Hi Delilah fans! I hope you all are more ready for the season than I am—I haven’t bought a single gift yet. But I’ve got a list and am starting with a gift for you.

In keeping with the season, here’s a Christmas you’ve probably never experienced. Allow me to introduce masochist Jarrod Bancroft. In this first novella, A Gift for Jarrod, we meet him as he enters Stonybrook Academy for six weeks of training in submission. Here’s an excerpt:

Several days after his session with Madam, Jarrod noticed the rhythm of the house changed. It was close to the end of his stay, and that knowledge sat in his chest like a rock. He had no idea what he wanted after this. He felt stirred up, his emotions on the surface. He almost wanted to go to the dungeon and ask for a beating so everything going on in his mind would be set aside.

Most of all, he was haunted by thoughts of Madam. Ms. Fitzgerald. A woman he’d desired since the first time he’d seen her, back when he’d been an adolescent with nothing but silly girls and masturbation to relieve the craving that came with thinking of her. A woman who could never want him. Christ, she had to be at least ten years older.

But she didn’t look that much older. She looked beautiful, her body athletic and voluptuous and… He swallowed and forced himself to think of anything else—the fire, the condensation on the window. How much longer could he stay here knowing he might never see more of her?

Damn it, he would see more of her, he decided suddenly. He wouldn’t allow this all to end without reaching some kind of agreement with her. He wouldn’t call it a relationship. But there would be ‘something.’

The girl came to help him relieve his bladder, and his breakfast arrived soon after. Then he and the other subs were scrubbed and groomed until every hair and nail shone. After lunch, massage with fragrant oils, deep enough to relieve any lingering ache, left him blissfully relaxed. His brief glances out the windows found a light snow falling on the already deep layer that banked around the evergreens and along the distant rock walls. The snow only added to his sense of pleasure.

By late afternoon, they were taken to the third floor to a large central space framed in soaring timbers and natural wood with an enormous Christmas tree standing in the center and reaching almost to the high ceiling. It glittered with multi-colored lights and a profusion of ornaments, nothing like the sedate monochromatic trees his mother preferred but instead an almost gaudy explosion of every color and shape imaginable. Quiet strains of music played in the background, some of it recognizable seasonal classics. He grinned, walking around the tree with the other subs, all of them enjoying a surprising recess from their normal discipline.

He glanced around the massive room. Wreaths hung on four glass doors that led to a snow-covered deck which overlooked the same view he saw from his bedroom. Comfortable couches and arm chairs clustered around coffee tables in conversational groupings. Red candles burned here and there, sending off a tantalizing aroma of cinnamon and spice. Flames leapt from logs in an immense fireplace at the far end of the room where a long mantle hosted a row of colorful stockings, dishes of candy canes, and more evergreen boughs. He wanted to laugh out loud.

Platters of food spread over a large table draped in white cloth and positioned near the tree: smoked meats and salmon, trays of cheeses, fondue pots with bagna cauda, creamy rarebit and a smooth Swiss mixture, platters of crisp fresh vegetables for dipping, caviar and fresh crusty loaves of dark and light bread, olives and pickles, nuts and candied dried fruits. On the end under heat lamps were a ham wreathed in pineapple glaze and a roast partially carved to reveal the succulent pink interior. Bottles of wine, sparkling crystal glasses, ornate silverware and heavy china—he’d never seen such an elaborate set-up even at his parents’ home where they prided themselves on outdoing their friends. Two or three uniformed helpers worked in an open kitchen area at the end opposite the fireplace and more delectable smells escaped from there.

Ordered to kneel along the wall near the fireplace, he and the others watched as guests began to arrive. Surprisingly, none of them wore masks. Evidently they all knew each other. They were laughing and talking, wearing exotic flowing clothes of silk and velvet, supple fitted leather, or immaculately tailored suits of the finest tweed or worsted. The stream of arrivals amused and satisfied him in a way he had never expected. No one seemed to notice that he and the other trainees were without clothing. Anticipation fired through him. He felt free.

Madam—Ms. Fitzgerald—appeared along with workers he recognized from his stay. She looked incredibly beautiful, her dark hair piled up high, her cheeks pink with excitement. She wore a navy fitted suit, its jacket fastened with one button and evidently nothing underneath. The skirt hugged her hips and thighs and ended just above the knee. At her feet were very high heels in shiny black, and a wave of emotion rolled over him so strongly he felt weak.

How had six weeks flown by so quickly? How would he live now, away from here, away from her?

She circulated among the guests. Everyone talked in excited voices, standing in energetic knots or sprawled around on the chairs and couches. They were drinking, laughing, some of them passing joints. Jarrod tried to think whether he had never seen people like these. Maybe there had been a subtle undercurrent of such things at his parents’ parties, or at college, or at the firm—but he couldn’t recollect any specific details that would have hinted at such. It made complete sense that people like this—like him—had to be in a safe place before they could let their truth show.

He watched them touch each other’s bodies in casual ways in expressions of pleasure, attraction, fondness. Some of the women’s breasts were exposed, but after what he’d experienced here for so long, the sight of nipples no longer seemed like a big deal. Most of his attention followed Ms. Fitzgerald, and more than once, she caught his stare and the air between them sparked with something almost palpable. He resisted the urge to stand up and walk to her, damn the consequences.

He and the others who had been through the same training session had remained kneeling at the side of the room. At times, he felt one or another guest’s eyes raking over him. His and the other men’s cocks remained hard most of the time now, and he accepted that with a certain amount of pride, just as he felt sure that the women trainees felt satisfaction with the moisture rimming the inner crease of their denuded pubic mounds and the enlarged clitorises peeking from those enticing slits.

There were sixteen of the trainees and the guests many times more not counting the staff. The room buzzed with conversation, laughter, the clink of glasses. The faint scent of marijuana came to his nose every so often, and he inhaled with the hope of catching a bit of the high. He tried to imagine how he and the others would be of service in what was clearly meant to be a holiday celebration. So many delicious scents roiled in the air, so many beautiful lights dazzled his eyes, and the rise and fall of familiar musical strains tugged at his emotions.

You lucky cocksucker, you’ve gone through hell and emerged on the other side.

With an order to stand, one of the staff began working his way down the line of trainees with a bowl and a brush, painting the women’s breasts and mounds, the men’s nipples and cocks with some kind of solution. The freedom to look around had emboldened Jarrod, and Carson gave a quick grin at his questioning look.

“Peppermint candy,” Carson murmured as he stroked a drippy layer over Jarrod’s cock.

The effects came soon enough, a tingling sensation at first and then a deeper burning agitation that made him long to touch and rub. The guests drifted in their direction, and soon the row of subs were under assault as mouths sucked at the liquid candy. Oohs and moans rippled through the room, and in spite of the order to stand without moving, he couldn’t avoid the roll of his hips as one after another mouth closed over his swollen cock or nibbled on his sensitized nipples. The atmosphere became charged with sexual energy.

Soon the entertaining diversion ended, though, and the guests wandered off to cluster around the food table and pour more wine. His gaze, hungry for the visual feast after so many days of blindfolds and keeping his eyes cast down, roamed over the assembly finding one after another remarkable activity that only added to his excitement. One of the men leaned back in the couch as another man unzipped his pants. He looked away, not sure if he should be looking. Intrigued, he glanced back. The man’s cock stood in the air with the other man’s tongue sliding up and down it. Absurdly, he felt nothing but jealousy and desire.

Around them, people laughed in excited conversations. Other intimacies were underway, he realized, all very casual as if part of every-day life. Wine glasses clinked, drinks rattled over ice.

Someone approached him, and he realized it was Ms. Fitzgerald. Her skin glowed in the golden light of the room, all the reflections of ornaments, candles, the fire. Her green eyes sparkled as she neared. At the lapels of her fitted jacket, he could see the curve of her breasts. His chest burned as he struggled with how to express the avalanche of feelings coursing through him, how to thank her, how to make the connection he now felt desperate to make. If he had been alone, he would have seized her arms and crushed her lips with his own.

“Jarrod,” she said, smiling, “I trust you’re feeling well today.”

A shock wave ran over him at her use of his name. Instantly he was in a too-small desk in her classroom.

“Yes, Madam,” he stammered. “Thank you.”

Ignorant wretch, say something meaningful.

“How…are you…look beautiful,” he stammered.

Her gaze glimmered and narrowed, and for an instant, he allowed himself to think that some of the desire he felt might be reciprocated. But then, she backed up a few steps and addressed all the trainees.

“Congratulations on your successful stay here at the Academy, students. You’ve been excellent trainees, and I hope what you have experienced will serve you well. And now, I trust you’ll enjoy your evening with our guests.” She smiled. “We move on to the games,” she announced. And she signaled the staff.

The male students were lined up in what turned out to be a game of tossing wreaths. The small padded wreaths, less than a foot in diameter, were tossed by the guests with the objective of landing on erect penises. A line set by a long green ribbon held the guests ten feet away from their targets, and the room dissolved into laughter and catcalls as guests took their turns. Despite careful aiming and effusive advice, the contestants often failed to land their wreathes successfully even with three permitted tries. It then became a contest of how many wreathes would collect on any male’s particular cock. Less well-endowed males suffered a disadvantage, and the weight of the padded wreathes caused the organs to droop. More than one trainee lost his collection as gravity took its toll. Ultimately the length of the cock determined how many might fit.

Jarrod shuddered with the increasing need to ejaculate as the firm, cottony circles assaulted his groin and upper thighs. His long deprivation rose like a monolithic burden no longer to be endured. Each throw of a wreath resulted in some form of physical contact, even though few of them actually caught on his cock. The laughter of so many observers only heightened his humiliation which in turn added to his arousal.

At the end though, seven of the narrow rings collected on his still-upward pointing organ as its swollen tip oozed pre-ejaculate. To much applause and dressed in fine black leather pants and an open leather vest, Carson came over to hold up Jarrod’s hand and declare him the winner. As the wreaths were removed and his loins throbbed for release, he cast his glance around the room for Madam.

By god, he wouldn’t let this night end without having her.

 (More…)

Read what happens before and after this night for only 99¢ (free with Kindle Unlimited).  If you like the heat and kink, you’ll love the full collection of five novellas in Jarrod Bancroft: The Novel.

A Gift for Jarrod, Book 1 — https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GYGE3ZM

Jarrod Bancroft: The Novel — https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QR2SDKE

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Thanks for having me as your guest today, Delilah!

I’ve always been intrigued by post-apocalyptic worlds, whether in the style of Mad Max or the more somber visualization of McCarthy’s The Road. Since I’m also a big fan of kissing and happily ever afters, writing a ménage romance set in a world devastated by alien attack was a lot of fun!

PAIRED PURSUIT releases December 1. It’s my first published novel, and I’m already hard at work on the third in the series (the second will release in May).

Here’s the blurb (and the delicious cover!):

Danger rises in the night…and so does desire.

Matched Desire, Book 1

Her last living relative dead, Mari is evicted from her shipping container and leaves Flagstaff for the first time in seven years. Boarding a train for Scar City (formerly Reno), she keeps a white-knuckle grip on her debilitating panic attacks.

When the train lurches, she loses that grip—and is picked up, calmed down, and turned on by the only other passengers in the car.

Finn and Gareth are under orders from their superiors to follow a slim lead on a stolen alien device. At first Mari is only a pleasant distraction, but through their telepathic Twin link, the brothers discover they both sense a powerful attraction to her that goes far beyond pheromones.

With dawning horror, Mari learns the Twins are after the same device she’s seeking, her only hope to get money for a better life. Once they reach Scar City, the three realize they’re living on borrowed time—unless they can discover the device’s secrets before attacking aliens bring the city walls tumbling down.

Warning: Contains two genetically modified warrior heroes, a woman whose worst nightmare is wide open spaces, and distractions of a vibratory nature.

Available for pre-order: Samhain Publishing, Amazon, Kobo, Nook, AmazonUK

Excerpt from Paired Pursuit

Copyright © 2015 Clare Murray
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

“I’m not brave, though.” She cast them a confused look. “The moment we left the gates, I felt like hyperventilating.”

“Yet you continued all the same,” Gareth said, reaching into his backpack for what he required. He palmed the small vibrator, turning back to Mari.

“I did, but I’ll be on the edge of panic until we get back. Something might happen to the bike… We might get stranded out here, and it’s already nearly noon.”

“I have something that’ll help distract you.” Gareth held up the vibe. It had been state-of-the-art in pre-Invasion time, top of the line, with an external part that stimulated the clitoris. He’d always wanted to use it but had been saving it for someone special.

Mari’s eyes widened. “Is that…?”

“Not a threat. A promise.” Gareth grinned wickedly, tucking it back into his pocket. “So if you start panicking, you think about me pulling over and sliding that into you.”

“You’d do that?” She eyed him sidelong, but he saw the flare of excitement she couldn’t hide.

“It vibrates,” he said, leaning forward to speak into her ear, “and I have the remote control in my pocket. So if I see you getting all nervous again, I’m going to bring you to orgasm. Right there in my sidecar.”

Her expression—a mixture of anticipation and shock—was priceless. Gareth gave her no chance to argue or back out, bundling her into the sidecar and handing her a helmet. As he and Finn mounted the bike, Gareth made sure Mari was looking, and patted his pocket.

In response, her hand curled around the metal handlebar, but it wasn’t the white-knuckled grip she’d employed on the way out here. Good. She was calmer, much calmer than she had been on the way out. It was so much damn fun, playing with Mari.

Author Bio:

Clare Murray was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, living aboard a boat in her early childhood. She has a degree in Journalism and has worked in libraries in both California and London. In 2006 she moved to England, where she now lives happily with her husband and two children.

Find her here: website, Twitter, or Facebook

Guilty pleasures… We all have them, don’t we? Whether it’s putting off that boring but important task you know you need to do (ahem…taxes!) in favour of watching reality TV, or eating the last double-choc chunk cookie you were trying to save for your spouse.

One of my favourite guilty pleasures is sneaking off at a party, and hiding out in an upstairs bedroom with a good book! Yes, all the other introverts are high-fiving right me now…

Speaking of books, I have a scorcher for you – Rachel Kramer Bussel’s latest erotica anthology, Dirty Dates: Erotic Fantasies for Couples, which is full of pleasures, both guilty and not-so-guilty.

Cleis Press has generously offered to give away a copy of the book to one lucky reader!

Just tell us in the comments what your favourite guilty pleasure is, and on Tuesday 1 December I’ll draw the winner’s name out of a hat.

And now, because I like to tease, here’s an excerpt from my story “Switch”, included in Dirty Dates. The naughty little snippet below is the start of a reunion between two lovers…there’s a twist in the story, too, but I won’t spoil the suprise!

From “Switch”, by Mina Murray

“You’re early!”

I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but I’ve been practicing a new dance routine and am not exactly dressed for a sexy reunion. The yoga pants I’m wearing have bleach stains around the hems, and my tank top has also seen better days.

“Yeah? Well, you’re sweaty,” he says, and drops his bag in the hall.

“Sorry,” I say, grimacing. “Let me take a quick shower and I’ll welcome you properly.”

Grady kicks the door shut behind him and tugs me into an embrace.

“I’m just teasing, Cass,” he murmurs against my throat. “You smell amazing. You smell like woman.”

I groan at that. He always knows the right things to say, the things that get me wet.

Strong hands grip my hips and heft me up against the wall. I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist, unless I want to fall. My arms loop around his neck and I lean in for a kiss, but he holds himself just out of reach.

“I missed you,” he says.

“Oh baby, I know,” I purr, and rub myself against him. “I missed you, too.”

He lets me kiss him then, light brushes of my lips against his that gradually build into something deeper and more consuming. It’s been so long, I feel like I could almost come from this alone: from his tongue in my mouth, his breathless kiss, the pressure of his hips rocking against me. But it’s not enough, and eventually we have to break for air.

I unravel myself from around him. Even before my bare feet touch the floorboards, I’m reaching for his belt.

“Not yet.” He stills my hand. “Not till after I give you your present.”

“Grady, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s something we’ll both enjoy.”

He smiles, a sly look that does nothing to warm his eyes. That’s when I start to get nervous.

See, Grady has this uncanny ability to change gears, right when I least expect it. One minute he’ll be all sweet and solicitous, then some hidden switch will trip inside him and he’ll become this domineering bastard who’ll make me crawl to him, make me beg. He’ll drag me to my limits and then make me take that final step into the void, alone—and fully conscious of what I’m doing. And when I’m on the other side—after I’ve fallen—he’ll praise me and tell me he’s proud of me, and that’s what will make me cry.

Sometimes I don’t know which version of Grady I love more. But I know which one I’m getting this afternoon.

About mina murray

Mina Murray is an Antipodean, whisky aficionado and (part-time) smut-peddler. Her work is published in anthologies by Cleis Press, Tempted Romance and Mischief Books, including Seductress: Erotic Tales of Immortal Desire; Best Bondage Erotica 2013; Brief Encounters: Tales of Fast Love; Sudden Sex: 69 Sultry Short Stories; The Mammoth Book of Quick & Dirty Erotica; Baby Got Back; The Big Book of Orgasms; Dressed to Impress; and Lords, Ladies, Butlers and Maids. Mina’s sexy stories for 2015 appear in Three of Hearts, Conquests: An Anthology of Smoldering Viking Romance and Dirty Dates. Visit Mina at her blog | twitter | pinterest

I’m a fan of mythology in general, from Roman to Greek to Egyptian to Norse. I’m intrigued by the gods and goddesses, the mysticism, the magic and the creatures unique to different cultures and/or religions.

Most recently, I put pen to paper inspired by the myths and legends of the Norse people.

What is it about the Northmen that fascinates us? Is it their voracious appetite for violence? Their long hair and beards? Over the last year, I teamed up with a talented group of authors to answer those questions with fiction. In RISE OF THE NORTHMEN, each of us presents our take.

RISE OF THE NORTHMEN brings forth five stunning tales of sex, love, violence and triumph. From Vikings to Krakens to Berserkers to Valkyries, there is something for anyone who is a fan of Norse mythology and the mighty Northmen of days gone by.

This heart-stopping erotic anthology features Saranna DeWylde, Paul Goat Allen, Alyssa Breck, Mark Henry and Annice Sands.

Amazon: amzn.to/1QhbOK3
B&N: https://bit.ly/1iRsSHV
iBooks: https://bit.ly/20Kc4Vm

For a chance to win a $20 Amazon gift card, tell me what mythological character captivates your attention. The winner will be selected randomly from all commenters.

About the Author

Alyssa Breck is an author of horror/urban fantasy, paranormal romance and erotic fiction. She grew up reading Stephen King and V.C. Andrews. The Shining changed her life and sparked a love of all things scary, spooky and spine-chilling. Add some romance to that and she found her niche weaving paranormal and erotic romance stories. Alyssa hangs her hat in the South with her family of humans and fur-babies.

You can learn more about Alyssa by visiting her website www.AlyssaBreck.com and by following her on Twitter @AlyssaBreck and Facebook.

Releasing November 24, 2015

Cassius, Alpha of Sutter Butte, leads the most ruthless and dangerous pack in the United States. Misfits, castoffs, and forgotten wolves, they rose to create a pack more than a century ago in utter defiance of the order of the day. Seen as pitiless and cruel, Cassius wants more for his people than a yearly bloodbath as they fight for a better spot in the pecking order. To change his pack means to change himself, and he will find rebellion on all sides, not to mention from his own defiant heart.

Sovvan Stark, Omega of Delta Crescent, lives a cherished, beloved life in the center of her pack—a delicate and hard won balance. Though she is not the only Omega, she is the most experienced with the tremors of pack upset when power shifts from Alpha to Alpha. When her Alpha approaches her about Sutter Butte’s request, Sovvan considers the matter for several months. While she might hold within her the key to helping the Sutter Butte Alpha, the undertaking could very well kill her.

Accompanied by a single Hound, Sovvan begins a journey to help Cassius rebuild the foundation of his pack, but first she will have to transform him…

Find excerpt for Heather Long’s Desert Wolf below

Amazon: https://amzn.to/1JRKhd4
All Romance:  https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-desertwolf-1887378-168.html
Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1122640051?ean=2940150834033
iTunes:  https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/desert-wolf/id1039163980?mt=11
Kobo:  https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/desert-wolf

Don’t miss our party today as we celebrate the release of Desert Wolf!

Focus on Willow Bend

Series Reading Order:

Wolf at Law (Prequel)
Book 1: Wolf Bite
Book 2: Caged Wolf
Book 3: Wolf Claim
Book 3.5: Wolf Next Door
Book 4: Rogue Wolf
Book 5: Bayou Wolf
Book 6: Untamed Wolf
Book 6.5: Wolf with Benefits
Book 7: River Wolf
Book 7.5: Single, Wicked Wolf
Book 8: Desert Wolf
Book 9: Snow Wolf (February 2016)

Heather Long

National bestselling author, Heather Long, likes long walks in the park, science fiction, superheroes, Marines, and men who aren’t douche bags. Her books are filled with heroes and heroines tangled in romance as hot as Texas summertime. From paranormal historical westerns to contemporary military romance, Heather might switch genres, but one thing is true in all of her stories—her characters drive the books. When she’s not wrangling her menagerie of animals, she devotes her time to family and friends she considers family. She believes if you like your heroes so real you could lick the grit off their chest, and your heroines so likable, you’re sure you’ve been friends with women just like them, you’ll enjoy her worlds as much as she does.

Contact Details:

Website: https://www.heatherlong.net
Email: heather@heatherlong.net
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HeatherLongAuthor
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/HVLong
Newsletter: https://eepurl.com/iKxQ5

Excerpt of Desert Wolf by Heather Long

Heat rolled in waves from the blacktop of the old highway. Around him, the desert sprawled in its painted glory, seemingly melting into the horizon where it kissed the sky. The colors streaked past him as he accelerated, blowing past the old trading posts and bypassing the interstate with its smoother surface and promise of civilization in the distance. If one sought to journey through the decades, the old highway east of Holbrook was the place to start.

Sweat slicked his back beneath his leather jacket and the motorcycle vibrated between his thighs. Clocking over a hundred, he barely noticed the machine’s growl echoing his wolf’s. Cassius Lucera del Alba, Alpha of Sutter Butte, squinted to catch sight of the town he sought ahead.

Town was a generous description for the collection of ramshackle structures—of which a filling station with a decrepit market attached and a lone bar were clearly detailed. Time hadn’t forgotten the town, it had left it in the dust doing a hundred and sixty and never looked back. If the location had a name, no map detailed it, not even Google. The poor bastards didn’t even have a ghost to call their own.

Though they might when he finished.

He didn’t slow until he reached the main drag, all eighty-five feet of it, and parked his bike in front of the bar. A handful of vehicles were scattered amongst the cracked pavement and gravel. Three he recognized, two he didn’t. Like the bar, the cars were in sad shape and far more popular in earlier decades. Killing the engine, he dropped the kickstand and slid off his baby. Road dust coated her paint and chrome. With a stroke of his gloved hand over the seat, he promised her a bath later.

Leaving the bike, he strode toward the building. No one moved outside, but one wolf stood inside the filling station. He was a smart wolf—he’d spotted Cassius, yet didn’t reach for a phone or make any move other than retrieving his newspaper and flipping it open.

Inside, cool air rushed over his sweaty face like a sweet kiss. The scents of stale beer, body odor, remnants of the blood spilled throughout the years, and fear stained the experience. The population of the bar—easily a dozen wolves, though Cassius scented at least four more in the back—glanced up from their places scattered around the room. Three played pool, four others huddled around a card game, while the rest sat in various spots, including two drinking at the bar. The couple in the corner paused, though her hand stayed down his pants. The bartender—a tall, broad wolf with a balding pate and a world-weary expression—raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“Beer. Cold,” Cassius said, and the bartender nodded. A moment later, he set a tall bottle of Corona on the weathered bar top. The sides frosted and a hint of vapor escaped the top. Condensation formed almost immediately on the sides, slicking along the glass in rivulets.

Stripping off his fingerless gloves, Cassius then set them on the bar. Next, he shed his jacket. The old leather moulded him perfectly after the many years he’d spent wearing it. Only after setting it on the bar next to his gloves did he peel off three one hundred dollar bills and lay them next to the bottle. The bartender didn’t say a word as he took the bills, tucked them into his pocket, then locked his register and exited through the double doors behind the bar.

Leaning against the aged wood, Cassius swept the room with his gaze. “If any of you are still sitting on your asses, disobeying the direct orders I sent last week…then when I finish this beer, I’ll kill you.” He didn’t raise his voice. Shouting accomplished nothing. Yelling indicated the battle was lost before it began.

Chair legs scraping across the floor splintered the silence. The couple in the corner disengaged. The she-wolf grabbed her purse as she stood. Boots striking the floor punctuated her exodus. No sooner did the door slam shut behind her than the four wolves playing cards toss them down, abandoning their game. The men muttered, but they divvied the pot, then bowed their heads to him one at a time before hurrying out.

Tipping the bottle up, he took a long pull of the cold drink. It soothed his parched throat. One of the pool players threw down his stick. One of the wolves tried to stop him with a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. Then like the other wolves before him, he hurried out the door.

From nearly twenty to only ten—behind him feet stomped on the stairs followed by another door slamming. Make that eight. One of the upstairs wolves strode into the bar, and stood in the center of it. Surprise filled his scent at the emptiness in the room. The others waited, their attention divided between Cassius and Finch.

Stupid fucking name for a wolf. After another long pull from his beer, and Cassius was three quarters finished. One by one he met the gazes of the wolves around the room. The smarter ones lowered their eyes immediately, the dumbasses fought to hold his gaze—even Finch.

Focusing on him last, Cassius studied him. Fresh beads of sweat began to trickle along Finch’s cheeks. The wolf swore, then stomped out and slammed the door with enough force, one of the hinges cracked.

Then there were seven.

Seven wolves who’d gathered in the desert in direct contradiction to his orders to appear at the landing. He’d called his wolves to him. Most came. Some—like these dumbasses—refused. Reaping was still another six weeks away. They all knew it, but they hadn’t come.

Cassius didn’t forgive disobedience. Anxiety with hints of aggression spiked in the sourness around him spoiling his appetite. One last swallow of beer awaited him. The wolf to his left rushed him as he lifted the bottle. Fool.

His beer ruined anyway, he smashed the bottle into the wolf’s face. The man’s roar ended in a scream. Slamming his booted foot into the other wolf’s knee, he listened to the satisfying crunch. Not wasting time enjoying the sound, he hooked his arm around the wolf’s neck then twisted and silenced his pain-filled screams. The pool players came next, wielding their sticks. He blocked one blow, ignoring the reverberation of it shattering on his forearm.

A throat punch to the second wolf dropped him, and he head butted the first. A third wolf rushed him. With a snarl and extended claws, he sliced his throat. The wolf went down with a gurgle. Whirling, he seized a stool and shattered the wood as he beat the first one. Bones snapped and the wolf cried out. Another wolf ran for the door, but Cassius had given them their warning.

He flung the stool leg, and it struck—jagged end first—into the fleeing wolf’s back, which penetrated his rib cage. The wolf was dead before he hit the floor. Completing the turn, he faced the last two wolves.

The first one went to his knees. “Cassius…I’m—” His last words ended on a gurgle as Venosky, the only other living wolf in the bar slammed a knife through his compatriot’s throat. Blood sprayed from the wound and the wolf went down.

Cracking his knuckles one at a time, Venosky braced himself. “I won’t go down easy.”

“Good.” His wolf roused to the scent of true battle. Unlike his friends, Venosky didn’t rush him. The wolf held his ground. One of the downed wolves reached for Cassius’ leg so the Alpha slammed his foot down on the downed man’s throat. The crunch told him the bones snapped.

Anticipating Venosky’s opportunistic nature, Cassius caught his incoming fist and twisted. The arm broke, but he wasn’t done. Pivoting, he slammed his elbow into the other man’s gut then turned and caught him by his throat. Lifting the wolf from his feet, Cassius stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” the other wolf managed to push out on what few wheezes of his air he’d been allowed.

“Not good enough.” Cassius squeezed, then tore out his throat. The wolf crumbled to land on the floor atop his friends. After sweeping a glance over all the downed wolves. Cassius listened—no other heartbeats. The bartender made good on the silent order—he’d left the building. Stepping over the bodies, he retrieved their phones and checked them.

Sure enough, each one had a message about the incoming wolf to their territory and the suggestion that she not reach her destination. Fools. Every fucking one of them. He sent a message to the same loop via the captured phones.

Your Alpha knows.

Dropping the devices, he retrieved his jacket and gloves then stepped out onto the porch. He was halfway through a cigar before his Lieutenants arrived—the three wolves closest to the top of the food chain—the three most likely to face him at the Reaping if they claimed the right.

Johnny Blaze. Laurel Jacobs. Monty Spence. Johnny dismounted his bike first, and his nostrils flared. “Goddamn, boss. You couldn’t wait for us to get here?”

“Don’t be so slow next time.” He blew out a stream of smoke. The three wolves were as close as he came to trust. They wanted to challenge him. They wanted to control Sutter Butte, but they wanted everyone to know they had a legitimate claim.

Laurel laughed. Johnny and Monty superseded her in rank and both glared at her. She ignored their disdain and slid off her bike, more catlike than wolf. Strolling toward him, she swayed her hips in a provocative invitation he ignored. “It takes a while to burn a body, you know.”

“Then you’ll be busy.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “Clean it up. Check on the others in town.” Her expression tightened at the dismissive order, but she obeyed.

Monty grunted and followed her. Johnny checked his phone at the ding and glanced at him. Meeting the younger wolf’s gaze, Cassius smiled slowly and the other wolf paled.

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I know you didn’t, Johnny. I also know you didn’t tell them not to be stupid.” Grinding out the cigar, he descended a step. The other wolf backed off, his bravado gone and his head tilted, throat bared. “You think if they get themselves killed, you’ll have an easier time at the Reaping. You think if they sabotage the plan, it might inconvenience me in some way and give you an easier time at the Reaping.”

After narrowing the distance between them, he caught Johnny’s chin in his hand and forced the other wolf to meet his gaze.

“Don’t cross me, Johnny. I’m not in the mood.”

“Yes, Alpha. What do you wish?” The wolf caved. If Cassius released him he had no doubt Johnny would bare his belly. A vicious fighter, Johnny hadn’t grasped the full benefits of loyalty. Then again, none of his wolves had. They were too busy fighting for position, yet they’d forgotten what they were fighting for. Only one wolf had grasped what Cassius desired for his pack. Only one had been willing to meet his eyes, then proved she was exactly what his pack needed.

And she left.

The others had to learn. If they couldn’t learn, he’d have to bring them to heel.

“Make it clear their plans are over. If they refuse, kill them. My word is law. If they don’t like it, the Reaping is in six weeks.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

Releasing him, Cassius went to his bike. “Help the others. Then return to Summit. Secure it.”

Relief and gratitude twined in Johnny’s scent as he raked his hand through his hair. “Yes, Alpha…where will you be?”

Straddling his bike, Cassius merely stared at him. The other wolf bowed, his whole body lowering in deference. Yeah, he didn’t think Johnny had the right to an answer either. Engaging the ignition, he smiled at the rumble of his bike. He had a lot of miles to cover. Hopefully it would give his temper time to cool.

Johnny’s phone dinged again and he glanced at it, then at his Alpha. “They aren’t giving up.”

“Then they’ll die.”

Accelerating away from the freshly blooded ghost town, he headed east. Apparently he had more wolves to kill.

Who’s to say you can’t have a romantic Thanksgiving? Oh sure, you might be dealing with the in-laws and crazy family drama, dodging kids while taking in football and way too much food…

But it’s also time to reflect on what we’re THANKFUL for. If you have a partner, chances are that person is high on your list.

My recent contemporary romance features a former Special Ops military man turned surfing entrepreneur and a popular adult film actress. Finn’s thrilled to finally meet his silver-screen crush, and Monica’s found her excuse to leave the porn industry.

Here’s a few romantic Thanksgiving ideas my characters might have used, and so can you!

An Escape Surprise: If friends and family aren’t on the agenda, Finn and Monica could plan a romantic weekend getaway. Their ideas might include a cruise (I bet they’d find some awesome deals), discover a cozy mountain cabin, or book a hotel room with a spectacular view.

Wake Finn Up with a Smile: *Warning – this only works when he’s a morning person!* But even if he’s not, how could he turn down a cuddly lover who says, “I love you….gobble, gobble!”?

Friendly Tackle Football: If Thanksgiving blesses them with a crowd, they’ll grab a football and get down with a game. What’ll start off as pleasant rivalry between Moni and Finn can quickly escalate into a subtle tease of “tickle football”. An added benefit: they’ll either work up an appetite, or work it off.

Share a slice of pie: When the feast is over and they’re finally alone, why not share a piece of pumpkin pie? Finn can decide on the amount of whipped cream…and Monica will be sure they take turns feeding each other.

I had way too much fun writing MONICA BEGGS, a heroine with a vividly colorful past. I know I’ll have to revisit that type of story again.

And if I did, what are your thoughts on the type of partner he or she should be paired with? Have you ever read a story where one of the main characters worked in the porn industry?

About Sheri:

Always on the hunt for the uncommon things in life, award-winning author Sheri Fredricks thrives on creating adventures in her mythological kingdom series, contemporary stories, and soon-to-be-released western time-travels.

A former engineering secretary, she lives on California’s beautiful central coast. “I wanted to move away from a profession of inflexible right angles and create an unboxed world with no boundaries.” A voracious reader since her early years, Sheri found her brain crowded with stories of her own. “Ultimately,” she says, “my husband encouraged me to write them all down.”

Winner of the Paranormal Romance Guild Reviewer’s Choice Award, and a Finalist multiple times for InD’Tale eMagazine’s Reward Of Novel Excellence award (RONE), she has numerous five-star reviews everywhere eBooks are sold.

Sheri loves to spend time at home and connecting with readers. A computer hutch keeps her focused on creating stories, but the panoramic view of life on a ranch will call her outside to play in the sun.

About MONICA BEGGS

Monica Beggs is more than the hottest porn star out on DVD–she’s Finn Daniel’s next assignment.

Lights. Camera. Lube?

Famous porn star Monica Beggs wrapped up another grueling on-location movie shoot when the Colombian cartel attempted to kidnap her. Their guns are as real as the price on her pretty head.

Former Special Ops and present day surfer, Finn Daniels recognizes a lady in distress when he sees one—especially if it’s his adult film crush being hustled out the door. He’s no longer in the business of busting up the underworld, but that doesn’t deflect his moral compass.

In a fast-paced adventure– over land, sea, and air– playing it hot and heavy will only lead them straight into action!

Excerpt (from the villains point of view):

Cartagena, Colombia

Scree. Scrreee. Scrrr-clunk.

The piercing noise split the air, driving brain-ripping daggers into his sodden head. Enough of that shit. Don Santiago Manuelo grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and squeezed the sides of the device. Located somewhere along the edge was the phone’s kill switch, but he couldn’t open his eyes to see where.

It hurt to lay on his side and the effort to flop onto his back left him breathless. He cursed low, hard, and guttural. There’d been a time when he sported six-pack abs. All he wore these days was a kegger.

Had the phone actually rang, or was that his hangover’s way of saying buenos dias? The taste in his mouth was foul, a combination of puke and last night’s greasy tamales.

With superhuman effort, he contrived to pry open one eye, then the other, and worked to make sense of his surroundings. Sitting up carefully, he managed to avoid another puke session.

“Puto infierno.” Fucking hell. It’d been a good party. A plethora of women, cocaine, and shots of Don Julio lasting long into the night.

The lavish surroundings blurred, then sharpened into focus. Relief slowed his racing heart as he recognized his own master suite.

But he wasn’t alone. There were two women with him in the California king bed.

Both were naked.

The sight of big tits—fake or real, he didn’t care—puffy nipples, and shaved puentas brought a smile to his parched lips. As the boss, he partied whenever he fucking wanted.

And fucked who he wanted as well.

Sí. It had been a good party.

Below his hips, his morning wood called for attention. He’d get the bitches to take care of that soon enough.

Por dios! The morning light made his headache worse.

Don Santiago Manuelo—that’s how he thought of himself and it’s what his men called him. Too bad it wasn’t the name his whore mother gave him forty-some years ago in the cardboard shantytown ghetto where he’d grown up. It was there in the streets, stinking of sewer and trash, where he’d learned to cheat, steal…and kill.

Early on he’d learned the rules of the game: Power came to those who were ruthless and strong. The ruthless got rich, the strong would win.

While wearing a suit accessorized by his professionally trimmed black mustache, he often passed as a lawyer or business executive. Not the cold-blooded killer wanted in most of the free world. Certainly not a powerful drug lord at the top of his game, one who held authority over life and death in this part of Colombia.

One of the women stretched, arched her back, and then rolled onto her side. They were beautiful. And boring. Sensual, yet they didn’t look different from any other women in this part of Colombia. These women held no value, no importance.

He could end their lives with a flick of his little finger.

But then, what would be the point? It’d be like destroying furniture or tossing out old clothes—or killing the arrogant pendejo who’d controlled the drug operations in the territory before him. Santiago’s takeover had been complete with the annihilation of the previous cartel leader, his wife, and their children. He’d even killed the man’s damn dogs for good measure.

Ruthless and strong.

The message he’d sent was important and made as clear as crystal meth: Don’t fuck with Don Santiago Manuelo.

The high notes of an electric guitar pealed in teeth-grating rhapsody. This time the cell phone was palmed and he was ready.

With a swipe of his finger, he killed the ring—the same way he ruled his rapidly growing kingdom. Since the onset of his reign, his crime organization had become more powerful, richer than any other cartel in Central America.

With his methods, Santiago ruled absolutely.

Not even the radar of U.S. law enforcement agencies could touch him.

Norte Americanos. They were a soft breed, only capable of creating drug addicts and pornography. As la diosa fortuna would have it, the U.S. produced both in large quantities. Lady Luck might be fickle, but she always smiled on him.

Naked women weren’t hard to find, especially when one lived in opulence such as he. The blonde stirred beside him, and Santiago ran a hand over her bleached disheveled tresses. When his palm reached the back of her head, he dug his fingers into her hair and fisted the over-processed locks. Ignoring her pitiful cries, he pulled her up and over, forcing her to kneel with her face at his dick and her ass in the air.

She’d suck him if she knew what was best for her.

Too fucking bad if he was balding, overweight, and had hit his mid-forties two months ago. It didn’t detract from the amount of pussy thrown his way.

In the mirror above his bed, he watched as the woman half his age moved her mouth up and down his growing cock, grunting when her warm fist tightened its hold. Fregado excelente. Her head bobbed in time to his hand pushing the back of her head. Faster, he quickened her movements.

Tension coiled inside his balls. The rush headier than his manufactured drugs. Santiago spread his legs wider and grabbed the hair of the drowsing brunette beside him, gritting his teeth when she moved to eagerly comply.

Life and death.

There had been no interesting women in his life for years. That is, until a few months ago when a long-term, faithful employee showed him an Americano movie with a woman so beautiful, eyes so alluring, he couldn’t get her out of his head. The image of her nude perfection filled his mind. Daily thoughts traveled a nonstop expressway between his brain and his erect verga. Desire haunted his nightly dreams until he could take no more and sought release.

Such as now.

The blonde puta traded places with the dark-haired girl, taking turns sucking his hard cock and licking his balls. Santiago let go of their hair and stroked his fingers down their smooth, velvety backs to loudly smack their upraised asses.

“Suck me harder, bitches. Show me how much you want it.”

Their efforts doubled, moaning deep in their throats. Ecstasy of flicking tongues and moist heat punched his balls higher into their sac. His hips lifted of their own accord, uncaring of whose mouth was on him, or where. The cracks of the women’s asses pointed back at him were too much temptation. Scent of pussy cloyed heavily in the still air. Shaved and wet, their honey glistened beneath his touch.

The brunette eyed him over her shoulder. Smiling, she spread her legs wider and arched her back, opening to show the pink heaven waiting inside.

He wasn’t interested in fucking either of them this morning. A quick blowjob, then he had business to attend. Still…their glossy pink vaginas, swollen and damp, drew his attention and he plunged three thick fingers of each hand inside them at the same time.

The brunette immediately bucked, soaking him to the knuckles. Her lips traveled downward to swallow him whole. Blondie rode his meager offering but wanted more. She was a hungry whore who pushed at the dark-headed girl to get her share of the prize.

Two sex slaves writhing over his cock. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

They both licked and sucked. Their tongues wrapped his length and sometimes kissed each other’s lips.

Imagining the talented woman, Monica Beggs, as the woman who shared his bed, his balls tightened. He grew impressively hard and thrust his fingers in and out of the women’s pussies.

“Monica, you are mine!”

Don Santiago Manuelo, the fat drug lord and king of the Colombian cartel, laid back his head and ejaculated, smiling as the mirror above showed two shapely women fighting over his spewing cum.

Buy the book: Kindle  Nook  Kobo

*~*~*

Thanks for letting me stop by!

XO

Sheri

One day, I was driving around my hometown of Las Vegas, taking in the sights.  I’d been away for a bit, so I was looking through fresh eyes.  So, when I passed the local watering hole with a huge banner on the side of the building that read,  “Enter Our Giveaway.  Grand Prize—New Boobs!” I did a double take.  (Yes, I had to stop in.  It was for real.)  And then, as I was inching my way up the Strip, I stopped at a light to let a gaggle of showgirls in their G-strings, beaded bras, and feathers cross the street.

That’s when it really hit me—Deborah you are so not in Texas anymore.

And I remembered exactly what inspired me to set a series in Las Vegas.

Heck, most people can’t imagine living here.  And everyone has an opinion—Vegas is a love-it or hate-it kind of place.

Or, it was.

Vegas has grown up.

When I first started my Lucky O’Toole series, Vegas still had that Wild West, naughty vibe.  Trust me, I was trying to raise a then fifteen-year-old male there, so I was hyper-aware.  The billboards often featured perfect female backsides and the kids’ idea of hanging at the mall was touring the Forum shops at Caesar’s wondering what trouble Michael Jackson was getting into.

Thank God my son LOVED golf.

I was breathing easy until my son decided he’d like to go workout on the way to high school—not a thought that would normally strike.  I smelled a rat—but he really was going to the gym, so I let it ride.  Later I got the real story—the strippers all work out when they get off work.  Great.

One day I guess my son got too close and one of the ladies barked at him and that was the end of that little fantasyJ

Yes, Vegas is a different experience.

And, I fell in love with the silliness and the mischief.  So, I wrote a romantic mystery with a bunch of snark that captured what I saw in this quintessential American creation.

A book targeted toward women… set in a city that everyone other than me thought was strictly for men.  No, I didn’t know that going in.  Totally clueless.

As if trying to launch a writing career wasn’t a large enough challenge.  Marilyn Stassio chose Wanna Get Lucky? , the first in the series, as a NYT Notable crime Novel and it also garnered a double-Ritaä finalist nod, so thankfully not everyone was put off by Vegas.

And through the series I’ve tried to bring people along on my love affair with a city that doesn’t take itself seriously and just wants visitors to have fun and a bit of an escape.  Vegas is now a HUGE foodie mecca with virtually all of the top-tier celebrity chefs well-represented with eateries of their own.  The shows are spectacular.  And A-list singers regularly cycle through town—some even stay for longer-term, in-residence gigs.  We even have the Broadway touring shows.

Yes, it is possible to “Do Vegas” and never gamble or hit a “Gentlemen’s Club”—If THAT’s not an oxymoron, I don’t know what is—or perhaps, more correctly, a HUGE misnomer.  But, I digress.

Vegas is so important to my series that it really is a character.  I mean where else can you be sitting in a restaurant and watch the young women in their terribly short skirts try to sit on the stools at the bar, only to find the leather rather chilly.  The minute their choochillalas hit the leather they popped up like a human version of Whack-A Mole.

Or where else could you take a posse of girlfriends to a true male strip club and be very glad you have the protection of a group?  Who knew male stripping was a contact sport?

And there was the couple who come to Vegas every year, take different names, stay in separate rooms, only to pick each other up at the bar to have a torrid “affair.”  And the lady who packed her cats…

Anyway, as you can see, setting is integral to my stories.

What about you?  Does setting influence your reading decisions?  Turn you off?  Or turn you on?

Comment for a chance to win a free download of Lucky Break!
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LUCKY BREAK
The Sixth Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure

On Sale November 20, 2015

Click to Buy

With Christmas a few days away, Lucky O’Toole, Vice President of Customer Relations for the Babylon, Las Vegas’s premier Strip casino resort, is in a festive mood. The upcoming wedding of her assistant to the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock and her own engagement to her delish French Chef, Jean-Charles Bouclet have Lucky in full holiday cheer.

And even bigger celebrations are afoot. The national media is focused on the grand opening of Jean-Charles’s restaurant atop Lucky’s very own slice-of-heaven hotel. The opening gets a boost when Holt Box, a retired country-western singing legend lends a hand in the kitchen, adding mega-watt celebrity buzz.

Lucky’s life is humming.

The only sour note is her former lover, Teddie.

Teddie claims Lucky’s father, the Big Boss, has put an end to his return to the Las Vegas stage by handing that stage to Holt Box. Box is returning from retirement, a comeback of epic magnitude that will give the Babylon—and Lucky’s career—an incredible boost.

Taken by surprise, Lucky takes the high road. Or rather, she does what she always does when life overwhelms…  She ignores it.

Until she finds Teddie and her father, bloodied and angry, standing over the lifeless body of Holt Box, a dagger in Teddie’s fist.

The media sharks are circling.  A Macau heavy-hitter in town, flying under the radar but making his presence felt.  An old nemesis of Lucky’s is out of prison and salivating for revenge.  Lucky’s mother is ramping up her political campaign while juggling her new twins, who still don’t have names.   And Christmas is racing toward a crescendo.

Time is short as Lucky must discover whether Teddie is a killer.

And why she still cares.

About the Author

My mother tells me I was born a very long time ago, but I’m not so sure—my mother can’t be trusted.  These things I do know:  I was raised in Texas on barbeque, Mexican food and beer.  I am the author of WANNA GET LUCKY? (A NY Times Notable Crime Novel and double RITA™ Finalist), its five sequels, LUCKY CATCH, being the latest, and four between-the-books novellas.  Currently I’m stretching my writer muscles working on a women’s fiction/contemporary romance series set in Napa, a dark thriller, as well as the next Lucky adventure, LUCKY BREAK, due out November 20, 2015—all very different projects. So, if you see me with a glass of Champagne in hand, you’ll understand.  I can usually be found at the bar, but also at www.deborahcoonts.com.