his heartbeat raged as his fingers pinched into her shoulder in a silent warning. What the hell was he doing?
“This one’s mine,” he growled.
 
This wasn’t the time for him to call attention to them. How was Huntsman jumping to her “rescue”—or whatever his male ego wanted to call it—helping matters? It was a confusing delay. They were so close to the doors. Her gaze was fixed over his shoulder on the entryway, which held all the promise of her future choices. And Huntsman pretending they were together definitely wasn’t one of her choices.
 
“I’m sorry, Huntsman, I didn’t know. It won’t happen again. I’ll see to it that you’re compensated.”
 
The man ducked his head as a sign of respect. It was stupid not to fear her stepmother’s right-hand man—which is why willingly leaving with him made her officially certifiable. But she had made peace with desperation. Now if only she could keep her body snuggled tight against Huntsman’s long enough for the other man to get the picture. His hand never went any lower or any higher than her waist. Beneath her
ear his heart throttled his rib cage and she sneaked a glance up at his snide, fixed expression.
 
How had she gotten to this place? Too close for comfort with a man she loathed—and loathe was a nicer word than others she could have picked for Huntsman. It was hard to ignore the hard-on that pressed up against her stomach and he didn’t smell any better up close and personal. God, this better be worth it. Huntsman had mercifully gotten his point across because he continued to move them toward their escape route guarded by two burly bodyguards dressed in all black.
 
Up ahead towered the wide, glass double doors that had been her single fixation since her stepmother wrecked everything in her cozy, cushy little life. Freedom. Even the word was like vapor in her mind. She couldn’t quite hold onto its true meaning before it was gone. She blinked back into the conversation and noticed that money changed hands between Huntsman and one of the bodyguards.
 
So that’s all it took? With short, stilted breaths, she tried to come to an explanation that wouldn’t make her feel like she hadn’t tried hard enough. But nothing worked. She should have tried harder. All it took was the word of a powerful drug goddess and a shifty protector and she was homeward gone. If she had only known that twelve years ago.
 
“Have a nice trip.”
The bigger of the two bodyguards winked and trained a sleazy smile on her cleavage.
“Let’s go, we don’t want to be late getting you to the ball.”
Huntsman growled low and pulled her through the doors.
 
A whoosh of air made a quick pop in her inner ear and the doors shut at her back. The riotous noise was gone. And she stood on the concrete front step looking out over a world she hadn’t seen in over twelve years. It should have been different. Euphoric with a dash of life-changing. Instead, there was only fear, her constant chaperone.
 
This wasn’t the end of the story. It couldn’t be.

* * * * *

They’d been driving through a path in the woods. No destination in sight. She’d thought maybe he’d stop at a faraway town or a bus station. Nothing looked familiar through the dark glass of the truck window and uncomfortable tremors shot up from her lower back along her spine. It wasn’t right. Everything was silent until the overworked screech of tires.
 
His help had been too much to hope for, hadn’t it? Shit. Now he was going to leave her in the middle of the woods to fend for herself until her stepmother found her in a day or so. Her hands trembled and she scrambled for a plan. He pulled off the road into the grass and pressed hard on the gas.
 
“What the hell are you doing?”
He laughed.
 
Why wasn’t he slowing down? Her whole body went numb. He wasn’t dropping her off—he wasn’t stopping—the glaring yellow headlights framed the shadow of a large oak tree. She launched into action and colorful swear words. He careened toward the tree while he blindly groped to keep her in the truck cab. Each hit was swift as she scrambled for the door handle.
 
She had to get him backed away so he was the only one who would go crunch against a thousand-year-old tree. This had been his plan all along. He would do what her stepmother commanded—kill the girl.
 
Stupid. So damn stupid!
 
Didn’t they have a deal? Clearly, it was off now that Huntsman had his foot glued to the gas pedal. They bounced across ingrown roots with the scent of moist earth filling the truck cab. Anger was easier to deal with than terror as she evaded his hands as he frantically grasped for her torso. Hit, hit, claw, dodge. When had his arms gotten so long?
 
Her chest was tight with swallowed screams; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her terror. Sick freak probably got off on it. Thank god, she ripped open the door, tumbling out before they hit the tree trunk head-on. She’d never been so happy she hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt as she tucked into a duck and roll on the ground.
 
Thick leaves and grass clogged her mouth as she landed, and she scrambled to spit them out and crawl away from the colliding car. A quick glance back and she registered the heavy glint of sharp metal in his hands before the front end of the truck cab made friends with the tree trunk and smoke billowed. Was it her imagination? When he had hit the tree—had he been grinning?
 
“Jesus,” she whispered in disbelief.
 
To think she had lived with that threat under her roof for how many years?
 
But then there was no more time for thinking because he lumbered out of the wreck, hand hovering over a gash on his forehead. How he could even move was beyond reason. There was only one way to get out of this—she tamped down the fear tingling through her limbs and ignored the pulsing ache in her chest. A quick look back and she shimmied out of her skirt and threw off her long, baggy shirt, knowing they would get caught in the sharp brambles. There’d been no time for a bra, all she wore was her blue boy short underwear.
 
She ran.
 
A whipping of wind over her bald head made her shiver as she angled her body, sharp and fast, through the trees. When she gasped in air, it tasted clean and sweet and rain drops hit her cheeks as a roll of thunder boomed in her ears.
 
Footsteps glided behind her in a whisper against the forest floor. Not even a rasp of his breath to tell how far away he was in the darkness. Without glancing back, she pushed her body onward despite the constant ache from her lack of physical exercise and she never took her eyes off the ground. If she tripped—it would be over. Instead, she unknowingly cleared a path for him as he pursued her in the pitch black.
 
The jingling of her long earrings added to a headache that flared in her skull from the relentless pounding of her pulse. The earrings’ noise would give her position away like a tracking device. Though night swallowed the forest, she wasn’t taking chances. Footsteps grew louder in her ears as she became nauseous and dizzy with terror.
 
Without breaking stride, she cast the earrings into the underbrush and shut her mouth so he couldn’t hear her small whimpers of pain as fatigue set into her muscles. If she could only get through this and find a place to hide! He would stop his pursuit soon. Maybe consider her lost, which still got him his money. He knew she wouldn’t go back to that house.
 
Plus, it must have been awhile since his last hit of drugs. A junkie always needed more junk.
 
Only need to outlast him a little longer.
 
A long thicket grew in the path, illuminated by a quick flash of lightning. She shot under it, crawling on her torn, bloodied knees as she let the blind adrenaline drive her further than she thought possible. There was a small measure of safety here. Everything about him was too big to fit inside the thicket. But that only brought so much comfort—he was still out there.
 
Mud seeped through her shoes, above her wrists and she pawed through the muck, knowing there was no other option but to hide. If he had a weapon, it was stupid to do anything else. But logic didn’t stop her from curling her hands into fists until her nails bit into her palms and they burned with an anchoring pain.
 
The earth beneath her nails smelled like raw clay and mildew. Soon there was merciful silence and the rain plunked against the branches. The harsh twigs thwacked all over her body except where blue boy-shorts curved around her hips, offering scant protection. Goose bumps pimpled her body. Illumination came by bolts of lightning that paled in comparison to her small plea for dawn.
 
She self-consciously rubbed the stubble on her head, closing her eyes to keep hot tears from rolling down her cheeks. Every part of her body burned. Though she had made it back into the world, she was as lost and alone as she had ever been trapped in that house. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
Somewhere in the middle of the scratched-out path, she curled up, huddled—waiting.

 Not So Pure is available for purchase through Amazon, ARe, Nook, and Ellora's Cave.