Earlier this week I saw a fantastic photograph documenting that West Point’s class of 2019 graduated 34 African-American women, a record number in the academy’s 217 year-old history. Here it is published by Time magazine: https://time.com/5594906/west-point-graduates-black-female-cadets/. The pride on those young women’s faces put me in mind of Black women who served in the military when black people were considered property. So, on the weekend we officially remember and honor the service of those who “gave the last full measure of devotion,” I thought I’d reflect on African-American women and the military.

Black women served as nurses, laundresses, cooks and spies, the most famous of whom was probably Harriet Tubman. One woman, Cathay Williams, enlisted as a man named William Cathey in 1866 and served for three years with the 38th US Infantry. You can read more about the military service of black women in all US wars here: https://www.womensmemorial.org/history-of-black-women. As I write historicals set during Reconstruction, I thought it appropriate to share a bit about Susie Baker King Taylor, the first African-American army nurse.

Born into slavery in 1848, Susie served as a nurse during the Civil War in the same regiment as her first husband, Edward King. Because she could read and write, she taught blacks and former slaves in addition to her nursing duties. She was never paid for her work. She published a memoir of her experiences, Reminiscences of My Life in Camp in 1902. You can learn more about Susie’s contributions and those of African-Americans in Civil War medicine here: https://www.nlm.nih.gov/bindingwounds.

As an ex-slave and a military veteran, I like to think Susie King Taylor is smiling down from heaven on those 34 African-American female West Point cadets for whom her service paved the way and for whom we will be giving thanks for their service.

One Breath Away

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. She’s never been courted, cuddled or spooned, and now no man could want her, not when sexual satisfaction comes only with the thought of asphyxiation. 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 the mysteriously exotic woman is his mate 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.

Hope ignites along with lust until the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…

Excerpt:

Arousal—fondly remembered and sorely missed—sizzled between Mary Hamilton’s well- rounded thighs. Moisture coated her nether lips and threatened to stoke the sizzle into a blaze. The sensation surprised her, as did the owner of the gaze that lit the flame.

Eban Thurman stood against an opposite wall of the town’s community hall. Although the room was wide as two barns and filled with revelers, neither the distance nor the presence of the crowd lessened the power of his gaze. He studied her with a curiosity that didn’t grope with disdain, but caressed with approval.

With respect.

This kind of appreciation was never given to women as dark and as large as she. Gratitude heated her face.

Gratitude and embarrassment. Her lavender toilet water couldn’t hide the fragrance of arousal. She shuddered with shame then glanced around. Had anyone else detected the odor? All the merrymakers seemed too caught up in the rhythmic fast fiddling and foot-stomping of Safe Haven’s seventh annual Juneteenth Revel to notice her discomfort.

In 1872 Texas, who took note of a black woman who ain’t been asked to wed? Yet Eban’s perusal said not only did he take note, but he liked what he saw.

Buy links:
Wild Rose Press – https://bit.ly/2HOu3qc
Amazon – https://amzn.to/2VT5u0F

When I first saw Delilah’s invitation for stories for the Stranded collection, I was in the middle of a very different project—still erotic romance, but a longer series of connected novels. Stranded: A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology, Book 4 is a short story collection. I like both, but they’re very different to write… and to read. I was torn. Should I stay focused on what I was doing or light a new flame? I couldn’t resist; I decided to do both. I quickly wrote “Out of This World” and submitted it.

Short stories require fast story-telling. The author has to get to the heart of the matter quickly, and everything is heightened. The pace, the action, and the heat level. In romance, short stories focus on instant attraction. The snap, the flare, and the fire bursting into life… It’s like when dry kindling catches a spark. The fire flares hot and bright. And then, poof. The story is over, but the reader is left fanning herself. It’s instant gratification.

Longer erotic romances can also have instant attraction, but they’re often followed by a delicious slow burn. The fire is simmering, burning deep, getting hotter and building strength. In my Courting series (my other project), two of my favorite characters, Josh and Nina, meet in Book 1. He’s a police detective, and she owns a high-class escort service. (Ahem… she’s a madam.) The two begin a slow dance around each other like two tiny flames at different ends of the same log. Their attraction keeps heating and twisting, moving towards one another. With a series, the slow burn can last and last. Josh and Nina’s romance finally rages into life in Book 4. It’s like the embers of a camp fire that hasn’t been fully extinguished suddenly bursting into flames, threatening to burn the whole forest down.

As a reader, that type of romance is so rewarding to me. I like seeing the foundation of characters’ relationships being built. I like to see what’s driving them, what’s keeping them apart, and what pushes them to the edge. And then when the match is finally lit? Ahhhh, satisfaction.

That’s why I like to write different lengths, different genres, and different styles. How about you? As a reader, do you like the flash fire or the slow burn? Or do you like both—as long as the spark is there?

Meet the women and men who work at Luxxor Limited, a high-end escort service. The company caters to the wealthy by matching them with escorts who are as smart, mannered, and cultured as they are beautiful. The one limitation in Luxxor’s contracts? No sex allowed. Except, of course, if the contact is mutually acceptable.

COURTING TROUBLE (The Courting Series Book 1)

When times get tough, how bad does a good girl have to get?

Sienna Blakely is bright, articulate, and woefully underemployed. In order to get by, she’s forced to rely on the one asset she vowed never to use—her looks. With bills piling up, Sienna signs a contract with Luxxor Escort Services. A contract that strictly forbids any sexual contact with clients…

And then she’s assigned to escort Jason Sloan.

Just meeting the hockey player turned business shark causes a full-body jolt. Arrogant, powerful, and sexy, he’s trouble. He can see beyond the facade she’s erected, right down to the intelligent and sensual woman underneath. He challenges her wits, and he challenges the rules.

When he gets Luxxor to upgrade her to an exclusive and more lenient contract, just how far will Sienna go to pay her rent? And to explore her deepest, most intimate desires?

Ebook Available on Amazon (free to Kindle Unlimited subscribers)
Print book

About the Author

When taking the Myers-Briggs personality test in high school, Kimberly was rated as an INFJ (Introverted-Intuitive-Feeling-Judging). This result sent her into a panic, because there were no career paths recommended for the type. Fortunately, it turned out to be well-suited to a writing career. Since receiving that dismal outlook, Kimberly has become an award-winning author of romance and erotica. She has written for seven publishing houses, both domestic and international, and has recently focused her efforts on the exciting world of self-publishing. Her book Haunted Hearts is a 2019 RITA® Finalist from the Romance Writers of America®.

https://kimberlydean.com/

Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans. That’s the way it is in both life and writing. I have several publishers and occasional participate in Indie projects, so I have no control over when my books are released. Sometimes I may go several months without a new release. Then there are times like this when I had two books releasing less than two weeks apart.

Even nicer? They’re totally different kinds of projects. One is a contemporary romantic suspense story for an anthology. The other is a smoking hot science fiction romance.

The first book released was STRANDED: A BOYS BEHAVING BADLY ANTHOLOGY. This is actually the second A BOYS BEHAVING BADLY ANTHOLOGY that I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of. It’s fun to write a short story. There’s not a lot of time to tell the story so everything has to be tight, which means lots of tension and action between the main characters.

My story is “Undercover Lover“—Undercover as a waitress in a biker bar, DEA agent Sherry Norman is alone, stranded without backup until Ellis Smith, a man from her past, walks into the bar and back into her life.

TEASER:

Mind racing to try to figure a way out, she glanced toward the door when it opened. Her heart stopped. The entire bar dropped away. She no longer felt Deke’s hands on her. All she could see was the man who’d just walked in.

He stood about six-eight, his shoulders nearly as wide as the doorway. He was all muscle, which was on display as he wore nothing more than an open leather vest, a pair of faded jeans, and leather biker boots.

“Ellis,” she whispered.

“What was that?” Deke demanded, giving her a shake.

That drew the attention of the man. He looked their way and his gaze narrowed. “That’s my old man,” she told him. Deke was so surprised, he released her.

Praying she wasn’t making a mistake that might cost her dearly, she hurried over to the man she hadn’t laid eyes on in ten years. He watched her, his eyes still as blue as a lake in summer. His shaggy blond hair fell to his shoulders.

She put her hands on his shoulders and went up on her toes. “Kiss me,” she whispered. Not giving him time to object, she laid her lips against his.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ND4M588/

Only days after the anthology came out, RESCUING RORY was released. This hot science fiction romance was actually published before for a very short period of time some years ago. It was the last book that a former publisher released before they closed their doors. I’d always planned for the Marks Mercenaries series to be a five book series, so I’m thrilled that it’s finally happening. The other four books in the series have been written and contracted and should be out very soon.

Being a writer is never boring.

Rescuing Rory
Marks Mercenaries, Book 1

Betrayed and sold into slavery after her father’s death, Rory Banks finds herself dancing on the Exos, a deep-space pleasure ship. So when a stranger breaks open her cage and offers her a way out, she grabs it and runs.

Kal Marks and his brothers are space mercenaries and traders who have spent the past ten years searching for their younger sister. Their hunt has led them to the Exos and to Rory, who they hope will have information. But Kal never counted on wanting Rory or on the sexual tension and scorching heat that blazes between them. This mission just got a lot more complicated.

TEASER:

What did Rory think she was doing? And why the hell did she want to bunk somewhere else?

Well, he wasn’t having it. She belonged here with him.

He didn’t question the craziness of that last thought. He was long past rational reasoning when it came to the woman perched on his lap. Just the thought of her leaving him left his guts in a knot. It was like getting a fist to his heart when she’d casually mentioned Albion 5, but nothing like the boot to the balls he’d received when she’d said she wanted to move out of his quarters.

None of it made sense. Why should he care that she didn’t want to stay with him? He’d just met her, barely knew her, but that didn’t matter one little bit. They’d been through more in that short time than many people had in a lifetime together. He’d protected her. Saved her life. And she’d given him her trust.

The muscle beneath his eye continued to flutter. He forced himself to stop grinding his back teeth together for fear of damaging them. Rory felt right in his arms. He hadn’t realized how empty his arms or his life had been until he’d filled them with her.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RMKSW9M/
Evernight Publishing: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/rescuing-rory-by-n-j-walters/
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/937793
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rescuing-rory-nj-walters/1119955681
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/rescuing-rory-1
Bookstrand: https://www.bookstrand.com/rescuing-rory-mf

About the Author

N.J. Walters is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has always been a voracious reader, and now she spends her days writing novels of her own. Vampires, werewolves, dragons, time-travelers, seductive handymen, and next-door neighbors with smoldering good looks—all vie for her attention. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it.

Visit me at:
Website: https://www.njwalters.com
Blog: https://www.njwalters.blogspot.com
Newsletter: https://eepurl.com/gdblg5
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/N.J.WaltersAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/njwaltersauthor
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/NJWalters
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/njwalters
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/n-j-walters

As creative types, we’re all familiar with writer’s block—when we open our notebooks or documents and stare at a blank page because the words won’t come to us. Sometimes we do find ourselves procrastinating writing: we tackle the backlog of laundry, mow the lawn, re-grout the shower—anything to avoid looking at that blinking cursor. Or we’ll binge-watch TV shows, take up yoga, commit to a new diet, all in the name of doing Something Else.

It’s incredibly frustrating. We chisel words out of stone, chipping away at the block in the hopes it will go away. Or sometimes we simply refuse to look at the current project. We might even start a new project. We want to create. We hate being idle. We want the block to go away.

The advice out there to deal with writer’s block is legion. Work through it. Take a break. Take a break but not too long a break. Write every day no matter what. The problem is knowing the right way to proceed.

In order to do that, we have to understand why we’re blocked.

As I see it, there are three basic forms of blockage. The first comes after you’ve finished a major project. You’re riding a high from successfully completing a draft, or turning in revisions. A day or two goes by but you can’t seem to settle to starting a new project or picking up on an old one you’ve set aside.

Give it some time. Farmers know they can’t keep planting the same fields over and over without allowing the soil to rest and replenish its nutrients. I know in today’s publishing environment, we’re supposed to be producing a story a month—heck, we’re supposed to be writing in our sleep—but creativity needs a chance to rest and replenish, too. Honor that. Read some books. Watch television. Take the dog for long rambles in the woods. When you’re ready, the next project will speak to you.

A subset of this type of blockage is when you’ve submitted something to a publisher and are waiting for the acceptance or rejection letter. While you should rest your mind for a bit because of the successful completion of a project, putting everything on hold for weeks or months while you wait and see if your book is contracted is a huge waste of time. Give yourself a week to recharge and then put the submitted story out of mind. Get the next one in the queue.

The second kind of blockage comes when your well of creativity is dry. This is NOT the kind of writer’s block you just plow through. You can’t pump water out of an empty well. Take a hard look at why your creativity has dried up on you. Are you burned out? Is your day job or personal life taking its toll on you? It’s hard to write a love story if your own love life is on the rocks. It’s hard to be creative when the world is falling apart around you or you’re working twelve hours a day. The words you drag out of an empty well will be just as dry and lifeless as the source. Author Louis L’Amour once advised, “Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

To a certain point, he is right. I’ve been telling myself something similar for years without knowing the origin of the original quotation until recently. But there are times when that well is dry. You have to either wait for the water table to rise or drill a new well. You have to figure out how to solve the root problem. Sometimes there’s no easy fix. In which case, see if there is something you’re going through that can be incorporated into a story someday when there is more distance between you and the problem. This is also a great time to explore other areas of creativity. Write some no-pressure fanfic. Recount memories from your childhood. Keep a journal. Paint. Learn a new craft. Take photographs. Remember what it is like to play, to have fun. One time I created storyboards for action figures and photographed them in a series of scenes to tell the story I wanted to tell. Creativity begets creativity. It all counts in the end.

I think the third type of blockage is the kind most of us think of when we picture writer’s block. There’s an old Joe Flanigan movie called Farewell to Harry in which Flanigan has decided to ‘become a writer’ and travels to a small town looking for a story. He goes through all the classic moves of the blocked author: he sits in front of a typewriter staring at the blank page. He ripped the paper out of the machine, balls it up and throws it away. He drinks too much. He smashes a glass against a wall. His frustration is there for us to see.

But the real problem is he doesn’t know what story he wants to tell. He’s unable to write because he doesn’t know what he wants to write. It isn’t until he becomes involved with the titular character that he finds the story he wants to tell.

To be honest, that’s a very romanticized version of writer’s block. Most of us know the story we want to tell. We just can’t find the words to do so. If you can’t move forward on a story and you feel blocked, it’s a sign something doesn’t feel right to you as an author. You’ve gotten something wrong. There’s either a plot problem or you’re asking your heroes to do something out of character for them. Many times you can’t become unstuck until you figure out what that is.

Sometimes the answer is to write a different scene, the one you see clearest in your mind, and worry about how you bridge the two later. Sometimes the answer is to slog through it, tweaking and revising the scene until it falls into place. Sometimes you need to set the thing aside and do something mindless and physical to allow your brain to work through the problem without the blank page teasing you.

The hard part is knowing which to do when. But eventually, the writer in you will break through and the solution will be clear.

There’s no better feeling in the world than when that happens.

About McKenna Dean

McKenna Dean has been an actress, a vet tech, a singer, a teacher, a biologist, and a dog trainer. She’s worked in a genetics lab, at the stockyard, behind the scenes as a props manager, and at a pizza parlor slinging dough. Finally she realized all these jobs were just a preparation for what she really wanted to be: a writer.

She lives on a small farm in North Carolina with her family, as well as the assorted dogs, cats, and various livestock. She likes putting her characters in hot water to see how strong they are. Like tea bags, only sexier.

Links:
Newsletter: https://eepurl.com/c8GDYX
Website: https://mckennadeanromance.com/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B075CRHQ7B/
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/McKenna-Dean-Author-262328784224302/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/McKennaDeanFic
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mckennadeanromance/?hl=en
Tumblr: https://mckennadeanromance.tumblr.com/
Email: mckennadeanromance@gmail.com

One thing I love to do to relax is sneak away to a candlelit bubble bath with a good book. I adore soaking in all those glorious scented bubbles while indulging myself in a sexy romance or high-spirited romcom. I even enjoy action/adventure. And if I can’t have a bath, I enjoy curling onto a cushy sofa with a thick throw and warm cup of hot chocolate—unless, of course, it’s summer in which the throw must be ditched and the hot chocolate replaced with a cool Mimosa. Or if I’m feeling exceptionally frisky, I may substitute the mimosa for a cosmopolitan or a good ol’ Southern Hurricane. However, a winddown I recently rediscovered is makeup. Yep, cosmetics. To explain this, I have to recap briefly my high school days.

Like many little girls, I dabbled with glitter makeup and my mother’s lipstick when I was in grammar school. I didn’t try to apply it in any meaningful way until junior high—which actually was the beginning of high school. See, the school I attended consisted of an elementary school from kindergarten to sixth grade and high school from seventh grade to twelfth grade. No distinctions were made for middle school or junior high school. Although to an untrained visitor, the elementary school may have appeared as five buildings, it was actually one structure that expanded one city block and connected in a series of internal and external stairways and underground passages. That may sound bizarre or like an uncanny version of Hogwarts School of Magic, but the explanation is actually unremarkable. The school was built in the 1800s and run by an order of nuns. A section of the school (the convent) housed the nuns. To move around in inclement weather, the nuns used the tunnels to travel from the convent to the main areas of the school. Since the nuns spent much time in meditation and prayer, the tunnels, as well as the inner stairs, allowed for privacy from the public. More importantly, at its inception, the elementary school wasn’t “elementary”. It was an all-girls school for students in kindergarten to twelfth grade.

As you’ve probably guessed, this meant that the high school was the original all-boys school. It was several miles away and not as large, as it did not have a monastery. It was run by priests. When the schools were made coed, they were split into what is now designated the elementary and high schools—well, sort of. The original high school burned and was rebuilt on a different parcel of land, and the original elementary school was sold to the city as a cultural art building when the order nuns moved from the convent. Instead of being a three-story half-block, the new high school was one-story and a quarter of the size of the original. But I digress. (You know how us southerners are.)

My point is, as a tweenie, I was exposed to and traveled in a circle with the high schoolers. We shared the same hallways, bathrooms, classrooms, locker rooms, and teachers. Naturally, I wanted to emulate some of the more popular upperclassmen, who in my preteen mind were gorgeous. I remember when the homecoming queen, who lived up the street from me, visited a neighborhood playground. She never did this, and I don’t know why she did that day. It was a usual humid southern day, and I was seated on the merry-go-round and covered in dust. (Actually, I think the technical term for the equipment was roundabout, but we called it a merry-go-round.) There was a “baseball” game happening at the time. (They called it baseball but they were using both metal and wooden bats with a softball but pitching it like a baseball—playground shenanigans and kids who didn’t know any better.) I was too little (and lousy) to play, and the other kids shooed me away from the game. Honestly, I didn’t blame them, and my feelings weren’t hurt. I’d rather swing or teeter on a todder than embarrass myself striking out or being belittled for not being able to field a ground ball. I’d never had anyone to teach me to play, let alone play using their janky rules. In any case, I was covered in dirt and dust because it had not rained in weeks, and all the grass around the merry-go-round was worn from foot traffic. Anytime I stopped or started the merry-go-round bolls of dust would formulate and engulf me like a sandstorm. I will never forget that on that day I was wearing white sneakers, white shorts, and a white T-shirt (like an idiot). My nails were ragged and my pigtails windblown out of their scrunchies. Then here comes this goddess in a yellow sundress, French manicured nails, Egyptian lace-up sandals, flawless skin with even more flawless makeup, and perfectly sculpted hair. If there ever was a moment that cussing was appropriate, that was it. Read the rest of this entry »

UPDATE: The winner is…Debra!
*~*~*

Note from DD: My scheduled guest was a no-show today, so I’m recycling a post from the Collections website that appeared there yesterday. I’m sharing excerpts from all the stories in Stranded to help you make the choice to purchase a copy of your own! There’s an amazing variety of themes, genres, settings, but all are very, very sexy. Enjoy the excerpt, enter the contest, then head on over to the Collections site to read more about this anthology and meet the authors! ~DD

*~*~*~*

My writing journey resembles a spiral that took me from writing for newspapers through seminary and ministry to writing romance in retirement. I have a journalism background and worked as a stringer for awhile. Writing fiction during that time had always been a way to make the world come round right after a day of covering stories when everything in the world was all wrong. When I became involved in the church, writing remained a hobby, but I did it less and less.

Then I became an X-Files fan, and I entered the heady fun-filled world of fan fiction under the name Rev. Anna. I really enjoyed myself making up stories again. A challenge from my mother-in-law to put my energy into writing my own characters came at the same time the radio program “This American Life” did a segment on Romance Writers of America national meeting in NYC. Jeanette’s challenge and that segment lit a “Why not?” fire in my writing soul. I joined RWA in 2003, joined chapters, entered contests, won a few, and finally got published in 2008. By then, I’d attended a retirement seminar that encouraged us to start thinking now about what we wanted to do in retirement. Another “Why not?” flame ignited, and now here I am an erotic romance writing retired minister.

Michal

Excerpt from “Put It in a Book”

Trapped in a book by a sorcerer for rejecting his sexual advances,
an ex-slave’s daughter discovers one hope of rescue – a nosy thief

Aziza, if you want to hide something from Black folk, put it in a book.

If her father had said this once, he’d said it a hundred times. As the daughter of a freed slave, Aziza Williams had resolved with every book she’d read, with every bit of content she’d memorized, no one would hide anything in a book from her.

How ironic the adage was being used against her now that she lived in the Free and Independent Republic of Liberia. Only someone as evil as Dulee Morlu could leave her stranded in a book.

Each time he removed The Story of Aziza from its shelf in his library, he’d badger, cajole, even plead with anyone present to read it.

“This book will change your life,” he’d say in a tone, always enticing, sometimes seductive, but never serious enough for anyone to take him up on the offer.

When they’d gone, he’d pressed his mouth to her image on the flyleaf. “No one will ever read your story,” he whispered with snake-like malice. His laugh bruised her heart each time he congratulated himself on his ingenuity. “You will remain hidden in these pages until you give yourself to me.”

Never had been her answer when he’d propositioned her a week after she’d arrived in Liberia. Never was her answer when he’d caught her pleasuring herself by the river’s edge after her morning swim. Never remained her answer from the day she’d awakened entombed within the pages of her own story to this.

How often had hope flared at the possibility of someone opening these pages and setting her free?

Too often.

How many times had Morlu’s possessive grip caressed her prison’s spine, his wet thumb sliding down the edges of its pages?

Too many.

“Everyone I’ve imprisoned yielded within a day. You’ve resisted for thirty,” he exclaimed. “I must dedicate a chapter to your resilience.”

He splayed his fingers across her prison’s pages, too accurately mimicking the spreading of her thighs. Her captive limbs shuddered. His calloused finger slid along the book’s gutter. Her inert hands tensed, unable to shield herself from the erotic—albeit vicarious—chafing his touch provoked.

“Your opposition makes your eventual capitulation that much sweeter.” He slid his finger faster, deeper between the pages. “And make no mistake…you will surrender.”

Each time he placed her back on the shelf, he planted a cold kiss on the book’s spine. Aziza quivered against the chill, unable to staunch the revulsion roiling in her throat—or at least, where she imagined her throat might still be.

“Until then,” he whispered.

Her spirit cringed at those words. She’d escaped from plantation owners eager to punish her for secretly teaching slaves to read. Her spirit had remained unbowed after fourteen harrowing weeks crossing the Atlantic. Even the hardships that had killed more than three-quarters of all who had emigrated to Liberia hadn’t vanquished her. If neither threats to her life nor dangers at sea nor the high mortality rate could defeat her, she’d be damned if this self-serving sorcerer would.

Still…

Her imprisonment seemed an unending stream of consciousness, punctuated only by Morlu’s uninvited intrusions. Thirty days. This sudden awareness of time weighed on her spirit and threatened to undo her.

How much longer could she hold out?

Get your copy of Stranded: A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology here!

Contest

Comment for a chance to win a copy of Michal Scott’s eBook,
Better to Marry Than to Burn.

I’ve always heard “there’s a time and place for everything.” Well, in romance… every time and every place is how it can work… but it’s not always easy to make it happen. Bedrooms… Well, they have beds. Houses, lots of flat surfaces.

But what happens when the right moment put you in a place that isn’t so easy to make it work. (Felt like I channeled Tim Gunn for a minute).

When I was writing Playing With Fire, I had a lot of fun, but part of the fun was finding my characters in a rather unconventional locale—the heroine’s old model VW Rabbit.

Now, I will admit to a certain affinity for this diminutive car. My first vehicle was a 1981 VW Rabbit (I bought it in 1991), and the poor dear wasn’t in the best shape, but it got me all over California during my last three years in college. And while Jefferson Automobile and I had a good time together, I thought it might be a challenge for my hero (six-feet-plus) to attempt a little sexy time in such a petite auto.

So what does any author do when confronted with a question?

That’s right… LOOK IT UP!

Sooo many articles online… Even one that gave suggestions for positions based on Auto Model that included SOUNDTRACK suggestions… *wink* So when you’re planning the “spur of the moment” sexy times…be prepared…

Playing With Fire
St. Raphael, CA Book 2

When Finley tells him that she’s given up on love and done with men in general, Jackson sets out to prove that he’s not only the man she was meant to be with, he’s a firefighter who knows how to heal her heart and soul. Is he Playing With Fire?

Get your copy here!

Excerpt

Finley slipped her hand between them, and curled her fingers into her pocket, withdrawing a small foil packet held loosely between her fingers. “We don’t want to waste this, do we?”

She felt him stiffen against her, and it wasn’t just the hard ridge in his jeans; it was every single inch of him and she smiled. She’d turned the tables on him, taken his impromptu admission to heart.

“Finley, this isn’t the place-”

“It’s the perfect place,” she argued back, taking a quick look around, “there’s no one out here, and even if they were, the trees are so overgrown no one could possibly see us.”

She worked her hand over his length. His open-mouthed groan muffled her soft satisfied laugh.

“You can’t do this to me, Fin.”

“To you? I’m hoping to do it ‘with’ you.” Her next pass along his length brought his zipper down with it, and he leaned into her touch.

It was addicting, she decided, having this power over a man as strong as Jackson. And as she released the button on the waistband of his jeans she heard him swear under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” she asked him in a sweet and playful tone, “I didn’t hear that. What did you say?”

“Dammit, Finley,” his voice ground out between his teeth as he drew in one breath after another, “don’t tease me. There’s no way we’re going to fit in your car.”

“Well,” she flattened her palm over his stomach and slid it down under the waistband of his briefs, “you fit on the drive up here.”

He turned them, bracing his hands on the top of her car on either side of her body. The shift in their positions added enough friction to make him hiss. “That stick shift is going to make one of us very uncomfortable.”

“You have to think creatively.” She leaned closer, pressing her lips against his chest, and wondered if that was really the speed of his heart or her own. “Or you could put yourself in my hands.”

She felt him swell against her palm and licked her lips. “Then again, looks like you already have.”

Reaching out with her free hand she tugged open the passenger door. A moment later she was busy fiddling with the seat. Behind her, Jackson leaned heavily against the car his jaw tightly clenched.

“Finley?”

She heard the impatient edge in his voice and couldn’t help but smile hoping he couldn’t see. “Just a minute.”

“Hurry up.”

The snap in his tone made her laugh outright. “If you want to hurry so much, you could get rid of those jeans.” She heard the rustle of fabric and turned a moment later to find Jackson gloriously naked in the moonlight. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth, enjoying the sharp brush of her teeth against the soft flesh. “Wow.”

His shoulders rose and fell as she looked at him, from head to toe and back again, with a long curious pause in the middle.

“Why did you take off the shirt?” Mentally she kicked herself. One didn’t question a panty-melting man about why he took his clothes off. One just enjoyed the view and said, “Thank you.”

Oh my god. “Did I really say that out loud?”

His broad grin was answer enough. But then he opened his mouth and made her go weak in the knees. “It’s going to get hot in your car, Finley.” He gestured at her with a gleam in his eyes. “I think you might want to get rid of all of that.”

She reached for her waistband and pulled it down over her hips, her panties caught up in the motion ended up tangled at her feet. The long hip-length tunic she wore kept her covered in shadow.

“That’s not fair,” he growled the words and moved closer, his hands reaching for the hem. “I think it’s only fair that I get to see all of you too.”

She wanted to cross her arms over her chest and back away, but that would be silly given the number of times they’d been together over the last few weeks.

Once you’ve had a man naked in your kitchen, your legs wrapped around his waist as you tumble half the spice rack into your sink, it’s silly to hide yourself from him when you’re alone and in the dark.

Jackson reached over and slid his fingers under the hem, brushing the back of his hand against her stomach. “Need some help?”

She shook her head. “Get in the backseat and I’ll take it off.”

It took only a second or two for him to climb into the backseat of her car, tucked into the corner with one leg bent and the other leg stretched out the door.

Against the aged upholstery, Jackson sprawled like a mythological god. And when he held out a hand, crooking his finger to draw her closer, she grabbed the hem of her azure tunic and pulled it off, the beaded neckline brushing over her face, another layer of sensation prickling along her skin.

Ducking into the car, she ended up straddling his leg. The heat of his thigh between hers set her skin aflame.

About Reina Torres

Who would have thought that I’d start off as a painfully shy child writing stories and end up as a painfully shy adult writing books and publishing them for others to read? Crazy? That’s me!!

When I was a little girl, I read every book I could get my hands on and if I didn’t have one available to read, I’d get out my pencils and paper and write down stories and scenes. Waiting for my mom to finish working, I’d duck into the ladies’ breakroom and use the typewriter. I’d feel like Jessica Fletcher, happily tap, tap, tapping away until I got to ‘The End.” Couldn’t quite get the flourish after that and end up tearing the paper, but it was cool and scary to sit down and read the book or give it to my friends to read.

Now, my ‘typewriter’ doesn’t clack the same way and the I don’t even have paper to pull out of it with a nod of satisfaction, but I have the joy and excitement of sharing my characters and books with people all around the world!

I hope you’ll enjoy reading my books, because I’m going to keep writing as long as the characters are feeling chatty!

Amazon Page https://www.amazon.com/author/reinatorresromance
Bookbub https://www.bookbub.com/authors/reina-torres
Reina Torres Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/ReinaTorresRomance/
Reina’s Readers https://www.facebook.com/groups/ReinaTorresReaders/

CONTEST

Tell me your favorite car/vehicle. Either one you’ve owned or want to own… and what was its name?/would be its name?

Prize—Two winners, for an ebook of Playing With Fire or any other of my St. Raphael, CA books