UPDATE: The winner is…Jen B.!

* * * * *

So, here we are. Just one more day. I get nervous right about this time, wondering if readers will love my story. We writers are very insecure creatures when it comes to our work. Until the first reader sends me an email saying how much they loved it, or how it improved their married sex life, or how they were red-cheeked their entire train commute to work, I don’t know whether I succeeded.

So, when the clock strikes midnight tonight and my book is transmitted to your reading device, you know I’ll be sitting here, biting my nails. I can’t wait to hear what you think! In the meantime, enjoy a naughty excerpt. And, there’s still time to enter the last two days’ contests. I’ll award all prizes tomorrow!

For a chance to win one of the original five Delta Heat stories
or a copy of BURNIN’ UP MEMPHIS, tell me what piece
of a firefighter’s equipment you find sexiest?

When your heart is stuck in the wrong gear, a quick fix isn’t going to cut it.

Firehouse 69, Book 2

When Noah buys a classic ’68 Camaro from a fellow firefighter’s widow, he hopes it will ease some of the grief crushing his heart. But the grinding noise under the car’s hood sends him straight to a mechanic. Something about the burly, imposing Hoyt sparks Noah’s interest, and it’s not just Hoyt’s ice-blue eyes and bad-boy biker looks. It’s the mutual interest they have–Club LaForge.

After losing his partner to cancer a year ago, Hoyt never thought he’d feel the same kind of rush with another man. But his reaction to Noah throbs deep in his body like the rumble of his Harley.

LaForge seems like the perfect place to meet and work off some sorrow, to feel alive again. But the flood of desire quickly gets hot enough to melt their emotional barriers into unexpected connections.

Connections Hoyt isn’t sure he’s ready for…especially since history has a scary way of repeating itself.

Warning: Get your motor running for a Harley-riding hunk of muscle who doesn’t give a damn about the rules of being a Dom, and a firefighter who can take the heat. Buy a case of your favorite coolant. You’re gonna need it.

“Take me into your mouth.”

Noah made a sound, something between a chuff and a whimper. A sound that shot a jolt of hunger through Hoyt. Noah crawled on his knees until he knelt directly in front of Hoyt and raised his chin.

Hoyt pointed his cock at the firefighter’s mouth and held his breath as Noah opened up, sliding his eyelids closed as he tentatively latched his lips around the crown. Then he flattened his tongue against the head and began to suction—gently at first, and then with gusto.

Hoyt put his hands on the top of Noah’s head, combing his thick, sun-streaked hair with his fingers. He dug his nails into Noah’s scalp to urge him to take him deeper into his mouth.

Noah needed no encouragement. He breathed noisily through his nostrils, wrapped one strong hand around his shaft and bobbed forward to slide his mouth down Hoyt’s cock.

Hoyt rocked on his heels, his head falling back as he let the sensations wash over him in a hot wave—moist heat, suction nearly as strong as a Hoover. Teeth scraped his shaft, and Hoyt pulled Noah’s hair hard. “Easy,” he muttered, because he was nearly coming out of his skin. “Take me to the back of your throat.”

Noah cupped Hoyt’s balls and tugged them, then burrowed against him, taking Hoyt deeper inside, the sounds he made more desperate, more animalistic as he pushed and pulled with his lips and slithered his tongue along the rigid shaft.

Hoyt would have liked to blow right then, but he wanted more. Wanted Noah every bit as delirious with pleasure as he was. He tugged Noah’s hair, moving him away, and pulled up his pants. “Strip, Noah. You said you don’t like being restrained, so I won’t latch the manacles around your wrists, but I would like you to grip the bar beneath the chains and hold tight while I play.”

Noah’s reddened face wore an expression Hoyt recognized all too well. His lips and eyes were glazed. His nostrils flared. He shoved up and walked to a bench where he quickly tossed his clothes while Hoyt removed the rest of his. Then Noah sauntered to the chains and reached high for the bar suspended from the ceiling.

With his tall body stretched, his cock prominent in front of him, Noah was beautiful. All shining swells and dark hollows, embellished here and there with puckered burn scars—symbols of his bravery. Hoyt circled Noah, letting his hands graze his hips, his belly, his hard ass. When he came in front of him, he gave Noah’s cock a firm stroke before meeting the other man’s gaze. “Tell me about the car.”

UPDATE: The winner is…Cynthia!

* * * * *

Are you a fan of m/m romance? I know there are a lot of you out there. While I’ve written several m/m/f romances where the man played with the other man as freely he did with the woman in their threesome, this is my first fully m/m romance. And I don’t know why I haven’t written more. Noah’s and Hoyt’s story came at me fast and so complete that I finished it quickly—much to my editor’s relief! Lately, I haven’t exactly been timely in my submissions…

I can’t say exactly what the appeal was for me. Though I do love men’s bodies. I’m very comfortable with how they think (years in the military where I was often one of maybe two women on an isolated site). And I do love everything about penises. Yeah, I said it. I love the diversity of sizes, shapes, colors, and orientation—straight, curved, kinked. And I love the fact they’re made to penetrate. Think about it. A man enters another person, male or female. It’s aggressive. Overwhelming. Okay, so now I need a dip in the pool to cool off, but you get what I’m saying right?

For a chance to win either a copy of the prequel book, Burnin’ Up Memphis,
or one of the Delta Heat series books that spawned Firehouse 69,
tell me what attracts you to m/m romance!

And if you don’t mind, I’m running a Thunderclap campaign to get the word out about Hotter With A Pole. It doesn’t take long, just a click here and a single click on the campaign page… I’d be forever grateful!

Ever since seeing Gone With the Wind when I was nine years old, I’ve been fascinated with the Civil War era. Of course, growing up in the South, I was surrounded by antebellum homes graced with Greek Revival columns, steeped in legends that fired my imagination as surely as Sherman burned a swath to the sea.

But the Civil War was more than a brother against brother fight to hold onto an archaic and brutal way of life. The Civil War furthered not only the rights of African-Americans, but those of women as well.

American Red Cross founder, Clara Barton, stated that the Civil War caused “fifty years in the advance of the normal position” of women.

Historian, Barbara Welters, referred to mid-nineteenth century women as “hostages of the home.” Women were supposed to be pious, pure, submissive, and domesticated. The Civil War changed that.

Some women worked as nurses, a job that prior to the war was held mostly by men. The women’s rights movement flourished under luminaries such as Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

And then, there were women who donned uniforms, disguised themselves, fought—and sometimes died—alongside men.

Some were wives who couldn’t bear to be separated from their husbands. Still others saw the war as a chance for independence.

Sarah Rosetta Wakeman, who fought with the 153^rd New York Volunteers, wrote home to her family, “I am independent as a hog on ice.”

It is estimated some 400 females fought during the Civil War. These women’s struggles and intrepid strength inspired the character of Union soldier, Alice O’Malley, in my historical, lesbian romance, Beguiled.

About Beguiled:

The Civil War has torn Isabelle Holloway’s world apart, and now she has little help to manage her vast Georgia plantation. But when the Union Army leaves a brash Yankee Zouave behind, Isabelle is inexplicably moved to nurse this gravely wounded, startlingly beguiling soldier.

Alice O’Malley wants nothing more than to recover from her injuries, don her male attire, and rejoin the Federal Army. But after the alluring Southern Belle discovers her true identity, their clash of wills soon transforms into passion-filled nights in each other’s arms. Alice has been in love with a woman before, and fears risking everything for her enemy lover. As war returns to Isabelle’s doorstep, Alice discovers the wounds of the heart are far more vital to heal than the wounds of the flesh.

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Kindle | In Print

Excerpt:

With a sigh, Isabelle ventured into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you feeling better? Do you still have fever?” Before she thought better of it, she touched the back of her hand to Alice’s forehead. She was cooler than before but still warm to the touch.

Alice froze. Her eyes widened and the look of shock in her blue eyes caused a strange fluttering in Isabelle’s stomach. Alice’s stare captivated Isabelle’s, refusing to relinquish its hold—direct, penetrating, seeming to take her in all at once. The innocent touch suddenly became charged with something akin to lightning. Something too intimate. Dangerous.

Shaking herself into motion, Isabelle withdrew her hand and brushed her hair back toward her chignon. Even though she curled her fingers into a loose fist, she could still feel the ghost of warm, dewy skin. She rubbed her palm on her apron, wishing she’d checked her reflection in the mirror. Her nose was probably red. Tear stains doubtless shone on her face.

Heat rose and settled in her cheeks under Alice’s piercing stare.

Clearing her throat, Isabelle averted her gaze. “W-what possessed you to join the Union Army?”

“After the emancipation proclamation was issued, I felt I needed to help right an injustice.” Alice’s hint of a brogue overshadowed the meaning of her words.

Isabelle regarded her once more, trying to absorb the meaning. “Lincoln signed that proclamation over a year ago.”

Alice’s chin dipped in a nod. “Aye.”

Isabelle wanted to argue that the proclamation did not refer to slaves in Union-held portions of the Confederacy, but she couldn’t shake the rampant images in her head of Isabelle charging into battle. “You’ve been in the Union Army for a year? An entire year? How’d you hide…your identity?”

Alice shrugged one shoulder. “When you can shoot straighter, march farther, and fight harder than any man, they don’t tend to ask too many questions.”

One corner of Isabelle’s mouth twitched as she fought off a grin. It irritated her that she found humor in the thought of a woman—this woman—fooling so many men. But she did.

From where she sat, Isabelle studied the remnants of Alice’s uniform with its distinctive red, blousing breeches and blue, cutaway jacket decorated with red piping. “Why the Zouaves?”

Alice raked a trembling hand through her short hair. “A good many other Irish were in it. I knew they’d accept me. Besides, the uniform concealed…more.” With that, her plush lips curled up on one side in a smile that sent a jolt of something Isabelle couldn’t define straight to her pantalets.

She swallowed, instantly dismissing the unwelcome sensation. “Laws of mercy! You’ve all but ruined your chances of making an advantageous marriage.” Heat crept up her neck. Her pulse accelerated and she didn’t know why.

Perhaps merely because the idea of wearing a man’s clothing, of pretending to be one, seemed so taboo. So decadently sinful.

“Married? Me? Oh no. I’ll never stand at the altar. Of that you can rest assured.” Alice dismissed that idea with a wave of her hand.

Isabelle blinked. What sort of woman wouldn’t want to marry? But she knew the answer to that. The sort of woman who’d join up with the army and fight. The sort of woman whose livelihood wasn’t dependent on a man. “How will you make your way in the world? You can’t go on pretending to be a man forever.”

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Kindle | In Print

Her Beguiling Bride

Be sure to pick up a copy of the novella length sequel, Her Beguiling Bride!

Three years have passed since Isabelle Holloway gave her heart to Alice O’Malley, the brash woman Union soldier left on the doorstep of Isabelle’s Georgia plantation. Now Reconstruction Era taxes threaten their home, and Isabelle must decide between the female lover whose touch sets her flesh and soul ablaze, or a cold marriage to a wealthy man and an even colder bed. In hopes of saving the plantation, Isabelle and Alice travel to Savannah where doors close at every turn. Until Alice tenders a scandalous proposal that could cost them everything…or offer them the love of a lifetime.

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*Contest

Leave a comment to be entered in a drawing for a copy of Beguiled!
Print or ebook, winner’s choice.

About Paisley Smith
Paisley Smith is a full time author who can usually be found in front of her computer either writing, chatting, promoting or plotting. It’s a glamorous life…working in one’s pajamas. She attended college in the Deep South where she obtained a slew of totally useless degrees and developed an unrelenting sense of humor. Website: http://PaisleySmith.net

We’re loading up the kids and heading to Hot Springs this morning because, at last, we have time to catch a showing of the latest Thor. So this will be quick!

F/f fun isn’t to everyone’s taste, I understand this, but I have a story in this collection about a very happily married woman whose husband very generously allows his wife to have a sexy adventure with the boss’s wife. So you’ll get snippets of the m/f along with, I hope, a funny bit of f/f play.

Post a comment today and you’ll be entered to win a free download of this collection! 

Single-sex liaisons that make straight women curious and drive men wild. Including original fiction from Delilah Devlin, Valerie Grey, Primula Bond, Elizabeth Coldwell and Chrissie Bentley.

Sapphic love has proven to be one of the most enduring forms of erotic pleasure since the first frolicking nymphs were painted upon the side of amphorae. But the secret love of women, without male participation, will never be old hat, because there will always be something deliciously forbidden and titillatingly taboo about the seductions, indiscretions and trysts of one woman with another. And Mischief wouldn’t be a leading publisher of erotica if it didn’t explore, update and let loose these very special feminine lusts of one girl for another.

From “MARMALADE” in GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS

Dressed in a silk robe I’d found on a hook behind the bathroom door, I sat at the breakfast table with Tess. We waved through the window at the men as they climbed into Bob’s Beemer. The men smiled. Greg gave a waggle of his eyebrows, and then they were gone.

When my gaze returned to her, she smiled like the Cheshire cat. “This is nice,” she said peering at me over the rim of her tea cup. “Just us girls. How ever will we entertain ourselves?”

I bit the corner of my lip, a blush beginning to heat my cheeks because she looked like a movie star, and her robe had parted, revealing a deep, luscious décolletage. I had a weakness for lovely bosoms, something Greg indulged with the porno flicks he brought home, featuring generously endowed women.

Tess set her cup in her saucer and leaned over the table. “Do you mind doing something for me?”

My glance darted up from her chest. Since Greg had been so adamant about his suspicions, I already had an inkling what would happen this day. I nodded, hoping my husband hadn’t been dead wrong. “What do you have in mind, Tess?” I asked, keeping my expression open and innocent.

Her lush mouth pursed. “I thought we might get to know each other. You’re really very lovely. So petite. I couldn’t help noticing. Do you mind opening your robe, my dear. I’ve been dying to see your breasts.”

I cleared my throat. “My breasts. You want to see them?”

“Yes, dear. Now.”

My nipples tingled, beginning to slowly ripen. “Um, is my husband’s job at risk?” I asked, my voice small and breathy. I glanced up from beneath my eyelashes, letting her know this was part of the game, something that pleased me, pretending reluctance because I wanted my sexual partner to be in charge.

Her mouth twitched then flattened. Her chin rose to a haughty angle. “You don’t have to do a thing, my dear. However, you should know that when I’m pleased, so is Bob.”

“Oh,” I sank my teeth into my lower lip and let my gaze slide away. Then holding my breath, I leaned back in my seat and eased aside the lapels of the floral silk robe, one side at a time, holding the belt closed to preclude a view of anything farther south. The lapels framed my breasts. “They’re small,” I said, feeling like I should apologize.

“Your nipples aren’t.” She rose in her seat and reached across to tug on a lengthening stem.

I hadn’t expected her to be quite that bold. I drew in a deep, jagged breath. Arousal bloomed, dampening my pussy and likely leaving a wet spot beneath me. By her hard challenging stare, I didn’t think she’d mind.

Her fingertips tightened painfully on my nipple, and she pulled, drawing me off my chair and around the table until I bent over her, breasts level with her mouth. She turned her seat to face me, then leaned forward and tongued the other nipple which already protruded.

Everything was happening so fast, all I could do was react. All thoughts of how I must look or sound flew out of my head. I gasped and whimpered as she twisted the one nipple and lavished its twin with succulent tugs and wicked flicks. My nipples drew tighter, dimpling, the tips elongating. Glancing down, I loved the way her mouth sucked on one of them like a straw, drawing so hard I felt the pull all the way to my cunt. I grasped the arms of her chair and arched my back to thrust my breasts closer, mashing the one she suckled against her face.

Her chuckle was muffled and dry. When she pulled back, she raised a brow. “It’s quite warm in here. You don’t really need that robe, do you?” she said, pinching both my nipples hard.

I glanced out the window, at the long manicured lawn and the lakeshore that rimmed the edge. There wasn’t a soul around to see me as I eagerly shimmied out of the robe, letting it puddle on the floor behind me. I clasped my hands in front of my pussy, assuming a modest stance.

Her gaze raked my body, lingering on my pussy before coming back to my face. “You’re pretty. I can see why Greg dotes. Do you lead him around by your pretty cunt?”

I was shocked by her words, but not disgusted. Pleasure melted from inside me, glazing my inner thighs. “I like him taking the lead,” I said softly, then even softer still, I added, “I like it even better when he forces me to do…things.”

She nodded crisply and let go of my tit. Her back stiffened as she faced forward again, pushed her dishes away, then tapped the table top in front of her. “Lie on the table, legs spread in front of me. I like a little marmalade on my muffin.”

Dazed by the hard, commanding note in her voice, I found myself backing up to the table, giving a little hop that jiggled my buttocks. Then I lifted my legs and scooted toward her.

Centered, I peered at her set expression through my parted legs and placed my feet on her chair’s armrests. Her features remained neutral, her eyes narrowed. Not until I was staring at the ceiling did I realize how eager I was, how completely and deliciously she dominated me.

Cool gel landed on my mound, and I glanced down to where she spooned apple jelly onto my pussy—two large spoonfuls, which she proceeded to distribute with her long, tapered fingers.

Sticky jelly cooled my swelling outer lips.

“I like that it’s bare,” she said, her voice uninflected. Then she bent and stuck out her tongue to lick at the mess she’d made. “I love jam on a hot, toasted muffin.”