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Michal Scott: ‘Tis the Season – Blue Christmas
Friday, December 20th, 2019

Turn to someone and say, “‘Tis the season…” and that person will smile back at you and probably say, “To be jolly.” Then the two of you might laugh and sing “Fa la la la la la la la la.” The season of Advent revolves around the themes of peace, hope, joy and love reflected in the song “Deck The Halls”. On successive Sundays congregations light three purple or blue and one pink candles in their Advent wreaths and recite a prayer anticipating the hope, peace, joy and love that the coming of the Christ child will bring. The assumption is this is the most wonderful time of the year. But what if your time isn’t wonderful, putting you at odds with the majority of the people around you?

Loss at any time is painful, but experiencing loss when everyone else is smiling, laughing and giving good cheer can be doubly painful. A sense of isolation — or worse a sense of having no right to your feelings — can set in. The pressure to stiff-upper-lip-it is great. Sometimes greater than people can bear. This is why as minister for pastoral care, I developed a “Blue Christmas” service for First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica, NY (FPCJ) as a way to affirm loss and offer comfort to those for whom crying makes more sense than caroling.

Often held on the longest day of the year, Blue Christmas services let people who are mourning know that they are not alone, that they are not forgotten, that they have a right to what they’re feeling. Hymns and songs are usually sung in a minor key. Prayers shared acknowledge the sorrow and pain of loss with dignity. Works from authors like Ann Weems, who write meditations based in their own experience of suffering, are read. Old Testament scriptures point to people journeying from darkness to light. Psalms chosen are often ones of lament like Psalm 22 or ones looking for help like Psalm 121. New Testament readings focus on a hope that is always there, even when you can’t feel it. Candle lighting is coupled with litanies that banish as much as possible feelings of shame or blame. In the service I designed for FPCJ, attendees were invited to come forward and light candles as an act of agency showing that even when we feel most helpless we always have power. As a reverse offering, attendees were invited to take a scripture stone (glass stones with scriptures on them) from the offering plates to take home as reminders that help from the word of God is always within reach.

Here are two sample services so you can see what I mean: https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/blue-christmas-a-service-of-reflection-for-the-longest-night, https://youngclergywomen.org/blue-christmas-service-when-christmas-hurts/.

If you’ve never attended one, find a community near you that’s offering one then consider going. FPCJ’s Blue Christmas services were some of the most life affirming events I had the honor to participate in.

If this season is a dark night of the soul for you or someone you know, I hope this blogpost can serve as a reminder that there is comfort and strength for you in this time of loss, that there are people who care and that — as the old Negro spiritual proclaims — “trouble don’t last always.”

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:

His smile turned up the heat in his gaze. Mary frowned, painfully aware the smell of her passion lingered in the air, despite the woolen barrier of her skirt.

He stepped forward so his hand-stitched boots stood toe-to-toe with Mary’s second-hand shoes. “Eban Thurman, at your service, Miss Hamilton. May I get you something to drink?”

At her service? The air congealed. Mary gasped, trying to suck in air too solid to inflate her lungs.

“No—no, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Her stutter mimicked the tremor between her thighs. She clasped her hands and planted them hard against her lap.

“It’s a really hot night.” He turned his hand palm up in a silent plea. “Perhaps you’d find a waltz more cooling.” He eased his fingers into her clenched hands.

“May I beg the honor of this dance?”

“Beg?”

“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” He tilted his head, slanting his smile to the right. “Beg.”

“You don’t strike me as the begging type, Mr. Thurman.”

“To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” He tongue-swiped his full lips as if he’d just tasted something he wanted to taste again. “I know when it’s time to beg.”

She pursed her lips into a frown, fought back the urge to grovel and won. Barely.

The fingers around hers, clean and huge and strangely slender, hadn’t moved, hadn’t trembled. Their stillness aroused her. His stillness aroused her. Her lips quivered. She inhaled deeply against the surrender summoned by that tiny tremor.

Resist the devil and he will flee.

Silently she called upon the truth in this scripture for rescue. The devil waited. She stared at the hand on hers, helpless against the appeal, the allure of temptation.

She swallowed hard, opened her mouth to say no, but her tongue refused to cooperate. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I—I can’t. I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” His lips bowed in a smile, full, broad, and hypnotizing. “I’m an excellent teacher and I bet you’re a fast learner.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Shall we?”

He really wanted to dance with her. She blinked, speechless. A warning voice protested.

Resist.

Her heart countered.

Surrender.

She firmed her lips, heaved a sigh then accepted his invitation. Felicity’s sputtered shock and Widow Hawthorne’s happy cackle accompanied them to the middle of the dance floor.

He placed his fingertips respectfully but firmly above the rise of her buttocks and held her in place against him. A tickle invaded the wool of her skirt where the tip of his middle finger rested at the head of her crack. Pleasure tripped up her spine and trickled between her thighs. But, from the recesses of remembered experience, a voice of caution persisted.

He wants something, Mary. Beware.

“Why—why do you want to dance with me?”

He smiled with the serpent slyness that probably charmed Eve. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“I might.”

He turned his head slightly. “Really? Your practiced calm says otherwise.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Practiced calm?”

“The face you present to the world until something touches your heart.” He gestured to his right. “Like when that baby there cried. Your expression changed to one of concern, then changed to one of contentment when his mother satisfied his hunger.”

Mary blew a breath through her mouth. This man was studying her. Really studying her. Should she be flattered or worried?

The one-two-three, one-two-three magic of the waltz began. He guided her in its dips and glides, through its rises and falls. The awkwardness attributed to her by past dance partners didn’t raise its ugly head. Her spirit lightened then soared until that still, small voice sounded the alarm.

You were fooled by another man and his fancy manners. Don’t be fooled by this one.

Hints of bay rum mingled with a manly scent against whose lure she struggled then lost. Once again her toilet water failed to hide the salty scent of her arousal.
Eban pinned her with a not-so-casual scrutiny. Could he smell her too? She tried but failed to read him. Dare she hope the ease in his smile meant he found it pleasing?

The other couples held their partners off with discreet and proper holds. Not Eban. Warmth radiated from the hand holding the small of her back hostage. The heat spread across her buttocks then seeped into places more private. He bent his elbow and gentled her forward so only their clasped hands separated them.

“Why, Miss Hamilton, I do believe you’re blushing.” His fingers held hers with a teasing yet possessive grip.

“I am not.” Her words shot out with a force she hadn’t intended. “I mean I don’t blush.”

“No?” A cheeky boyishness winked at her from eyes as dark as chocolate. He leaned down so his breath tickled her earlobe. “Not even if I kissed you behind your ear?”

She shrank back then stared up into the gaze showering her with attention. Her heart beat beneath her breast with a prisoner’s unease. An unease she knew well having once been a prisoner.

“You—you wouldn’t.”

His smile widened into a grin. “Only because I don’t want to embarrass you.”

The amusement in his voice coaxed forth a wet response that Mary clenched her vaginal muscles to stem. She swallowed repeatedly until she found her voice.

“You still haven’t answered me, sir. Of all the women here, why did you pick me?”

“Why not you?”

She blinked. Why not her? The answers swirled through her mind as easily as she and Eban swirled in this waltz.

Why not her?

Because she remained planted among the wallflowers by the time the musicians played the last song at every Safe Haven dance.

Because she learned to hang back at the call of “Ladies’ Choice,” forewarned of rejection by the grimaces caused by her approach.

Because unlike desperate-for-a-man Felicity, Mary refused to dance on her back in some dark field just so she wouldn’t be a woman who ain’t been asked.

Ain’t been asked to court. Ain’t been asked to spoon. Ain’t been asked to the altar. And never would be.

That’s why not her.

His calloused fingertips proved he worked manually for the wealth that purchased his custom-made attire. But, he didn’t speak like a field hand or common laborer. His speech testified to a level of education far above that of her Freedman’s Bureau learning.

“Why not you, Mary?”

“Because someone like you only looks at someone like me out of pity.”

Of course. His aunt put him up to this. Anger warmed Mary’s ears.

“Let me go.” She made to pull away. “I want to sit.”

“Please. Not before the music stops.” He timed his plea to the rhythm of the waltz. “I’ve waited all week for this moment.”

Mary gritted her teeth. Heart hurt joined her injured pride. She needed no one’s charity.

“That was cruel of you, sir. No one counts the days until they can ask me for a dance.” Tears pooled behind her closed eyelids. “Anyone in town could tell you that.”

The grip on her hand tightened, forcing her eyes open. The light in his gaze darkened. “Anyone who’d lie to me like that would be taking their life in their hands.” He leaned in so his mouth nuzzled her ear again. “And if you use that I’m-not-worthy tone of voice again, I’ll be forced to prove you wrong with a kiss.”

Alarm shuddered up Mary’s back. “Is—is that a threat?”

“A certainty.” He winked.

A chilly thrill replaced the alarm. She blew out a breath to steady herself. Threat or certainty, both treated her to a delicious revelation—she wanted that kiss.

She eyed his lips, imagined their soft yet demanding press against hers. Once more the voice of caution repeated its warning.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Oh, to be forced to flee from such a devil as he. She sighed. What a wonderful problem to have.
*~*~*

Book links: Amazon: https://amzn.to/2QfEOZd

Social media links: Twitter – @mscottauthor1
Website: https://www.michalscott.webs.com

Cornelia Amiri: The History of the Winter Solstice
Thursday, December 19th, 2019

It’s that time of the year, December 21st to 22nd, when the shortest day and the longest night of the year fall in the Northern Hemisphere. We call that the Winter Solstice. In Welsh they say Alban Arthan (Light of Winter).

To the ancient Celts this day signified the battle and defeat of the Holly King (ruling from Midsummer to Midwinter) by the Oak King (ruling from Midwinter to Midsummer). The Holly King, also seen as a wren bird, symbolized the old year and the shortened sun, while the Oak King, also seen as a robin, stood for the new year and growing sun. The Celts would act out the battle of the Oak King defeating the Holly King during the Winter Solstice celebration.

They also had wren hunts, signifying the death of the Holly King. In Ireland, Wales, and the Isle of Man, Lá an Dreoilín, (Wren Day) was celebrated December 26. Wrenboys dressed in masks or straw suits, usually had a hobby horse covered in a sheet, and it had strings which could close their mouths and make their legs kick. Wren boys were led by a captain and a boy who dressed as a female captain. These boys hunted and killed a wren as tribute to the light for overcoming the dark. They’d set the dead wren in a box decorated with evergreens on a pole and go from house to house asking for food and good cheer. The wren was buried at the end of the rounds. Nowadays, they use a fake wren instead. Both the Holly King and wrens are associated with the Welsh god Bran.

For the Winter Solstice, ancient Celts decorated Yule logs with holly and ivy, which are linked to the God Bran. Usually, they sprinkled ale or mead over the log before they lit it. They kept it slowly, yet steadily burning for 12 days in the fireplace before extinguishing it. To pass the light on from one year to the next, they kept part of the unburned log safely to one side and used it to light next year’s Yule log. Also, they stashed the log’s ashes away until spring, at which time they mixed them with seeds and scattered them on the fields, spreading the blessing contained in the Yule log over the land.

Mistletoe and oak were sacred to the ancient Celts. As an evergreen plant, Mistletoe symbolized continued life over the cold dark winter which is why druids picked it from oak trees five days after the new moon following the Winter Solstice. One druid climbed the tree and cut the mistletoe with a sickle, while others held an open a sheet beneath him to catch the sacred plant since it was taboo to let it touch the ground. The druids handed out sprigs of mistletoe to tribesmen who hung them over entranceways for protection. Mistletoe is also believed to be an aphrodisiac, so this might be where the holiday tradition of ‘kissing under the mistletoe’ originated.

The Celts livelihood depended on what they could raise, grow, or hunt. So, the long, cold days of winter were hard one them. Since they didn’t have enough grain to feed all the cattle during winter, many were slaughtered at this time. This meant fresh meat for the winter solstice feast. Also, ale and mead brewed during the year fermented by this time and were and ready for drinking.

The Bear and the Druidess

My Celtic Winter Solstice novella, The Bear and the Druidess is the third book in my Druidry and the Beast series. It’s available where ebooks are sold. Here’s the blurb:

Sometimes a secret must be revealed to move from the winter of love into its spring.

Romans stole all the winter grain from Druidess Bronwen’s tribe. Now, pursued by Romans, she ducks into a cave to hide. There she finds a handsome warrior who offers to help. He ignites a fiery spark of attraction within her but she can tell he’s keeping something from her.
The prayers of a beautiful druidess he can’t resist lead the Bear God Artaois into the cave where Bronwen is hiding. He pretends to be asleep until she finds him.

Artaois (Art) is determined to spend the longest night of the year with her. But Bronwen doesn’t realize he’s a god. He keeps his secret from her and even though he can transform into a bear, he only reveals himself in human form.

With the Winter Solstice upon them, can Artaois (Art) find a way to save her tribe from starvation? And, when Bronwen finally discovers his secret, will she leave the romance building between them out in the cold.

Get your copy here!

An early holiday gift from me to you… (FREE Read)
Wednesday, December 11th, 2019

For a limited time only, get your FREE copy of the sexy-funny prequel story to my contemporary western (very erotic) series, Lone Star Lovers!

Sweeter Than Honey

Honey Cafferty lives a happy but precarious existence as a traveling saleswoman, searching for a sense of belonging. From her colorful wagon she brews decoctions to cure ennui, sleeplessness, hysteria—and after a visit from a mysterious Mexican curandera—she believes she’s found the way to improve a man’s libido. But how can she package her “Elixir of Love” without being run out on a rail from the nearest town for selling something that produces such carnal effects?

Sheriff Joe Tanner is protective of his little town and downright hostile toward anyone who takes advantage of the fine folk in Two-Mule, Texas. When sees the gypsy wagon roll into town, he’s ready to hurry the snake oil salesman on his way, but Honey isn’t what he expected. When the men of the town begin to plead exhaustion and place the blame for their state squarely on the pretty little redhead’s shoulders, he has to investigate.

Get your copy: Sweeter Than Honey

Flashback Puzzle!
Tuesday, December 3rd, 2019

Just because it’s been out a while, doesn’t mean you won’t want it! And who doesn’t love Vikings…?

Diana Cosby: Giving The Gift Of Thanks (Recipe & Contest)
Sunday, December 1st, 2019

UPDATE: The winner is…Patricia Barraclough!
*~*~*

Diana Cosby ©2019

Liam and the Christmas Sheep

 

Gifts come in many shapes and sizes, but I believe the most precious ones are those delivered from the heart. It’s easy to get caught up in the mayhem of life, particularly during the hustle and bustle of the Holidays, but every day, there are people amidst the chaos who help you, who take time out of their busy lives to make a difference in yours. This year, why not return that gift?

This holiday season, as wrapped gifts exchange hands, I ask you to pause, reflect on those who’ve truly made a difference in your life, and if possible, find a special way to say thank you. This can be a simple gesture—something like a greeting card, a bouquet of flowers, or a heartfelt poem. Maybe you could bake someone their favorite cookies? Or, present them a coupon book filled with everyday chores, which they can tear out and give you to do on those trying days when they need a helping hand. The absolute best gift you can offer another person is one given from the heart. And when special-delivered, without any strings attached, it touches their own.

This Christmas, I’m making gift baskets filled with my favorite homemade things, such as macadamia-butterscotch chip cookies, shortbread, double chocolate-orange-pecan biscotti, Vermont maple syrup, and more. With each one, I’m sharing a part of myself with the other person.

What ideas can you think of? Remember—the more original and inventive, the more fun! I can’t wait to hear your ideas!

My gift to you, one of my favorite recipes:

SEATHAN MACGRUDER’S MACADAMIA BUTTERSCOTCH COOKIES

Ingredients:
1 tsp. salt                     1 tsp. baking powder               1 tsp. baking soda
1 cup sugar                   ⅞th cup peanut butter          12 oz. butterscotch chips
1 cup butter                  2 eggs                                  3 cups flour
1 tbsp. Amaretto or vanilla
1¼th cup chopped macadamia nuts
1⅛th cup firmly packed light brown sugar

Directions:
Preheat oven to 375°F.

In a large bowl mix butter, sugar, and brown sugar, then whip in the Amaretto (or vanilla) and peanut butter. Beat in eggs. Add baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Once mixed, add butterscotch chips and macadamia nuts. Mix in flour. Chill dough.

Bake:
Bake for 11 minutes, or until golden brown.

Cool and enjoy!

Author’s note:
An avid baker who enjoys creating new twists on recipes, Seathan MacGruder is the hero of His Conquest, the 3rd book in the best-selling MacGruder brothers’ Scottish medieval romantic suspense series. For more information about the MacGruder brothers, visit Diana’s website!

I sincerely wish everyone health, friendship and happiness this holiday season.

Contest

ONE winner will be drawn from everyone who posts on my guest blog post about, ‘Giving The Gift of Thanks,’ on Delilah’s blog between 1 December 2019 – 8 December 2019. The winner will receive one of Diana’s mugs and a tote.

 

Diana Cosby, International Best-Selling Author
https://www.dianacosby.com/
The Oath Trilogy
MacGruder Brother Series
Forbidden Series: Forbidden Legacy/Forbidden Knight/Forbidden Vow/Forbidden Alliance/ Forbidden Realm‒14th April 2020

Dena Garson: Let’s Make Easy Christmas Ornaments! (Contest)
Monday, November 25th, 2019

UPDATE: The winner is…Fedora!
*~*~*

Now that I’ve survived the madness of drafting and editing my latest book release, I’ve moved into the promotion stage. I always try to incorporate my love of beading and crafting into my giveaways and promotions. This year, I’m working on easy-peasy stamped ornaments.

All you need are stamping tools (stamps, hammer, base to stamp on), flat washers, a permanent black marker (optional) & rubbing alcohol, and some thin ribbon. The washers I’m using are 0.5” (inside opening width) x 1” (width of the outside of the circle) Zinc-plated standard, flat washers.


I’m writing this assuming that you have a basic knowledge of stamping metal, but if not there are a ton of easy-to-follow tutorials on you tube.

All you need to do to make your ornaments is stamp a very short message around the circle of the washer. I like to leave a small gap at the “top” of the circle where the ribbon will wrapped, but that’s not necessary. In my example I stamped a few with “Let It Snow” and others with “Believe”. You may have to practice a bit to get the spacing just right.

Once you’ve finished stamping you can color over the letters with a black permanent marker to fill in the grooves you stamped to make the letters stand out. But be prepared to quickly wipe the surface with a paper towel or cotton ball dampened with the rubbing alcohol to get the excess marker off. I’ve found with these zinc washers if you let the marker dry, it’s much harder to get the excess black ink off. You can repeat the process if you take too much ink out of the grooves.

Now, you’re ready to add a length of ribbon to act as the ornament hanger. You can also add a bead or charm for extra decoration. You can also use a large jump ring instead of the ribbon if you would rather use the washer as a jewelry charm for a necklace, bracelet, or key ring.

Have fun with it!

Be sure to check out my new release, Christmas Royale! The links are still going live, but they will all eventually be available on the universal landing page: https://books2read.com/u/mla7Qq

Christmas Royale


Phoebe Ashdown cannot believe her luck. Only she could run into the cad who jilted one of her closest friends while attending a Christmas ball in a foreign country. Other than his false identity and the trail of broken hearts he scattered across London ballrooms, he is just the sort of gentleman she should marry. She wants to hold on to her loathing of him but there’s something dangerously appealing about him now and it’s not just the alias he uses.

The gentle folks of Genoa have been forced to turn a blind eye to the illegal activities going on beneath their noses for years. But as an undercover investigator for the Royal Intelligence Office, Vernon Wright cannot. His orders are clear: find the source of the slaves being funneled into London and report back. When he unexpectedly crosses paths with a former acquaintance, a woman he was secretly attracted to since her coming out, he must use all his powers of persuasion to keep her from blowing his cover.

After Phoebe’s sister goes missing, she is forced to turn to Vernon for help. Sparks fly as well as bullets as they search for her sister. They will have to rely on each other if they hope to make it back to England in time for Christmas.

GIVEAWAY

Leave a comment or question for me to be entered into a drawing for pair of handmade Christmas holly earrings (US residents only, please).

Michal Scott: That Damned Mob of Scribbling Women (Excerpt)
Wednesday, November 20th, 2019

“America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public is occupied with their trash.”

Sounds like contemporary critics of the romance genre, doesn’t it? This little gem was penned by Nathaniel Hawthorne to his publisher in 1855 because his female contemporaries were reaping critical acclaim and outselling him.

I first heard this quote in a keynote speech this past October given by Maya Rodale. Intrigued, I wondered who was “Mr. Scarlet Letter” complaining about. This 2013 article gave me more than a clue:

https://www.bookslut.com/the_bombshell/2013_06_020173.php

Among this damned scribbling mob was the woman to whom Abraham Lincoln is supposed to have said, “So you are the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war.”

That’s right: Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Harriet Beecher Stowe? A writer of trash? Hardly.

Stowe had been writing for fifteen years before Uncle Tom’s Cabin was published in 1852. In addition to novels, she wrote non-fiction, poetry and a drama based on Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin has gotten a bad rap through the years, but think about how radical it was for a White woman in the 1850’s to have a Black slave representing Christ at a time when her society was debating whether or not African-Americans were even human. We don’t have to imagine the impact of seeing slaves depicted with dignity, loyalty, and willing to be self-sacrificing had in that era. Even Lincoln recognized the power of her novel. What I never imagined was the backlash it received. Her depiction of African-Americans as human beings was so despised there was a slew of anti-Uncle Tom novels written to offset her novel’s impact. Needless to say, they failed.

As I’ve learned more about Stowe’s religious views and social justice activities, I understand better why her novel hit the nerve it did when it did. She wrote from her heart about a cause she believed in, unlike Mr. worried-about-having-no-chance-of-success Hawthorne. I’m eager to read more of her works and more works about her because I want to be a scribbling woman like her.

Better to Marry Than to Burn

Wife Wanted: Marital relations as necessary. Love not required nor sought…

A bridal lottery seems the height of foolishness to ex-slave Caesar King, but his refusal to participate in the town council’s scheme places him in a bind. He has to get married to avoid paying a high residence fine or leave the Texas territory. After losing his wife in childbirth, Caesar isn’t ready for romance. A woman looking for a fresh start without any emotional strings is what he needs.

Queen Esther Payne, a freeborn black from Philadelphia, has been threatened by her family for her forward-thinking, independent ways. Her family insists she marry. Her escape comes in the form of an ad. If she must marry, it will be on her terms. But her first meeting with the sinfully hot farmer proves an exciting tussle of wills that stirs her physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

In the battle of sexual one-upmanship that ensues, both Caesar and Queen discover surrender can be as fulfilling as triumph.

Excerpt:

WARNING! This is hot!!

With thanks to God, he pushed past her flimsy drawers to the moist welcome of her center. Her vaginal walls gripped his fingers with surprising force. No amount of twisting or turning wrenched them free. God, to have that grip surrounding his shaft.

He pulled back and studied her face. Eyes still closed, a sly smile bowed her perfect lips. She enjoyed this battling as much as he.

“Was I too brutal for your enjoyment, Mrs. King?”

Her eyelids rose with the slow grace of sunrise. A gleam as sly as her smile shone in her gaze. “You call that brutal, Mr. King?”

She unclenched her lower muscles, allowing his fingers momentary retreat. With great care, she grasped his hand then slid his fingers between her folds once more.

“Holy Christ, woman. What—?”

The gentle rubbing robbed him of his ability to think.

“Jesus, have mercy,” he wheezed.

She slid his fingers from her wet sex into his mouth. He moaned, lost in her delectable taste.

Without taking her gaze from his face, she raked her gloved hand down his chest, across his belly, to his groin. Anticipation tensed his muscles in the wake of her touch. He watched mesmerized as, with a practiced ease, she unbuttoned his fly, pushed past the fabric, sought, found and stroked his cock. Her woolen gloves imparted a delicious friction he couldn’t oppose, even if he’d wanted. Delight enlivened every muscle in his body, including his jaded heart.

Jesus. This couldn’t be more than arousal. Could it?

Her fingers squeezed and his body arched upward on the yes swelling his spirit with joy. He threw back his head, mouth open, ready to shout as he neared the point of release.

Then she let him go.

He doubled over, slain by the abandonment. His lungs constricted, bereft of air. Reason deserted him too.

She stood and smoothed down her skirts with the hand that had massaged his shaft more deftly than he ever had. Reseated, she grabbed the reins and snapped the leather against his horse’s rump.

“Get up there.”

The wagon jostled Caesar from side to side. Still unable to straighten up, he looked into eyes gleaming with triumph. Her lips curved in a regal smirk.

“Was I too brutal for your enjoyment, Mr. King?”

Buy links:
Wild Rose Press – https://www.thewildrosepress.com/books/better-to-marry-than-to-burn
Amazon – https://www.amazon.com/Better-Marry-than-Michal-Scott-ebook/dp/B07BK1JPKX/