UPDATE: The winners are…Sara D and Theresa Oconnell!
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Are you a fan of short stories? Have you ever read one? I love reading and writing them. Good thing, because one of my jobs is “editor” for sexy anthologies, which I used to edit for Cleis Press but now do so independently.
I love writing a short story for many reasons.
- It’s a very short, satisfying journey to THE END.
- I can experiment with genre and see whether I’m any good at writing something different.
- Writing shorts cleans my writer’s palate much like eating bread at a wine tasting.
- It’s just plain fun.
I write short stories for the collections I edit, but I also love to write them for other people’s collections. I get rejected the same as anyone else, so it’s still a rush to make the cut when a story is accepted. And because I normally retain all rights for the stories, I like to bundle them up occasionally into my own little self-pubbed volumes of Strokes (filled with super-sexy short stories!). I’ve published four: Strokes, Vol. 1; Strokes, Vol. 2; Strokes, Vol. 3; and Ultra Strokes. Today, I’m giving away a copy of one of those volumes to two lucky commenters.
If you post a comment today, you’ll be entered
to win a free download of a Strokes anthology!
Strokes, Volume 2
From New York Times bestselling author, Delilah Devlin, comes another naughty collection of seven bedtime stories—a week’s worth of nighttime reading pleasure.
Ride along with two soldiers, just returned from war, who find sweet release in “The Long Ride Home.” In “Tailgating at the Cedar Inn,” a woman has one last fling with two sexy construction workers. A cowboy kidnaps his “Runaway Bride” to get some sweet satisfaction. A woman travelling alone in Europe enjoys a hot steamy sauna in the “Textile Free” zone. In “Love in Bloom,” a florist tempts her high school crush. A naughty nooner with an office colleague ends in a “Quick Draw.” A dispatcher kicks inhibitions to the door when she seduces a younger truck driver in “Drive Me Crazy.”
Four of the stories have appeared in separate Cleis Press anthologies. Two of the stories were featured in Penthouse magazine! All the stories are featured in one sinfully hot collection…
Excerpt from “The Long Ride Home” which was featured in Duty and Desire, published by Cleis Press, and which Penthouse magazine also published…
White-hot sun beat down on the tops of our helmets. Sweat pooled between our shoulder blades and dampened the necks of our t-shirts. However, it was a hot, humid East Texas heat—so unlike what we’d endured for the past eleven months that none standing in formation really minded. We were home.
I watched it trickle down the side of one particular soldier’s neck as he stood in the row in front of me. Not for the first time, I thought I’d like the chance to lick it away.
Not that Staff Sergeant Mason Haddox had a clue how I felt. We’d been part of the same platoon—played volleyball and shot hoops, drove trucks over long, barely paved expanses of desert and mountains, and cleaned our weapons, side by side—but he hadn’t seen me as anything but another private who needed looking after.
And yet, his tall, muscled frame, black close-cropped hair and wintry blue eyes had made quite an impression. I’d lusted after him since the first time he’d shown up drill weekend, a month before we’d deployed. His steadfast calm during the most nightmarish day of my life had only cemented his attraction.
My nose started to itch, and I wrinkled it, hoping formation would break soon so I could scratch it. My feet were roasting in the boots sticking to the black pavement.
True to his word, our commander kept his speech short. A good thing, since SSG Haddox fidgeted, hands tightening and easing, swaying slightly on his feet as though waiting to spring into action. I knew he scanned the crowd seated in the bleachers from the corners of his eyes, hoping she’d show, that she’d changed her mind. I’d looked too and knew she wasn’t there—and wouldn’t be coming. I felt bad for him, but was also secretly hopeful he’d be ready to let go, that he wouldn’t do something stupid now we were back.
Just a month before we began preparations for our unit’s return from Afghanistan, Haddox had gotten the Dear John letter from his girlfriend, informing him she’d moved his belongings from their apartment into a storage unit. She’d included two keys taped to the page—one for the storage unit and one to his Mustang. She’d written she was sorry, but had he really expected her to wait all those months?
Had I been in her shoes, I would have. But then, I knew the feeling of being so far from home that Skype and email couldn’t fill the loneliness. I’d survived it once. However, my husband’s second tour had severed our connection—that and the emails I’d discovered when I’d hacked his Gmail account. Ones he’d sent to a female corporal stationed in another province who was planning a little R&R rendezvous. As quick as that, my love for him dried up like a closed tap. I’d forwarded the email to my account, then sent it to him along with a request for a divorce.
So I knew what Haddox felt. The searing betrayal. The anger. Maybe she’d been a decent person, but personally, I consigned her to hell. The worst thing the person at home could do to a deployed soldier was abandon him when he was too far away to do a damn thing about it.
I hoped he didn’t plan to go find her now.
“Company, attention!”
I snapped into position.
“Dismissed.”
Cheers from our unit and from the family and friends who filled the armory motor pool rang in the late afternoon air.
Head down, Haddox stomped away, not bothering to share a word with anyone.
My sister waved and made her way through the throng spilling from the bleachers, a wide smile splitting her face. I gave her an answering smile, but couldn’t help darting a glance to watch that broad set of shoulders move toward the open motor pool gates—the only space large enough to hold the formation and the guests who’d come to welcome the Reserve unit home.
The buses that had delivered us from the airport were pulling away. Most of the soldiers and their friends and family were heading inside the armory for the welcome home celebration, but Haddox strode toward the parking lot.
I gave my sister a quick hug. “Go say hi to Shelby—he’s got it bad for you.”
She laughed and blushed. “Where are you goin’?” Then her gaze followed mine. “Seriously? I thought you said he was an asshole.”
“He grows on you. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She gave me a smile and hitched her purse over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. But you better call.”
“Tell Shelby to grab my gear!” Out the gates I sped.
Haddox was already dropping his duffel bag into the trunk of a car—an older model black Mustang.
I halted beside him, trying to figure out what I could say to keep him from driving away.
“You forget something, PFC Hollister?” he asked, glancing to the side as he slammed down the trunk lid.
“Megan,” I said, suddenly breathless. “Thought you might like some company.”
His gaze narrowed. “Did you, now? I’m gonna blow the carbon out of the exhaust. The ride’s gonna be bumpy.”
“I don’t want to get in the way—if you have plans.”
“No plans.” He snorted. “Don’t even have a place to sleep. Didn’t your sister come to pick you up?”
“Yeah, but she’s all right with me leavin’.”
This time, his mouth twisted into something between a smile and a snarl. “Shelby?”
“Yeah. You know they’ve been writing each other.”
His gaze trailed straight down my body, then up again. “Get in.”
I strode quickly to the passenger door, opened it, and slipped into the bucket seat. Then I tossed my hat in the backseat and began unbuttoning my ACU-camouflaged jacket.
When he slid in beside me, one dark brow lifted, but he didn’t say a thing when I threw it into the back as well and sat in my sweat-damp shirt in the musty car.
“Better roll down the windows.” Then he said a little prayer under his breath and turned the key in the ignition. I buckled my seatbelt. The engine rumbled into life. With a quick, tight grin, he jerked the stick into reverse, and then punched it forward. We rolled out onto the street, heading west rather than east into town.
Hot wind whipped through the interior of the car, dispelling the musty air and tugging at my blond hair looped into a clip at the back of my head. I reached back and released it, then laughed as the Mustang roared.
Glancing toward Haddox, I noted the hard edge of his jaw, the hand wrapped so tight around the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearm tensed. I didn’t have to crawl inside his head to know he didn’t want me there, but I was.
Maybe I could help him out a bit. And maybe, he’d see me as more than a fellow soldier who’d shared the bench seat of a deuce-and-a-half truck a time or two. One I’d been driving when he’d had to talk me through a hail of gunfire when our transport convoy came under attack.
I unbuckled my belt, ignoring his deep frown. I turned in the seat and reached for the buttons of his jacket, flicking them open then parting each side.
He didn’t say a thing, but his nostrils flared, his jaw sawed tighter.
I gripped the front of his t-shirt, bunched it in my hand, and tugged it from his ACU trousers.
His stomach jumped, and he sucked it in, making just enough room for me to get my fingers behind the waistband as I unbuckled, unbuttoned and tugged down the zip.
“Dammit, Hollister,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”
His gruff tone spurred me on. “Not if you keep your eyes on the road,” I said, tilting up my chin. Then I leaned over his lap, folded down the elastic band of his boxer briefs and pulled his cock upright.
I bought this little brainstorming tool years ago at some writers’ conference. “Story Cubes” is a brainstorming game. You roll the dice and whatever pictures appear face-up are the ones you use to riff off a story.
