UPDATE: The winner of the Amazon gift card is…Catherine Maguire!
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You know me. I always have a million ideas floating in my head. Very soon, I’ll reach the point where I’ll be starting a new story, maybe a new series. Before I commit to a particular direction, I’d love to hear from you. Cast a vote in the poll. You can choose up to three possible directions. If there’s something you don’t see, but you’d love for me to write, add it in the comments. If there’s one idea among the three you choose that you’d particularly like to see, tell me so in the comments.
If you post a comment, you’ll be entered to win a small Amazon gift card!
When I write my next longer story, what genre/theme would you prefer to see? If you don't see the kind of story you'd love to read next , add your idea in the comments!
Cowboys on the Edge story, including firefighters and lawmen (19%, 10 Votes)
New cowboys series centered around a family in Montana or Wyoming (17%, 9 Votes)
New spec ops suspense, including SEALs, Delta Force, etc. (15%, 8 Votes)
Night Fall series paranormal with vampires and werewolves (13%, 7 Votes)
Sci-Fi alien abduction series (9%, 5 Votes)
New shapeshifter series containing large predator packs (wolves, bears, dragons?) (9%, 5 Votes)
Cait O'Connell series paranormal mystery/suspense (7%, 4 Votes)
Stepbrother Stepping Out series menage (6%, 3 Votes)
Dark Frontier series set in a post-apocalyptic Texas with vampires/weres (6%, 3 Votes)
Remember in Jurassic Park how scientist recreated dinosaurs for the DNA recovered from mosquitos.
Well, now that scientists have found Neanderthal DNA in humans what if they discover, that this is the missing link to psychic abilities?
True or not, this is the premise in which I used to build my new series The Ancient Warrior Prophecy.
A secret society of people have Neanderthal DNA. They know the power, which is being passed down through the generations. Their leaders and shamen have been passing down the knowledge of the tasks they need to perform for humanity. This prophecy requires strong men and women to step up and save us from the destruction of the world.
The Warrior in Me – yes, it appears to be nothing more than a simple murder mystery with strong romantic elements. But it also reveals the secret people who carry the burden of saving the world. How they work to protect the secret of Neanderthal in the human genome.
The Warrior in Me – Erotic Murder Mystery/ Romantic suspense
Special Security Agent Sebastian Berlin is eager to track down his partner’s killer. Instead, he’s assigned the job of baby-sitting a scientist. His boss thinks she’s the key to an Ancient Warrior Prophecy. Science never interested Sebastian, but the know-it-all female standing at the end of his Alaskan dock could persuade him to do a little experimenting. That is, if he can keep his Neanderthal Warrior genes from taking control.
DNA specialist Lily Sinclair is in need of a vacation, or so her over-protective ex-husband tells her. Arriving in chilly Alaska instead of sunny Cancun, she’s tired and cranky and so not in the mood for her bodyguard’s he-man tactics. Still, there’s something about the sexy eye-candy that makes her want to lick him all over even as she’s demanding to go home.
Then Lily’s ex is poisoned, and Sebastian is certain the two murders are connected and she could be next. She knows he’s hiding something, but with the worldwide release of Neanderthal DNA project only days away, she has no choice but to trust him to protect her. But can she trust him with her heart?
Excerpt: First Kiss
Seconds before his mouth covered hers, she whispered, “Sebastian, I don’t—” The rest of the sentence died under the quick spear of his tongue, seeking entrance into the hot moist haven of her mouth.
The fight he expected didn’t fully materialize. She gasped in shock, and her body stiffened. Then she lifted her hands to his shoulders, leaving the few inches between them vacant.
Tightening his grip, he drew the soft cushion of her breasts invitingly against his chest. All too quickly, he moved past the point of a simple kiss and fed on her unique flavor. He’d gone too long without the seductive touch of a woman. Today, she’d tempted him with the fire of her anger and the gentle concern for him at the loss of his friend. Holding himself in check, he’d resisted until she’d revealed her passion for her research. Now, he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm for her any longer. He ate at her lips, nipping and sucking until they opened wider.
Lily moaned, and he captured the sound, swallowing it as he flicked his tongue against the roof of her mouth. She welcomed him by drawing him deeper. He thrust in and out, over and over mimicking the ancient rhythm of sex.
Determined to sample every inch of the hot, moist cavity, he drank in the rich, sweet nectar. As stimulating as wine, he became drunk on her and tangled his tongue around hers. Time lost meaning. He forgot everything except her hands in his hair, her body plastered against his, the relentless need to consume her.
Somewhere in his subconscious, something reminded him that women didn’t progress from “Hello, it nice to meet you” to “Do you want to go to bed with me” this quickly. On the other hand, maybe, the light tingling of his scalp as she curled her fingers in his hair helped jog his memory. He had to take things a little slower if he wanted to win the girl.
Anita Philmar likes to create stories that push the limit. A writer by day and a dreamer by night she wants her readers to see the world in a new way. Influenced by old movies, she likes to develop places where anything can happen and where special moments come to life in a great read. Naughty or Nice? Read her books and decide.
Alright, busted. No one in their right mind speaks that way unless they’re working at a Renaissance festival, right?
But Halloween seems the perfect time to break out all sorts of portents, omens, cryptic tones and pompous language.
I love this time of year. Even though the prospect of a Midwest snowmageddon looms in the future, I do enjoy the turn of seasons. If only for a few days, mind you.
Leaves fall into orange, crisp yellow and fiery red flakes. A fresh and oddly melancholic breeze carries the aroma of a cleansing and deadening at the same time. Rakes scrape. Backs hurt. Furnaces comfortably hum. Neighbors, who I don’t usually speak to nod their heads, an affirmation change is in the air.
Serial killers in masks stalk… Wait! Hold on a minute! How’d that get in there?
It’s that Autumnal time of year where everything cuts a scarier edge.
As a writer, I enjoy writing spooky things. Not gross gut-spewing stuff, not that awful torture porn junk. Just…spooky. I’ve published tales about ghosts, zombies, crazed killers, witches, pretty much the whole nine yards of horror. Does this stuff scare me? Nah! That’s why it’s fun to write!
What does scare, me I hear you asking? Well…things not so fun. Let’s see…off the top of my head: global warming, racism, all-too-real violence, the prospects of a “CHIPS” TV revival, Trump, terrorism, getting my driver’s license renewed, the devaluation of education, dreams where I’m naked in public… You get the idea.
Psst. Come in a little closer…that’s good…c’mon, so you can hear me ‘cause I’m gonna whisper…
Truth of the matter is ghosts scare me. I’m torn. I’d love to see proof of the nether-world, but I don’t know how I’d react. I’d probably pull an absolutely psychedelic (non-drug-induced) freak-out.
It’s safer to poo-poo it all. Usually I do. Yet… Yet, my in-laws’ best friends told me a tale, one hard to dismiss. The husband’s as hard-core, right-wing, “I’m from Missouri, show me,” “medicine and doctors are for the birds,” die-hard attitude you’ll ever witness. Hardly a candidate for a believer in the supernatural.
He and his wife witnessed—lived through—a bonafide haunting.
Long story short, I’ll hit the Cliff notes version: furniture on the second floor moved with no one there; bed sheets tore ragged as if by claws; a bucket of water dumped on the wife while she walked upstairs, no origin discernible; wall-hanging photographs moved to different rooms; whispers, voices, blurry images during the longest, darkest part of the night.
I believed their story. Or at least I believed they believed it. But it was hard to deny their conviction.
It makes me wonder.
Which is one of the reasons I like to explore the edge of reality in my writing. The world—not quite seen, but often glanced—where things don’t quite add up. That itchy feeling someone’s watching you. Someone’s there with you. Maybe I’m living vicariously through my writing, ‘cause I really, REALLY don’t want to have an actual visitation…
So! Ghosts of Gannaway is my historical ghost novel loosely based on real events that happened in Picher, Oklahoma. (Or did it all happen?) I tossed many things in there that scares me, such as… Well, just read it and find out.
Then there’s Demon with a Comb-Over, my spooky yet comical tale of a lousy stand-up comic who ticks off a demon. (NOT Donald Trump, but close).
What I loosely call my “Farm Noir” trilogy (only because they’re dark tales that take place in Kansas) are kinda spooky, too. And whaddaya know about that, they just came out in paperback, too, for you old-timers. Zombie Rapture, Godland and Neighborhood Watch: perfect Halloween reading.
I updated a blog I posted last year so I could share it with you, because I just love this story so much! I flew to Ohio for my husband’s office Holiday Party. As I started writing the blog post, we began our initial descent into Cincinnati. The leg from Phoenix to Houston International Airport went smoothly. However, once we landed in Houston, things fell apart rapidly.
Four people needed wheelchair assistance once off the plane, including me. Only one showed up. The rest of us waited nearly 20 minutes. That’s not so bad, you say. Except all 3 of us had connecting flights, all leaving in less than an hour.
No big deal, right? The wheelchairs came, and we disembarked. Plenty of time to get to a new gate. Except that the trains running from terminal to terminal had stopped working. The crowds impatiently waiting for them to be fixed were staggering. The gentleman assigned to me tried to spread the word – both to passengers and other employees – that the trains might not start up again, but was largely ignored; primarily, I think, because no one had another solution. He told me that the breakdown occurred every year when the weather changed, and could take upwards of a day to be fixed.
This gentle giant was simple, with an IQ probably around 80. He was earnest, with a genuine desire to help. None of what happened was his fault, yet some frustrated passengers took out their ire on him. I could see him shrink in on himself each time.
“You’re doing everything you can,” I said, patting his hand. He took heart, and realized there was another route: downstairs, around past the hotel, into the terminal, and back around through security to reach the one remaining working train. Doing something seemed better than nothing, so I agreed to try it.
We made the trek and got in line for security. I was selected at random for additional checks. By that point, I literally had 4 minutes before they would close the doors and push back from the gate. I gave up, I admit it. I turned my mind instead toward finding an alternate flight. But Danny refused to give up. We made the trek all the way down to the gate. As we arrived, a woman was locking the doors behind her. Okay, I thought. We made a valiant effort. So be it.
“We’re not boarding yet,” she said. “It’ll be just a few minutes.”
Music to my ears, but confusing nonetheless. Turns out the flight had been delayed due to some sort of mechanical malfunction! What could have been the last straw in a series of comical misfortunes instead turned out to be a blessing. I turned to Danny.
“We made it,” I said, a big grin on my face.
He saw my smile and spontaneously bent over to hug me. I kissed his cheek and hugged him back. He’d never given up. He’d taken his charter seriously. And suddenly, we two human beings who’d never met and would never cross paths again shared a moment of total connection with one another.
The scent of his lotion stayed on my cheeks all through the flight from Houston to Cincinnati. Whenever I inhaled, I was reminded that grace can come from anywhere, in any form, at any time. I’m not talking about making the flight; that’s irrelevant to this story. This story is about Danny’s can-do attitude and generosity of spirit. I think I smiled the entire trip. Danny, you are one remarkable human being. Thank you.
I’d love to hear about your best (or worst) travel story. Won’t you share?
RITA® nominated and award-winning author Leslie Jones has been an IT geek, a graphics designer, and an Army intelligence officer. She’s lived in Alaska, Korea, Belgium, Germany, and other exotic locations (including New Jersey). She is a wife, mother, and full-time writer, and currently lives in Scottsdale, Arizona. Her books can be found at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and HarperCollins Publishers.
UPDATE: The winner of the free prequel story is…Enikö!
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So, last Saturday, I had this story come out called Flashpoint. It features two of my favorite things—a firefighter from down in Texas. I loved writing Troy Barlow. He’s a hero who doesn’t take himself too seriously, but he’s strong at his core, playful when he’s bent on seduction, and just plain yummy. I’ll share an excerpt below so you can see just what I mean.
I’m trying to get out the word about this story, and I could use your help. It’s easy, just two clicks really, starting with clicking on this link: Thunderclap.
Thanks for doing that! One more thing you need to know about Flashpoint, it’s the fourth story in a series of related, but standalone stories. The first three books are also in Kindle Unlimited, which means if you have a subscription, they are all FREE!
Here’s the three stories. You can click on the covers if you’re interested in more sexy adventures featuring men with badges and suspenders…
And if you’re not a KU subscriber, but would like to win a copy of one of these prequel stories, leave a comment for a chance to win! Tell me whether you love Texas settings, and what you might like to see from me in the future!
Flashpoint
His touch makes her burn…
Troy Barlow wasn’t looking for love when he competed in the Texas Tough Firefighting Competition, but one feisty little blonde caught his attention and wouldn’t let go. The more she tried to deflect him, the more determined he became to make an impression, until he did something she couldn’t possibly ignore.
The last thing Diana Boyle expected to feel was attraction for another firefighter. After her husband’s death, she’d been adamant–never another firefighter. But Troy was impossible to escape. When he wore down her resolve, she thought a one-night-stand might purge him from her system once and for all, but his powerful appeal and uninhibited lust and zest for life were addictive. When a harrowing fire threatens their newfound happiness, Diana has to face her worst fears.
They’re naked and standing in front of the bathroom mirror…
Another shiver traveled down Diana’s spine. She’d never seen a look quite like the one Troy wore now. Ravenous. Wild. His blue irises had nearly been consumed by his black pupils. His jaw was tight; his skin stretched over his cheekbones. And every part of him that touched her was hard. The arm clamped over her breasts. The chest pressed against her back. The cock lodged between the globes of her ass.
She’d wanted uncomplicated sex. Maybe a little gymnastic, too. But this was a whole other prospect. Troy was set to turn her inside out, and she was worried she wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.
Her sex life with Mike had been…nice. Happy. Comfortable. But the emotions Troy aroused in her now were anything but.
His intense expression said he’d allow no modesty. No holding back.
As if she could. Already her sex was damp, her labia swelling. Her nipples had sprung instantly when cool hair had hit them, and now ached pressed against his arm.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growled into her ear.
“Like what?” she asked, gasping when he bit her lobe.
“Like I’m the big bad wolf.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
She widened her gaze, locking with his in the mirror and licked her bottom lip. “Because I’m dying to feel you inside me,” she whispered.
He groaned and his arm moved downward, fingers sliding between her legs to feather across her slit. “You’re wet for me.”
Diana leaned her head against his shoulder and reached back both hands to grab his ass. It was hard, no give at all. She dug her nails into his skin.
He slipped a finger into her pussy and swirled it.
She turned her head to hide her expression as she drew a hissing breath between her teeth. More fluid greeted him, wetting his hand, sliding down her thigh.
“I’m gonna lick that all up.”
Once corner of her mouth kicked up as she wrinkled her nose. “Big talk for a man who can’t seem to find his own bed.”
“I’ll get there. Promise.” But instead of leading her into his room, he reset his feet farther apart, lowering his height, and pushed his cock between her legs. Now she could see him there, sliding through her folds, his big fat head appearing then disappearing, as he stroked forward and back. A crude image that made her nipples harden.
She couldn’t stand the tingling there and cupped her breasts, playing with the tips. His gaze dropped to watch, and he tucked a finger into the top of her folds to circle her clitoris.
She jerked because the nubbin was already hard and engorged. The hood had slipped away. His raspy fingertip touched it directly, and she wasn’t sure she could take much more until he raised his finger, wet it with his tongue, and resumed his teasing motions.
“Troy,” she groaned, arching her back and reaching now to clutch his hair. She pulled as she began to writhe against him, loving the slide of his thick cock, the scrape of his finger. She could come like this, but she wanted more. Wanted him deep. Wanted to be so full and stretched she didn’t remember who she was or the fact this wasn’t something lasting.
Troy removed his hands then tugged on her hair and pulled back her head. Coming around her, he kissed her hard, then walked her backward, his arms surrounding her, guiding her, until her thighs hit the mattress, and she fell back.
Then he was on her, not allowing her to scoot deeper onto the mattress. With her legs hanging over the side, she watched breathlessly as he knelt between her legs and set her thighs on his shoulders.
“Too much,” she said, shielding her pussy with her hand. Too embarrassing. Too intimate. Him there, seeing everything in the lamplight.
But he ignored her, nipping her fingers until she withdrew them. Then he pulled her labia into his mouth, sucked on them, chewed them gently, getting them wet and engorged. When she was ready to scream, he backed off to blow cool streams of air over her hot flesh.
Then he parted her folds, tugging them upward to expose her clit. She groaned again and closed her eyes, refusing to watch him because it was so much dirtier to see what he did than simply feel.
He rubbed his cheeks and chin in her wet folds, the scrape of his beard itchy and exciting. Then he flattened his tongue and licked her up and down, making sure to pay more attention to the tight, hot bud at the top.
Before long, Diana rocked her head side to side and tapped his back with her heels, while she moaned and shrieked, because he surprised her, licking her, then biting her, stroking his fingers inside her pussy, teasing her asshole. Things she couldn’t prepare herself to accept because he never gave her warning.
“Bastard,” she gasped when his tongue dipped into her anus. This wasn’t happening, he wasn’t doing that.
In the next instant, she yelped because he stood and gripped her waist, shoving her toward the center of the bed, then climbing quickly over her.
When he lay atop her, his weight propped on his elbows, his cock resting on her mound, he smiled down at her. “I love the sounds you make. Do you know you chirp?”
“That was a squeal.”
“Sounded like a cricket.”
“You surprised me.”
He bent and flicked his tongue against her earlobe. “And what was that other sound. Sounded like a squeaky door.”
“It was a moan, you idiot, that you interrupted when you…did that thing.”
“That thing? Do you mean when I tongue-fucked your ass?”
She clapped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t say that. It never happened.”
He bit her fingers.
“Ouch!”
“Don’t get in the way.”
And then he was scooting downward, this time hovering over her breasts.
“They’re small,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“You could always gain fifty pounds. There’d be more.”
“You want me to gain fifty pounds to make my boobs bigger?”
“No, but if you want them bigger, I’m game. Just more of you to bounce against.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “You say the most ridiculous things.”
“I like your tits,” he said, dropping a kiss on one distended nipple then the other.
“Good to know,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest because he was staring so intently.
He grabbed her arms and moved them to her sides. “Stop hiding.” He stuck out his tongue and licked around one dark circle. “You’re soft everywhere—but here the most,” he said, giving her another lick. Then he latched onto the tip and drew hard, like he was sucking a milkshake through a straw.
Her toes curled. More fluid trickled down her channel. “Troy, please.” She gripped his ears and pulled him.
He slid upward. His cock pushed against her folds, and he paused to reach downward and part them so that he could set his fat head against her opening. When he glanced toward her face, he gave her a tight smile. “Almost there. Think you’re ready?”
She shook her head. “Do you always talk this much during sex?”
“I don’t know. I tend to talk when I’m nervous.”
She canted her head. “You’re nervous about doing this with me?”
He nodded and gave her another quick smile. “You’re…so fucking sexy. Perfect. Still can’t believe you gave me the time of day, much less access to your pretty cunt.”
She smacked his shoulder.
He waggled his eyebrows.
“I’m older than you.”
“Are you?” he said, sounding surprised.
“Thirty-three.”
“Ancient!”
She smacked him again.
“And I’m twenty-eight. So, not a huge difference, babe.”
“Guess it doesn’t matter. It’s just sex.”
“And for that…” he pushed inside her, coming steadily up her channel, leaving her no chance to catch her breath, no time to get used to his size. He was just there. Deep inside her. His arms around her. His body over her. No escaping his steady gaze or the strength of will evident in his taut features.
She drew a ragged breath, widened her legs, then lifted her knees, easing them alongside his hips, hugging them, like she wanted to hug him, but couldn’t because her arms were trapped against his chest.
“This what you do when a girl pisses you off?” she asked.
I won’t bore you with economical, social and political details. I’ll leave these for another place and another time.
By the way, have you ever thought that the blood of someone famous, whose name inspires, even nowadays, a feeling of admiration or unease or dread may be flowing through your veins? No? I must admit that I haven’t either, ’til I wrote the novel Dracula’s Mistress and, come to think of it, Dracula’s blood may flow through my veins, too, as I am a native of his country.
If you go outside in the street, in the States, and ask at random, ordinary people passing by “Have you heard about Romania? “, you’ll be, most often, met by frowned eyebrows, confused looks or shrugging. Or even answers like: “Well, I don’t know… is it South America… or maybe Africa….”
Ask the same people “Have you heard about Dracula’s country?” A large smile will lighten the face of your interlocutor. “Oh, Dracula. Yes, yes, I heard about it. Somewhere in Europe. Transylvania. Vampires.”
So, I’m glad to live in a country known to everyone, be it only because it’s linked to a name bearing negative connotations: creatures of the night, fangs, sucking the blood of maidens, crimes and horrors. Dracula is said to have drunk his victims’ blood, terrified his enemies and turned into a bat at will. The border between legend or history and figments of people’s imagination is difficult to perceive in his case.
Strong connections between the British Royal Family and Vlad the Impaler, the 15th century nobleman whose deeds inspired the vampire legend, are exploited now for advertising reasons. Books, movies, restaurants, T-shirts, fan clubs, toys, posters, wine…. So many products with this name Dracula. It’s a powerful brand and a source of inspiration for generations to come.
There are many people in Romania bothered by this analogy, Romania—Dracula’s country. I’m not. I’m proud to be one of his country people. And I chose to think about Dracula as a symbolic personality, a hero, a true leader, who used harsh, yet fair methods to reclaim the country from the corrupt and rich boyars. I wish there lived another man like him in his present-day country!
Anyway, words are never enough to describe the place. Beautiful landscapes with gorgeous mountains and mysterious ancient forests, clear rills coming down grassy slopes to meet the Danube.
Well, not to mention that there are enough elements in the Romanian mythology—ghosts, zombies, vampires—to be a real attraction for visitors. We have our paranormal, haunted places, too. If you want to know more about them, I invite you to visit my blog and the posts under the title: Mysterious Romania.
My best advice to you—come and visit Romania and you’ll see for yourselves how Dracula’s country really looks like. And to prevent getting bored while crossing the ocean, get a copy of my novels Shadows of the Past or Till Life Do Us Part and read it. Otherwise you don’t know what you are missing! (The novel I mentioned at the beginning of the post, Dracula’s Mistress, will be released by the end of 2016, I hope)
Barbara Heyer can hear voices of dead people. They whisper of their deaths, seek comfort for those left behind, and occasionally even warn her about future events. But when Barbara’s brother, Colin, is accused of murder, it will take more than her gift to prove his innocence.
Becoming smitten with the handsome investigator, Detective Patrick Fischer, is a serious complication given his assignment to her brother’s case. Barbara senses there is something far deeper—and perhaps much older—than the surface attraction between them. Could that be why she’s visited by a mysterious woman named Emma in her dreams? Could past life regression tie all the seemingly unconnected events together?
Barbara and Patrick must overcome heartache to find the truth to save Colin, and perhaps themselves.
“Detective, please, don’t think I’m raving, but I have to ask. Do you know someone called Mabel?”
The man riveted Barbara with his dark blue eyes for a moment.
Barbara cringed inside. He’ll rebuke me.
The man passed a hand over his face and nodding, he answered, “Yes, I know a Mabel. My… my wife.”
“How long ago did she pass away?”
In a voice that was more than a little surprised he asked, “How on earth did you know she’s dead?”
“She’s here,” Barbara replied in a small voice.
His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. The steel in his voice was hard to miss. “What? What are you talking about?” He spun round and looked at the apparently empty space behind him.
Tell him I no longer suffer, Barbara heard Mabel’s voice.
Detective Fisher was still staring blankly around him.
“She wants me to tell you she no longer suffers. She hopes you’ve found in your heart the power to forgive her for committing suicide… for jumping off the bridge.”
The detective looked straight into Barbara’s eyes. The grief she saw in them was almost palpable.
About the Author
Carmen Stefanescu resides in Romania, the native country of the infamous vampire Count Dracula, but where, for about 50 years of communist dictatorship, just speaking about God, faith, reincarnation or paranormal phenomena could have led someone to great trouble – the psychiatric hospital if not to prison.
High school teacher of English and German in her native country, and mother of two daughters, Carmen Stefanescu survived the grim years of oppression, by escaping in a parallel world that of the books.
Several of her poems were successfully published in a collection of Contemporary English Poems, Muse Whispers vol.1 and Muse Whispers vol.2 by Midnight Edition Publication, in 2001 and 2002.
Her first novel, Shadows of the Past, was released in 2012 by Wild Child Publishing, USA.
Carmen joined the volunteer staff at Marketing For Romance Writers Author blog and is the coordinator of #Thursday13 posts.
Other books by Carmen Stefanescu:
Shadows of the Past – paranormal/light romance/light historical/light mystery
When people learn I’m a romance writer, my answer to “what do you write?” always evokes a a wide – and I do mean wide – grin of surprise. I write inspirational romance, gothic romance and Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance. Inspirational and Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance?
Are you grinning?
Jokingly, but half-seriously, someone once asked, “What is Christian erotic romance? Safe braille sex? i.e. sex with your eyes closed and your panties on?” For some, Christian erotica or Christian erotic romance is the ultimate oxymoron. I might have been one of them if I hadn’t discovered translations of the writings of medieval mystics over thirty years ago. Hadewijch of Brabant and Beatrijs of Nazareth proved there is an equal sign between Christian and erotic. Their prayers and journal entries not only aroused and excited me, but inspired and drew me closer to the divine. They also confirmed what I’d always suspected: worshiping God is an ecstatic erotic experience. My suspicion had been born in my reading of the erotic poetry of the Old Testament found in Song of Solomon. Those ecstatic tropes were not a projection of my lustful imaginings in need of sublimation. Hallelujah! Medieval mystics and the Bible celebrate the erotic? So will I!
Fast forward to 2003 when I joined Romance Writers of America and started writing romance. The seeds planted by that hallelujah began to take root. Audre Lorde’s Uses of the Erotic: the Erotic as Power nurtured the fledgling plants. As I honed my craft, I wrestled with the following challenges: could I write fiction equally ecstatic, erotic and experiential as the non-fiction of those mystics? Could my romances celebrate love as arousing and spiritual as the poetry of Song of Solomon? Now One Breath Away has found a home at the Scarlet Rose line of the Wild Rose Press, I hope the answer is a resounding yes.
One Breath Away grew from a series of “what ifs” storming my imagination after I read a historical account of a woman surviving a hanging. In real life they simply hung her again, but what if she had been allowed to live? What if any time she became aroused, she experienced autoerotic asphyxiation because she climaxed when she was hung? What if this takes place in the 1870’s among African Americans surviving anti-Reconstruction backlash? What if she is a dark-skinned, plus-sized ex-slave? How could a woman like this after an experience like that overcome fear and find love? I knew the answer was yes, so the Christian erotic romance writer in me set out to give Mary Hamilton the HEA she needed at the heat level she deserved.
Sentenced to hang for a crime she didn’t commit, former slave Mary Hamilton was exonerated at literally the last gasp. She returns to Safe Haven, broken and resigned to live alone. Never having been courted, cuddled or spooned, Mary now fears any kind of physical intimacy when arousal forces her to relive the asphyxiation of her hanging. But then the handsome stranger who saved her shows up, stealing her breath from across the room and promising so much more.
Wealthy freeborn-Black Eban Thurman followed Mary to Safe Haven, believing a relationship with Mary was foretold by the stars. He must marry her to reclaim his family farm. But first he must help her heal, and to do that means revealing his own predilection for edgier sex.
Then just as Eban begins to win Mary’s trust, an enemy from the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…
Excerpt:
His smile turned up the heat in his gaze. Mary frowned, painfully aware the smell of her passion lingered in the air, despite the woolen barrier of her skirt.
He stepped forward so his hand-stitched boots stood toe-to-toe with Mary’s second-hand shoes. “Eban Thurman, at your service, Miss Hamilton. May I get you something to drink?”
At her service? The air congealed. Mary gasped, trying to suck in air too solid to inflate her lungs.
“No—no, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Her stutter mimicked the tremor between her thighs. She clasped her hands and planted them hard against her lap.
“It’s a really hot night.” He turned his hand palm up in a silent plea. “Perhaps you’d find a waltz more cooling.” He eased his fingers into her clenched hands. “May I beg the honor of this dance?”
“Beg?”
“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” He tilted his head, slanting his smile to the right. “Beg.”
“You don’t strike me as the begging type, Mr. Thurman.”
“To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” He tongue-swiped his full lips as if he’d just tasted something he wanted to taste again. “I know when it’s time to beg.”
She pursed her lips into a frown, fought back the urge to grovel and won. Barely.
The fingers around hers, clean and huge and strangely slender, hadn’t moved, hadn’t trembled. Their stillness aroused her. His stillness aroused her. Her lips quivered. She inhaled deeply against the surrender summoned by that tiny tremor.
Resist the devil and he will flee.
Silently she called upon the truth in this scripture for rescue. The devil waited. She stared at the hand on hers, helpless against the appeal, the allure of temptation.
She swallowed hard, opened her mouth to say no, but her tongue refused to cooperate. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I—I can’t. I don’t know how to waltz.”
“Well, you’re in luck.” His lips bowed in a smile, full, broad, and hypnotizing. “I’m an excellent teacher and I bet you’re a fast learner.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Shall we?”
He really wanted to dance with her. She blinked, speechless. A warning voice protested.
Resist.
Her heart countered.
Surrender.
She firmed her lips, heaved a sigh then accepted his invitation. Felicity’s sputtered shock and Widow Hawthorne’s happy cackle accompanied them to the middle of the dance floor.
He placed his fingertips respectfully but firmly above the rise of her buttocks and held her in place against him. A tickle invaded the wool of her skirt where the tip of his middle finger rested at the head of her crack. Pleasure tripped up her spine and trickled between her thighs. But, from the recesses of remembered experience, a voice of caution persisted.
He wants something, Mary. Beware.
“Why—why do you want to dance with me?”
He smiled with the serpent slyness that probably charmed Eve. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”
“I might.”
He turned his head slightly. “Really? Your practiced calm says otherwise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Practiced calm?”
“The face you present to the world until something touches your heart.” He gestured to his right. “Like when that baby there cried. Your expression changed to one of concern, then changed to one of contentment when his mother satisfied his hunger.”
Mary blew a breath through her mouth. This man was studying her. Really studying her. Should she be flattered or worried?
The one-two-three, one-two-three magic of the waltz began. He guided her in its dips and glides, through its rises and falls. The awkwardness attributed to her by past dance partners didn’t raise its ugly head. Her spirit lightened then soared until that still, small voice sounded the alarm.
You were fooled by another man and his fancy manners. Don’t be fooled by this one.
Hints of bay rum mingled with a manly scent against whose lure she struggled then lost. Once again her toilet water failed to hide the salty scent of her arousal.
Eban pinned her with a not-so-casual scrutiny. Could he smell her too? She tried but failed to read him. Dare she hope the ease in his smile meant he found it pleasing?
The other couples held their partners off with discreet and proper holds. Not Eban. Warmth radiated from the hand holding the small of her back hostage. The heat spread across her buttocks then seeped into places more private. He bent his elbow and gentled her forward so only their clasped hands separated them.
“Why, Miss Hamilton, I do believe you’re blushing.” His fingers held hers with a teasing yet possessive grip.
“I am not.” Her words shot out with a force she hadn’t intended. “I mean I don’t blush.”
“No?” A cheeky boyishness winked at her from eyes as dark as chocolate. He leaned down so his breath tickled her earlobe. “Not even if I kissed you behind your ear?”
She shrank back then stared up into the gaze showering her with attention. Her heart beat beneath her breast with a prisoner’s unease. An unease she knew well having once been a prisoner.
“You—you wouldn’t.”
His smile widened into a grin. “Only because I don’t want to embarrass you.”
The amusement in his voice coaxed forth a wet response that Mary clenched her vaginal muscles to stem. She swallowed repeatedly until she found her voice.
“You still haven’t answered me, sir. Of all the women here, why did you pick me?”
“Why not you?”
She blinked. Why not her? The answers swirled through her mind as easily as she and Eban swirled in this waltz.
Why not her?
Because she remained planted among the wallflowers by the time the musicians played the last song at every Safe Haven dance.
Because she learned to hang back at the call of “Ladies’ Choice,” forewarned of rejection by the grimaces caused by her approach.
Because unlike desperate-for-a-man Felicity, Mary refused to dance on her back in some dark field just so she wouldn’t be a woman who ain’t been asked.
Ain’t been asked to court. Ain’t been asked to spoon. Ain’t been asked to the altar. And never would be.
That’s why not her.
His calloused fingertips proved he worked manually for the wealth that purchased his custom-made attire. But, he didn’t speak like a field hand or common laborer. His speech testified to a level of education far above that of her Freedman’s Bureau learning.
“Why not you, Mary?”
“Because someone like you only looks at someone like me out of pity.”
Of course. His aunt put him up to this. Anger warmed Mary’s ears.
“Let me go.” She made to pull away. “I want to sit.”
“Please. Not before the music stops.” He timed his plea to the rhythm of the waltz. “I’ve waited all week for this moment.”
Mary gritted her teeth. Heart hurt joined her injured pride. She needed no one’s charity.
“That was cruel of you, sir. No one counts the days until they can ask me for a dance.” Tears pooled behind her closed eyelids. “Anyone in town could tell you that.”
The grip on her hand tightened, forcing her eyes open. The light in his gaze darkened. “Anyone who’d lie to me like that would be taking their life in their hands.” He leaned in so his mouth nuzzled her ear again. “And if you use that I’m-not-worthy tone of voice again, I’ll be forced to prove you wrong with a kiss.”
Alarm shuddered up Mary’s back. “Is—is that a threat?”
“A certainty.” He winked.
A chilly thrill replaced the alarm. She blew out a breath to steady herself. Threat or certainty, both treated her to a delicious revelation—she wanted that kiss. She eyed his lips, imagined their soft yet demanding press against hers. Once more the voice of caution repeated its warning.
Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.
Oh, to be forced to flee from such a devil as he. She sighed. What a wonderful problem to have.
A native New Yorker, Michal Scott is the pen name of Anna Taylor Sweringen, an ordained United Church of Christ and Presbyterian Church USA minister. Using the writings of the love mystics of Begijn for inspiration, Michal Scott writes Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance (i.e. erotica and erotic romance with a faith arc), hoping to build a bridge between the sacred and secular, spirituality and sexuality, erotica and Christ, her readers and a well-written spiritually-stimulating and erotically-arousing story. As an African American, she writes stories to give insight into the African American experience in the US. She has been writing romance seriously since joining Romance Writers of America in 2003 and had her first novel published in 2008. She writes inspirational romance as Anna Taylor and gothic romance as Anna M. Taylor. You can connect with Anna on Twitter @mscottauthor1 and learn more about her and her writing at her various websites: www.michalscott.webs.com, www.annamtaylor.webs.com and www.annataylor2678.webs.com.
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A native New Yorker, Michal Scott is the pen name of Anna Taylor Sweringen, an ordained United Church of Christ and Presbyterian Church USA minister. Using the writings of the love mystics of Begijn for inspiration, Michal Scott writes Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance (i.e. erotica and erotic romance with a faith arc), hoping to build a bridge between the sacred and secular, spirituality and sexuality, erotica and Christ, her readers and a well-written spiritually-stimulating and erotically-arousing story. As an African American, she writes stories to give insight into the African American experience in the US. She has been writing romance seriously since joining Romance Writers of America in 2003 and had her first novel published in 2008. She writes inspirational romance as Anna Taylor and gothic romance as Anna M. Taylor. You can connect with Anna on Twitter @mscottauthor1 and learn more about her and her writing at her various websites: 
