Friday, July 31, 2015
Tags Posts tagged with "romance"


UFC fighter, Megan Renard, is having a difficult time keeping her eye on the prize when she can’t keep her eyes off of her long-time trainer, Ryan Blake. But changing a relationship that works isn’t a sin she’s prepared to pay penance for.

Dom Ryan desires to experience Megan’s gift of submission, yet he knows taking their relationship to another level could have disastrous effects for her fighting career, not to mention their friendship. One kiss is all it takes to convince him that heaven in her arms is worth the devil’s wrath.

Determined to give her an edge in the ring before her next title fight, Ryan hires Sinclair Reed to train Megan in internal martial arts. When the FBI show up to question Sinclair on the disappearance of Megan’s opponent,  the couple get caught up in a world of underground mob clubs, and Ryan comes face to face with a Domme he’d long tried to forget. Now he fights to protect Megan not only from a lifestyle he chose to leave, but from her desire to please him at all costs.

When it’s a fight for your life, submission is a sin.


The tautness he kept on the leash made it easy for them to weave their way through the crowd as a unit. He led her down a dark hallway lit with overhead spotlights that created the effect of light pooling on the floor. Curtains partitioned off certain rooms, while doors marked others. An occasional slapping sound, loud groan, and a scream or two, reached her ears.

Sin_Of_Submission_500_800Perhaps she’d under-estimated her own inner strength. She’d been to clubs before, seen people having sex in dark corners, but this wasn’t like anything she’d ever imagined.

Ryan stopped at the bottom of a set of stairs, reining her in further. “I’m sorry about that,” he spoke into her ear.

“Do you mind telling me what that was all about, Sir?” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice.

He dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “Remember anything I say or do is for our own good. I saw…” His voice trailed off and she followed his gaze to the top of the stairs. A blonde woman dressed as a Goth queen of the night made an imposing figure. On either side of her, were her slaves—a man and a woman, both naked save for their collars and leashes, crawled on hands and knees.

Ryan cleared his throat, and she straightened her spine, then dropped her chin, eyes trained on the floor. Judging by his reaction, Megan surmised that this must be the infamous Mistress Y, the very person who might have been one of the last people to see Denise before she disappeared.

Ryan stepped to the side, and she followed suit. A shiny pair of four-inch heeled leather boots appeared in her view. Mistress Y tugged on the leashes, and gave a one word command. “Stay.” Her pets heeled by her side.

“Well, well, Sir Blake. Never thought you’d grace the doors of my establishment again. Or at least that’s what you said the last time I saw you.” Mistress Y sniffed.

“Things change.” Ryan’s words were clipped when he spoke. Megan fought a shiver at the icy exchange. Unhelpful to her nerves, the heavy thump of the bass music they’d left behind, reverberated through the floor and into her feet.

“Perhaps your presence isn’t welcome.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Megan saw Ryan fold his arms over his chest. “I figured any patrons with money were welcome.”

“Perhaps you’ll run into…oh, what’s her name?” Mistress Yvonne waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “She’s off performing services for me. I see you’ve found a replacement.”

Ryan bristled, and Megan longed to comfort him. Before further words were exchanged they were interrupted.

“Mistress Yvonne!”

They all turned at the sound of the new voice, which brought about a sharp tug on Megan’s leash. Bowing her head once more, she focused her gaze on the floor at her feet. Unused to being silenced or having to obey in this manner, her cheeks burned with anger both at her own folly and at Ryan’s admonishment.

“There is no need to shout.” At Mistress’s chastisement, the newcomer dropped to his knees in front of her, and placed kisses to the toes of her boots.

From her vantage-point, Megan witnessed Mistress Y procure a crop from an inner pocket of her cloak. Placing the tip under the young man’s chin, she commanded, “You may speak, and understand I won’t whip you here because I think you might have the news I’ve been waiting for.”

The slaved bowed down again. “My apologies, Mistress. Mr. da Silva is here.”

At the mention of the name, Megan’s ears perked up. Ryan stiffened beside her.

Mistress Yvonne slapped the crop into the palm of her hand. “Well, Mr. Blake—this has been an unexpected and short reunion. Pity.” From the tone of her voice, she didn’t appear sad at not having the chance to reminisce. Addressing the kneeling slave, she said, “Take these two to Dungeon Room Two. It should be unoccupied. We will be putting on a little show.”

“Perhaps you will permit me and my sub to watch your show,” Ryan cut in. “If I recall, you’re quite good with a whip.”

Megan’s eyes widened at Ryan’s suggestion. Why on earth would he suggest such a thing? Shouldn’t they be sending everyone on their way so they could follow Mistress Y to her meeting with da Silva?

When a reply wasn’t forthcoming, Ryan continued, indicating Megan. “To teach her a thing or two. All subs need a good lesson now and then. Wouldn’t you agree?”

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About the Author

Award-winning author and audio book narrator Kellie Kamryn is a retired elite gymnast and competitive coach. These days she is captain of her crew wearing many a hat: chauffeur, cook, maid, and arm chair psychologist. Even with her busy life, her sassy side comes out to play, writing stories and poetry that sweep readers away into other worlds.

Winner of the RONE (Reward of Novel Excellence) Award for Best Erotica 2012, Kellie is a workshop presenter, and motivational speaker. The Aquarian Online is where she keeps it real with her column ‘Keeping It Real with Kellie’. There you’ll find articles to assist individuals with facing life’s challenges and moving forward in order to create the story of their lives.

Readers are welcome to join her on Facebook in her Sweet & Sassy Divas and Dudes group or visit her at her website: It’s the first place she mentions contests, articles and much, much more! is thrilled to have the scoop on the hot new romance novel Sweet Musefrom Ava Cummings, a writer new to romance, but comfortable with the glitz and glamor of magazine editing in Hollywood. We had a chance to catch up with Ms. Cummings to ask her a few questions about her book, her life and what she thinks is the most important element of a romance fiction book.

Sexpert: What do you consider the sexiest part of your new book?

AC: The “Night of Dares” in Chapter 7 has to take the cake for the sexiest part of Sweet Muse. My main character Anna gets swept up in a night of increasingly risqué—and sexy—dares with the city’s hottest (and cockiest!) nightlife reporter. Let’s just say you’ve never read a shower scene quite like this one. There are a few others not to be missed, as well: the scene in her boss’s office…and The Plaza night with her love—the sexy beyond belief, yet tortured artist Damien Wolfe. She finally lets go, opens her heart for the first time, and falls for this man that sees her in a way that she has never seen herself—and what happens is very emotional and intimate.

Sexpert: What do you think is the most important element to ‘get right’ in a romance story?

AC: You’ve got to have page-turning chemistry! And not just physical, but emotional, too. Physically, you have to create hot, steamy situations that really get the fan going—envisioning those fantasies we all have, yet that we might not ever act on. And then the emotional piece is just as, if not more, important. Letting the reader in on how your character is feeling, what’s going on in her head—and heart. Women are emotional creatures. Sure, the physical is a turn on, but not without the emotional, too. It’s all about the main character’s journey to love and taking the reader along for that ride, that discovery process.

Even more, though, I think it’s important to make it a “real girl romance.” What I mean by that is that I’ve always loved romance novels, but tired of the typical plot line where the innocent girl gets taken by the billionaire CEO and he figures everything out for her. I want to shine a light on real girls…who figure it out on their own! The girls, like you and me, who have real guilt for not always making the best decisions, insecurities for not having it all figured out, and shame for just being ourselves.

In Sweet Muse, I really wanted to incorporate this—showing the full spectrum of the agony of figuring yourself out in your 20s. I like stories about women coming of age and owning their experience. Maybe in some way I can inspire women to own their own journey and be themselves, whoever that may be.

Sexpert: How did your magazine editor past inform the book?

AC: I worked as a magazine editor in fashion and at the celebrity magazines in the late nineties to mid 2000s, during the last hurrah of print publishing, before everything went digital. When we still had expense accounts, took town cars all over the city, and controlled the cultural conversation. It was a high-stakes, fast-moving New York world and a rich place of extremes that I wanted as a character in the book in its own right. Many bits and pieces of my experiences are woven into the plot. However, I never had a boss just like Bernie Roberts. Although, I heard stories from friends who did, and I definitely worked with some crazy personalities!

Sweet Muse cover

SWEET MUSE synopsis:

Determined to overcome her difficult past, Anna Starr lands a coveted job at the nation’s biggest celebrity magazine in the center of the New York City power scene. She learns early on to make it on her own, and through sheer force of will she does. But frustration sets in when the dark side of tabloid journalism starts to poke through, and she gets duped while dating slicker-than-thou city boys.

Amidst a sea of cocktail parties, Anna meets rising art star Damien Wolfe. Their connection is dangerous, intense, and passionate beyond her imagination. He sees her in a way that she has never seen herself, setting her on a journey toward self-discovery—understanding what it means to be truly loved for the first time in her life. But she may lose it all when her blind ambition and his dark past lead to a crisis that changes everything.


Ava Cummings spent more than 10 years as an editor at some of the biggest and best-known magazines in the world. She fetched coffee, fell in love with fashion, and eventually became a full-fledged editor, covering Hollywood and bringing in stories about bold women that were making a difference in the world. She has spun together the sweep-you-off-your-feet happy endings of fairy tales, the unbelievable headlines she reads in the news, and the quirky personalities that she’s encountered in both the real world and on reality TV in her first novel, Sweet Muse. Ava lives in the leafy suburbs of Boston with her husband and two children.


Now for your exclusive reading pleasure, please enjoy the first juicy chunk of Sweet Muse, courtesy of the author.


I grab a flute of champagne from a passing cocktail waitress in a skintight black dress.

“It’s Taittinger—the good stuff,” she says, leaning toward me, as if sharing a secret with a girlfriend. “They’re cosponsoring the party.”

I nod, make note of that tidbit for what I pray will be my first news story in Celeb, and guzzle half the glass. As I squeeze through the crowd, I scan the room looking, desperate to register a familiar face in my racing mind.

The bubbles instantly go to my head, and the familiar warm buzz relaxes me a tinge. Enough to bob my head to the rhythm of the thumping lounge music.

My stomach erupts in a growl, a not-so-subtle reminder that I forgot to eat dinner. I sling back the rest of the champagne to quiet it and secure a second Taittinger from another cocktail waitress.

Holding the glass keeps me from chewing my nails. Peering down at my hand, I cringe. My nails are jagged and stubby. Another giveaway. They should be squared off just beyond my fingertips, gleaming in Essie Ballet Slippers, a soft pink polish all the editors at work wear. But I hardly had time to get ready, let alone get a manicure.

I take a minute to survey the scene, noting details for my story. Decked out in dark mahogany, oversized ornate chandeliers, and rich reds from the carpet to the walls, the Bubble Lounge reminds me of an opulent turn-of-the- century library that I saw pictured in a coffee-table book at my friend’s house, a long time ago. The richness of the image seared itself into my brain. I wanted to go to that place, so perfect in its stately elegance. A quiet chuckle escapes me. It happened, after all. I really did just land in that library.

While the other guests air-kiss and chat like old friends, I plant my feet behind a side table and hang by my lonesome self. After reading the gossip columns and studying magazine mastheads religiously for the past few months, I recognize a face or two, but I can’t move through the crowd with the same confidence and nonchalance everyone else exudes. There’s no way that I’ll ever possess the born-to-it sophistication of a real New Yorker.

Almost without thinking, I raise my hand to my mouth and start to nibble the skin around my nails. The tiny act of self-mutilation somehow quells the anxiety growing inside me. Oh, it’s so high school all over again. I can’t bear it. I’m starting over. Again. But this time it’s not Clark Central Valley High School. It’s the celebrity-laden center of the universe.

Amid the throngs of people, I spot Carey Taylor, Hollywood’s action hero of the moment, holding court in the corner with a claque of models. He’s perpetually single and, when not busy filming the latest blockbuster, trots around the globe in an endless party with his buddies. Carey Taylor picking up his dry cleaning is material enough for an item in Celeb. If I can get a quote from him, I’ll be guaranteed a story. But the thought of going up and talking to a bona fide celebrity makes my hand fly to my mouth again, and a hot, itchy feeling slowly spreads across my skin.

Standing there, awkwardly solo, I quietly gulp another glass of champagne. I feel my cheeks flush and second-guess the decision to guzzle champagne for dinner. If I want to keep my job, I need to work this party.

A series of bright flashes go off near me. I dart my eyes to either side to see if I’m standing next to someone famous. Maybe it’s my insecurity taking over, but I feel like the entire room is staring at me, wondering why a girl from nowhere is at a party where everyone is someone.

It’s the craziest thing. One day, I’m living at the end of a dirt road in rural Pennsylvania, sitting around watching Law & Order reruns; barely a few months later, I’m at the pinnacle of New York nightlife, going to a party attended by all the biggest celebrities. It’s like winning the lottery: suddenly life completely changes, does a one-eighty.

Things never work out well for those lottery winners, though. They always seem to gamble the whole jackpot away and wind up homeless and broke. Maybe it’s not good to get your wish.

Rattled and partially blinded, I squint my eyes like an old lady, desperate to find someone I know. I remind myself—for the zillionth time—not to bite my nails. Releasing an audible breath, I spot a stylist I met recently at a photo shoot we did for the magazine.

In my determination to reach her, I stumble in my four- inch heels. As if in some kind of horrifying slow-motion free fall, I go flying back toward a group of innocent bystanders sitting at a nearby table.

Stifling a yelp, I squeeze my eyes shut and give in to the inevitable: making contact with the floor in the middle of the city’s hottest party. But instead of hitting the deck, I feel myself being caught from behind—like in a trust fall—by two exquisitely strong, muscled arms. They wrap safely around me, under my arms, breaking my fall. My body instantly relaxes. Then I swear I feel a squeeze, like a hug. The sculpted biceps flex, turning into firm cushions of strength. When they graze my breasts in the tumult, I gasp slightly.

I slowly turn my head and steal a look up. My eyes rest on a sexy half smile, framed by a beautifully chiseled face and jaw. “You okay?” he says, as my shoulders slump deeper into his arms. Oh God, what if someone from Celeb saw me and reports back to Bernie? I can picture the headline now in the gossip columns: Falling Starr! Bernadette Roberts’s Assistant Falls OM Celeb Masthead After Tipsy Tumble at Bubble Lounge Opening.

“Uh, I think so…I’m so sorry. I…I… ” I babble.

“Perfect timing, actually,” he says, lifting me up gently in one smooth move and setting me back on my feet. “Dying to get out of that conversation.” He nods his head back toward the table, where two guys and a chic-looking girl sit chatting.

As I take him in, I begin to tingle from the crown of my head right down to my littlest pinkie toe. He’s wearing—no, more like owning—a pair of dark-wash low-slung jeans that hug muscular thighs, a fitted, slightly rumpled black button- down with the sleeves rolled up, showing off those sculpted arms, and black biker boots. He’s got a raw sexiness that’s…well, hot. Hotter than a wood-burning stove on the coldest day of winter. Even hotter than a piping fresh bag of microwave popcorn, for God’s sake.

He seems like the guy who attracts people simply by being himself. A feeling of calm washes over me—something about his presence puts me at ease. And I never feel at ease. It’s like there’s a halo of goodness around him that affects anyone in his orbit. I want to be in his orbit. I like it here.

“Way too scene-y…who you know, what party you’ve been to, who you’ve gone to the Hamptons with. Can’t these people talk about anything of substance? I mean, look at what’s happening out in the real world. Hunger, war, poverty. It’s like they live in a champagne- and caviar-filled bubble.” He has a studied, intense look. It’s serious but alluring. I feel my heart beating a little faster.

He looks back at me, and our eyes meet. Electricity crackles between us as he holds my gaze. I can’t avert my eyes. It feels physical, palpable…and unfamiliar. He smiles. A tidal wave of emotions tumbles over me, and I feel like I could laugh or cry or both.

Finally, I manage to force words out of my mouth. “I’m so embarrassed. I would’ve hit the floor like a brick if it weren’t for you. I had a few glasses of champagne and didn’t eat much today, and it must have gone to my head…” I babble on about how I do this kind of thing all the time—trip on the sidewalk when there’s nothing there, stumble on the subway stairs—and how I was supposed to meet someone from work, but she hasn’t shown, so I’ve probably had more champagne than I should.

Oh God, why can’t I shut up? I’m usually the quiet one who holds back, and now I’m telling this gorgeous stranger that I’m a klutz who drinks too much. A real turn on, no doubt.

“Eat this,” he says, grabbing two mini-burgers and several crostini from a passing server. He places them on a couple of cocktail napkins and hands me the burgers first. His fingers brush mine in the exchange. They are strong, slightly rough. A charged tingle erupts in the spaces where we’ve touched. “You need something in your stomach.”

“Okay.” It’s all I can manage to get out now. His eyes bore into me like they’re seeing not just me on the outside, but into me.

“And then take a deep breath and relax. You’re an incredibly beautiful woman at the hottest party in the city. You’re practically lighting up the room. Everything will be fine. Trust me.”

He’s tender, a little rugged, and starkly honest. Somehow, I believe what he says.

I scarf the two burgers down, each in a single bite. “Heavenly,” I say, chewing.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

I nod my head and swallow the last morsel. He grabs a glass of club soda off another tray and hands it to me. “Now, drink this.”

I gulp the seltzer, starting to feel like myself again.

“So what do you do?” he says, pausing a beat. “No, wait.” His hand moves up and rubs his chin, striking an impossibly sexy pose. He looks skyward, like he’s plucking a thought from the ether. “Forget the ‘What do you do for work?’ thing. Let’s skip the boring cocktail-party banter. I want to learn something about the beautiful, nervous woman who just fell into my arms.”

It might’ve been cheesy coming from someone else, but this guy says it with pure passion and conviction, and it works. It sounds sexy as hell. His charisma, confidence, and charm are totally intoxicating. My body feels electrified.

“Tell me something…about you. Something important, that you don’t normally tell people.”

I don’t like to share. My story’s not pretty, and I hate the pity party. So I usually just listen. It’s my little trick, to avoid telling people about me. But I feel a strong pull, a tight feeling of excitement in the center of my chest, to confide in him.

“My Aunt Sylvie,” I start to say quietly, then gain strength. “My Aunt Sylvie. She’s the reason I’m here. Well, not here at this party, but here in New York.”

“Aunt Sylvie?” He says her name back to me slowly, nodding his head, one eyebrow slightly raised. I just want to wrap myself back up in his arms again. I hug myself, trying to get back that feeling of his strength and safety, sturdiness and softness. “I love her already. Everyone should have an Aunt Sylvie.”

He listens attentively as I tell him how she was my inspiration, an editor at Life magazine and Ladies’ Home Journal.

He’s studying me again. I feel like he’s noting every curve, line, shadow, bump. Somehow, I keep talking, and the words come out of my mouth easily. I feel a freedom to open up—an unfamiliar new desire. I want him to know me.

“I’d come and stay with her in New York for two weeks every summer. One time she took me to dinner at Tavern on the Green. I remember pulling up in the cab and seeing the white lights covering the trees in the garden. It looked like a majestic palace in the urban oasis of Central Park. Dining in the main room, I felt like a princess, like I mattered, like I was someone. And that’s where my romance with New York began. The seed was planted then, and by age nine, I was determined to get myself back here permanently.”

“The lure of a big life. It’s what drives most New Yorkers,” he says in a knowing voice.

“Aunt Sylvie never got to see me follow in her footsteps. But I know that somewhere up there, she’s smiling down on me.”

I look to the floor, suddenly afraid to make eye contact.

He places a finger under my chin, moving my head up so that our eyes meet. The intensity of his presence and of the moment overwhelms me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just that…” No, I can’t go there. I change my mind and decide to switch subjects. “What about you? Who was your biggest influence?”

I sense a darkness come over him, hidden behind his smile. Pain. I recognize it, an all-too-familiar emotion; I know what it’s like to stifle it.

“It’s complicated.”

To buy Sweet Muse or learn more, check out:

Viveca Fox has a very specific vision for how she’d like to be woken up in the morning. What about the other celebs that The French Reporter Jackie Watson interviewed asking, “What is the most romantic way to wake up in the morning?”

Terrell Owens thinks all it takes is the right person to make any morning romantic, and Neil Napier & Paula Jean Hixson seem to have that every day! Then find out the British tradition that Jeffrey & Matthew Postlethwaite both agree is most romantic!

Valentine’s Day is just one lousy day a year! It’s business as usual in the romance department for 364 days and then – BOOM – we’re supposed to suddenly become frantically romantic for 24 hours, cramming in all the love, sex, seduction, chocolate, poetry, snuggling – you name it – into one measly, gone-in-a-flash day.

Well I say no more!

This year, I’m introducing my 69-day Valentine’s Season! Let’s take the pressure off, shall we? It’s absurd to think we could actually make meaningful changes to our intimate lives in one day, one week, or even one month! Sixty-nine days, give or take, is the amount of time it takes to change habits, and create new patterns as a couple. Or, to deepen your self-love to attract the right partner if you’re single.

In my book Neuroloveology, I talk a lot about the many exercises couples and singles can do to change their habits and create new rituals that enrich their lives and give positive energy back to their relationships. I challenge you to try one of these techniques and kick start your Valentine’s season now, and discover how you can make your love life better.

Passion Wheel (couples) / Perspective (singles)

For couples, I encourage you to create your own Passion Wheel. Take a large piece of paper and draw a circle, then divide the circle into 8, 10 or 12 pieces to create a pie chart. Take turns writing a romantic or sexual activity in each ‘pie slice.’ Some examples would be: take a bubble bath together; engage in oral sex, kiss passionately, give or receive a sensual massage etc. Then decide on the number of times you will spin the wheel each week, and stick to it! Ideally every day, but even if you just spin the wheel once week, you will be brought closer together by the mere act of talking about your desires and acting on them.

For singles I recommend starting a gratitude journal to record all the positive things in your life, which ignites an optimistic attitude around you and attracts love. Then, try this exercise from Marelisa Fabrega in her book Daring to Live Life Fully. When something negative happens to you, instead of wallowing, ask yourself these questions: What’s good about this? How can I learn from this? How can I benefit from this? And finally, Is there something about this situation that I can be grateful for? Watch the results pour in.

Loveology Loop (for both couples & singles)

This is a very simple exercise that has powerful results. Couples that I’ve instructed to do this report huge changes in their habits. It’s simply this: identify a trigger in your life (such as the phone ringing around bedtime) that leads to a negative result  (your wife is too tired for sex when you finally get off the phone), and then replace the behavior that the trigger causes (answering the phone) with a new behavior (kissing your wife). It sounds too good to be true – I can hear you saying, “But what if it’s an important call?” – but if you can’t let go of nighttime business calls for a 69-day Valentine’s Season, then you’re not going to have more sex.

For singles, this works the same way. If your trigger is a rejection on an on-line dating site and this causes you to run for the freezer and eat a pint of mint chocolate chip, the result will likely be negative feelings toward yourself and a bummer night. But what if you change that behavior and do something healthy for yourself instead – like going for a walk, or calling a friend – then your result will be positive. It works like a charm.

Mission Statements (for couples & singles)

Successful businesses have mission statements. Why shouldn’t successful couples? Team up and write down your hopes and dreams with your partner. Discover the desires you share, the goals you have in common and the future plans you want to make. This is a fantastic way to re-energize a relationship and get back on the same page.
For singles, do the same thing for yourself. List your goals for your work, romance and fun. Write down what kind of partner you’re looking for, what you plan to bring to the table, and what you expect your partner to bring. Don’t worry, no one but you is going to read this, so have fun with it and don’t sensor yourself.

At the end of your 69-day Valentine’s Season, I predict you will have discovered many new things about your partner. Couples whom I’ve counseled have reported everything from learning their husband loves dancing to discovering their wife’s G-spot. And single people reap tremendous rewards from creating positive habits and practicing gratitude.

Feel free to share with how your Valentine’s Season played out! We’d love to hear from you. And for a special treat, watch this video to see what celebrities are giving and receiving for Valentine’s season!

PRE-ORDER! AVAILABLE: Wednesday, December 24th

This title is offered at a 10% discount. Offer ends midnight CST, December 31st

Merry “Chris” Mas by Clare Dargin

Ménage Amour: Erotic Ménage a Trois Romance, M/F/M, HEA

Jilly Reimers wants love but can’t find it. Chris Spinell is a veteran of the war in Afghanistan who suffers from PTSD and a haunting feeling that something is missing in his life. Chris Poole is also an Afghanistan war veteran is ready to break out of his shell but is unsure how.

With Christmas just around the corner, they decide not to spend it alone. Believing The Love Play Matchmaking Service to be just what they need for a night of fun and passion, they sign up. But when the guys show up and see that they’ve been set up on a menage, the only one happy about it is Jilly.

Their consultant, called an Eros, assures Jilly that the service has a perfect track record but she’s certain they’ll be the first ones to get their money back. Will they have a very merry Christmas? Or will the three spend yet another one alone?

A Siren Erotic Romance


Chris S. slipped her undies over her round hips. They slid down her baby-like skin, exposing her shaved mound. More blood flowed to his dick, making whimper.

“God,” he said, fighting tears.

cd-lpms-merrychrismasThrough gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes, he forced himself to maintain control. It was getting to be damn near impossible. Everything about her was fucking outstanding. Lips, breasts, skin and pussy. He was ready to fill her pussy with his thick, hard dick.

He slid his finger into the folds of her wet interior. The thin crease surrounded by supple labia oozed moisture from her tight and tiny hole. He slid a finger inside her hole, and her taut muscles quivered at his touch.

“You want it?” he asked.

She moaned “yes” before being silenced by the other Chris’s mouth. He inched her legs apart. Moving in just right, he tasted her. Explosions went off in his brain. She was pure, simple, clean and honeyed. He wanted to mark her as his own. Delving his tongue in and out of her tight hole, he held her still, allowing her juices to saturate his mouth.

Lifting her legs, he opened her wider, curling her upward, burying his face in her mound. His breaths increased as his heart rate grew frantic. His hard dick, standing at full scale attention, threatened to bust a nut if he didn’t stop.

Pulling away, he set her down gently. “Got to go get a condom.”

The other Chris looked up, his eyes equally as dazed as he felt.

She swallowed, seeming breathless. “My bag, by the wall.”

The time for being cool had passed. Quicker than he’d wanted and less suave, he dashed toward it, finally seeing the stash. Grabbing the entire lot, along with a bottle of lubricating gel, he opened the box and pulled out two, handing one to Chris and keeping the other for himself. Setting it aside, he removed his shorts, exposing his aching dick to the room’s cool air. He grimaced as he slid the latex over his shaft. It hurt with a pain that would only be relieved by what Jilly had to offer. He squeezed the gel, which had the scent of strawberries, onto his palm. He fisted his hand and soaked his condom-wrapped rod with the smooth, thick liquid. The mere pressure of his hand gave him some relief, albeit short.

“Me first,” he said, climbing onto the bed.

Calming himself, he lay down beside her and turned her on her side. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. He spread her legs apart as she tilted her pelvis back. She melded her body to his. There was so much of her he wanted, not only her body, but her soul, mind, and yes, even her heart.

He took a hand and placed himself at her entrance. Slowly he pushed inside. He grunted and made himself hold back, lest he spill at that moment.

She was so tight. No doubt about it. This was going to be a short run. Inch by inch, he slid inside of her, stopping at the root. His balls drew in tight. He shifted her close and moved in and out slowly. Each movement became stronger as his control slipped. He needed the release, the kind that would give his aching balls sweet relief. Back and forth his hips moved inside her. She wriggled and moaned in response. Their mouths met briefly, tongues swirling, causing his stomach and heart to flutter. He increased his thrusts. Finding his target, she keened her delight.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Don’t stop.”

She pushed her ass toward him.

“Baby, I’m going to come.”

“Come, honey. Come.”

He grunted, harder and harder. Sliding his hand down to her hard clit, he rubbed it as his panting increased. Pressure built up behind his eyes, his mind went blank as everything in the world seemed to fall away. He couldn’t stop. Harder and harder he pushed, holding her firm and tight.

With light speed, he cried out, “God!” His hips bucked upward while cum poured out of him.

Slightly dizzy, he held onto her before letting her go. “Are you all right?”

Her kiss eased the butterflies threatening to kill the moment. Sliding out of her, he sighed, relieved. He gazed into her eyes. Instantly he felt the completed connection he’d sensed along. She was the one. And he saw that she felt it too.

* * * *

Jilly recovered her breath as Chris P. gathered her up into his arms. His musky scent was so spicy and inviting. She buried her face in the crook between his shoulder and neck. She was ready.

“On your back,” he said, holding her.

She nodded.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, whispering in her ear.

From her tall Adonis, she was ready to receive all he gave her. Trust welled up within her heart. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

Placing her on back like she weighed nothing but a feather, he positioned himself on top of her. A lock of his blond hair obscured his face. She opened her legs. She felt his solid, round tip prod her hole. Panting, he pushed inside of her, his raw strength causing her pussy to clench. Each muscle spasmed to accommodate his thick and meaty cock. She cried out along with him. He braced himself.


About Clare Dargin

Clare Dargin is an author of Science Fiction and Romance and has been writing stories all of her life before being published in 2007. She’s a great fan of the two genres and loves promoting them.

An educator by profession, she possesses a Bachelor’s Degree in English from a major mid-western university. She presently resides in the Midwest and she hopes to expand her writings to include non-fiction, historical romance, and contemporary novels.



by -

Allie Campbell is determined to take care of her family, no matter the cost. But when her father loses their home to British tycoon Trevor Blake, Allie finds herself forced to plead for more time to pay off the loan…and if she has to use her own body as collateral, then so be it.

Trevor isn’t moved by Allie’s story. But when Allie impulsively offers to do anything to keep the house, he’s intrigued enough to raise the stakes: for the next two months, she must cater to his every need, no matter how depraved. To his amazement, she agrees.

Allie has no intention of enjoying her time with the arrogant, domineering Brit, but it doesn’t take long before he’s got her aching for his touch-and he’ll do whatever it takes to make her beg…

“Austin, clearly enjoying a change of pace from her more comedic Rose Strickland mystery series, infuses her characters with relatable problems and hot chemistry that will keep readers turning pages.”Publishers Weekly

“…this is an engaging work on a number of levels—the sum total is a novel that is unique, erotic and passionate.”RT Book Reviews, 4 ½ Stars, Top Pick!


He groaned. “You’re killing me, Miss Campbell.” He drew the shorts over her legs and dropped them on the floor.

“We’ve had sex. Can we dispense with the Miss Campbell?” She was winded too. He liked that he’d done that, made her heart pound, made her breathless with his kisses.

His Every Need by Terri L AustinHe grinned. “Maybe I have a naughty nanny fantasy.”

She let go of her viselike hold on his hair and laughed. God, how he loved that sound. She smoothed her hands along the sides of his face, brushed his cheek. “Let’s get you naked too.”

“Marvelous idea.” He leaned back, keeping his knee wedged between her thighs, and with one hand, unbuttoned his shirt. Allie didn’t help him. Instead, she ran her own hands across her breasts and watched as his shirt disappeared.

With great reluctance, he moved away from her to stand. “Do that again. Touch yourself.”

Her eyes on him, she hesitated a moment, then did as he’d asked. Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, she lightly circled her finger- tips over her nipples. They jutted out, begging for his attention.

Trevor’s gaze didn’t leave her as he found a condom. “More.” He grabbed his cock through his pants, gave it a stroke as he watched her.

She cupped her breasts, then moved her hands lower, with agonizing slowness, down her taut stomach, over her smooth legs. Finally, her fingers danced over the small triangle of blond hair. She let her legs fall open and parted the lips with two fingers, giving him a captivating view of her damp pussy.

He ran a hand over his mouth, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He needed to get control or he’d embarrass himself—that also hadn’t happened since he was fifteen.

After a minute, he opened his eyes and kicked off his shoes, and in seconds was as naked as she. Still touching herself, her gaze flowed over him, taking in his chest, his abs, and stopping at his cock.

He wanted to protest when she moved her hand away from that lovely cunt, but when Allie sat up and balanced on her knees, crooking her finger at him, he closed his mouth. “Come here, English.”

Enthralled, Trevor stepped closer and cupped the back of her head. When she circled both hands around his cock, he groaned. But when she rubbed his tip across her nipple, he almost came on the spot.

“Fuck, Allison.”

“In a minute,” she said with grin.

Reaching out, Trevor squeezed her breasts together and placed his cock between them. God, he’d fantasized about this. Often. The real thing was much better. Allie dropped her hands as he pushed himself between her tits. It was almost more than he could to take.

Allie grabbed his hips. “Self-control. No coming allowed.”

“Ladies first,” he agreed.

As he thrust his hips forward, the tip of his prick poked the bottom of her chin. He pulled back and drove forward once more. This time, Allie lowered her mouth and licked the head. Bloody fucking hell, that felt good. He did it a few more times, but the combination of her mouth, her tits, and watching his cock slide between them was too much.

“I can’t take any more of that, love.” Relinquishing his hold on her breasts, he tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth. After he sheathed himself, he had her on her back in a flash.

Never letting his eyes stray from her face, he cupped her breast, grazing her nipple with his thumb. She arched and dug her short fingernails into the back of his hand. Ah yes, Allie Campbell had very sensitive breasts. He would have to do something about that.

Bending his head, he swirled the tip of his tongue around the areola, denying her what she wanted, licking in smaller circles, nib- bling his way toward the center but never touching it.

“Trevor, please.” She twisted her head and looked at him.

He stopped. “Please what, darling?” He smiled cheerfully. “I hate you.”

He leaned down and nipped the underside of her breast, causing her to gasp. He was dying, wanting to be inside her, but he so liked playing with her. “Please what?” he prompted.

“Suck me, English.”


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Love like this never hurt so good.

New York Times bestselling paranormal author, Nicky—Nick—Love is anything but successful in love. For years he’s lost himself in his writing career, but now he’s ready to get back to his rebel-boy roots. While restoring a motorcycle at Stone’s Auto Service, he meets the Wildcat of his dreams. She’s a shock to the system for the romance writer who doesn’t remember a damn thing about wooing a woman.

Cool-as-ice, Catarina “Wildcat” Steele is utterly untouchable until Nicky ignites a spark she can’t control. Their electric attraction explodes as Nicky pursues her, but he comes bearing the baggage of a family tragedy he’s hidden from everyone. He knows love has no guarantees.

Their passionate romance falls apart when Nicky discovers Cat’s secret rivals his own. The truth about her past reopens Nicky’s raw wounds and awakens a ghost he never laid to rest. He doesn’t know how to have Cat, and now he can’t trust her. Will they be torn apart . . . or tamed by love?

Dec. 11th release day and final 99 cents sale day (regular price $3.99)

This excerpt is for mature readers only.

Excerpt: Love, in the Fast Lane

We flew through the night, roaring out of Mt. Pleasant proper on the way to Awendaw. The traffic lightened. The surrounds dissolved from built-up businesses and subdivisions to miles and miles of forest that became a fast moving blur beside us. The sheer velocity of the ride was as invigorating as the strength in Cat’s thighs clamped between mine. I could just make out the smile on her lips whenever she hit a curve in the road. Her hair lashed wildly back creating the perfect place on her neck for me to nuzzle warm skin. Sitting on the Harley, the engine screaming like a banshee beneath us, there was no better place to be.

THIS IS LOVE FINALWith an echoing roar through the forest, we pulled up in front of my house.

My heart pounded with the thrill of the ride. I slid off the bike and took off my helmet. “Where’d you learn to hammer down like that?”

“Comes with the Steele territory.”

“Like the ink?”

The radiant smile on her face shut down faster than the engine cutting off.


Cat lifted her chin, staring into the night in front of her. I peeled her hands from the handlebars and helped her off the bike. I unstrapped her helmet, placed it beside mine, and brushed my hands through her tangled hair.

“Don’t close me out again, Cat.”

Something snapped inside her. She dragged her teeth across my lower lip and lunged inside. All that passion seething beneath her tight control broke free, and I just happened to be the lucky fucking bastard along for ride.

Getting into the house was nearly impossible. Her body was wrapped around mine, my hands were in her hair, our lips clashed together and slid to suck and bite any bare skin we could find. The steps were a goddamn nightmare, and we hadn’t even made it to the front door.

She laughed breathlessly while I dug out the key from beneath the plant pot. Her hands roamed over my body like living flames, igniting fire everywhere she touched. My arms, my ass, my chest.

The key shook in my hand. It wouldn’t budge when I finally managed to fit it in the freakin’ lock.

Cat’s laugh was brazen as she took a nip of my ear right on the sensitive lobe. “This door stuck too?”

“No. You’re making me fuck up.”

She got right in behind me, and her hand pressed against my thick cock. She curled her fingers around me, and the zipper dug against the fat vein thumping from head to base. I yanked the goddamn key and swallowed a loud groan.

The door burst open. No more messing around. Swinging Cat into my arms, I kicked the door shut. Her legs hiked around my waist and her lips slanted against mine. The stairs were somewhere . . . to the left, the right, right in front of me? Her motorcycle gloves came off with two fat slaps of leather on the floor—splat, splat. My jacket followed.

I tugged at her boots, keeping my handhold on her ass, because if my hands weren’t filled with T & A I wasn’t going to be happy. Her padded leather jacket slid down the banister as we hit the stairs. I yanked at the buttons of her pants, shoving a hand inside, and Cat drummed her heels against my back. Yes. Silken skin, wet slit. Heaven. Straining to walk and carry and kiss and caress at the same time, it was a motherfucking wonder we made it to the bedroom instead of making love in the hallway.

We banged against the wall of my bedroom. The mattress was way too fucking far away. I reached over and clicked on a low light. If I was finally going to have Cat, I wanted to see it all. She tore off my shirt, almost ripping it from my shoulders. Biting my bicep before licking my tat, she unhooked her legs. I jerked off my boots.

Her fingers threaded through my hair, and I groaned. “Fuck. Why aren’t you naked yet?”

I mauled her all the way to my low dresser. I planted her bottom on it and whipped off her skintight pants. Cat’s choppy breath was music to my goddamn ears. Her panties were next. They were a thin, black, sheer piece of nothing. A thong or g-string or some other thing that made my eyes pop out of my head. Before I dove between her thighs to discover her hot cunt, I needed those tits, the piercings, her nipples . . .

Above the waist was easy work. I hooked my thumbs into her top’s hem, rolled it over the rise of her breasts and came eye-to-eye with deep dusky nipples pulled up tight. Long cascading silver jewelry threaded through them. The black tank was the perfect picture frame to her arm-length tats and her magnificent tits. I tapped her nips with my fingertips and watched them bounce in response. More of that was in order with my lips suctioned on.

“Stop,” she commanded.

Fuck. Fuck! Had I gone too far, too fast? As if I could go any slower, Cat was spread out on top of my dresser all but naked and wet and open and . . .

I tore my gaze from her tits.

Her hands pressed me back as her feet slid to the floor. “I want to suck your cock first.”

Hell yeah, what? Yes. Christ. When she dropped to her knees, I shouted, “Cat, fuckin’ hell!”

“I haven’t done anything yet.” Her black hair swung down to her waist. Her husky whiskey voice filled my ears. Her sure hands pulled my leather pants to the top of my thighs.

I had no answer and no response other than panting breath. Cat’s fingers dipped down and cupped me. She lifted out my cock. My shaft rose from her grip at the base and hooked all the way up my stomach.

Pulling my cock level with her face between her two fists, she moaned. Her hot breath hit me long before her mouth did. “So, Nicky Love is hung.”

Dec. 11th release day and final 99 cents sale day (regular price $3.99)

About Rie Warren

Rie-Warren-Headshot-For-ANGSTY-150x150Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series–a breakthrough trilogy that crosses traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command. Her latest endeavor, the Carolina Bad Boys series, is fun, hot, and southern-sexy.

A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling.

Rie’s work has been called “edgy”, “daring”, and “some of the sexiest smut around”. Get in touch with her at

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Short Excerpt from The Cowboy Singer by Paula Tiberius

James closed the distance between them and took April’s face in his hands. “I’m so sorry you got hooked up with someone like me. You deserve better.” He kissed her.

April pulled away. “Now wait a minute. That’s not fair. You can’t just say something I completely disagree with and then kiss me like that, as if that’s the final word.”

“Oh, really? Well, what are you going to do about it?”

She gave him a sly smile and then tackled him on the couch. They fell back, giggling. James pinned April’s hands over her head. He kissed her again, and this time her whole body responded. She liked the way he took control of her. It gave her shivers. Her body shuddered as his mouth came up to her ear and he spoke gruffly. “Are you cold?”

“Are you kidding? You set me on fire.”

He kissed her again, this time letting her hands go free. She ran them over his ribs and down to his hips.

“Then why do you have goose bumps?”

April didn’t answer. She slipped her hands around his waist and pulled his hips toward hers. He felt so good pressing against her she almost screamed. Remembering Avery she toned it down to a delicious moan.

“Does that feel good?” James whispered, pushing his hardness against her. She dug her fingers into his jean pockets to pull him closer and keep the good feeling going. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” she found herself repeating. James murmured something into her ear. She wasn’t quite sure what he said, but she was pretty sure it was something about their jeans getting in the way. He rose up on his knees and looked down at her while he unzipped. She loved the way he looked at her. Like lightning was hitting her body. And that rolling thunder voice. This was one storm she was willing to get caught in.

She beckoned him to lean his hips toward her, then surprised him by easing the whole length of him into her mouth. He moaned like she’d never heard him moan before. He sounded almost like he was singing, a low rhythmic growl that made her insides turn to mush. And he tasted so good. But she didn’t want to go too far down that path. She needed him inside her, and he was reading her mind.

He quickly finished undressing them both and asked her if she was comfortable, suggesting they could move to the bed if she wanted to. But she couldn’t wait, which made him smile. So he lay back down on the couch with her and gently spread her legs, looking directly into her eyes while he entered her, slow and smooth. There was a confidence in him that she was positively addicted to. The man knew what he was doing, and it drove her wild.


April Connors figured her love life was on hold indefinitely now that she was about to have a baby while temporarily staying at her grandmother’s house (what a turn-on!). Meeting infamous country singer Jimmy Wick may have made her giant belly flip, but she was filing him under a big “as if.” No man in his right mind would fall for a gal this pregnant, and besides, she needed to focus on herself and the baby. James Warwick (a.k.a. Jimmy Wick) was not in his right mind. His ex-wife was petitioning for full custody of the only thing that made him happy besides playing music, his four-year-old princess, Summer, and the thought of losing her had him crazier than an outhouse rat. His saving grace was his new ‘friend’ April who he was falling head over heels for. The only problem was, April had just been knocked up, dumped and stranded by the last guy she was with and was in no mood to go down that road again. She was hellbent on getting her life back on track just as James was watching his fall apart, leaving them both caught off guard by the unstoppable romance that would sweep them off their feet.

Interview by Sophie Sansregret

  1. I see you’re a filmmaker and musician as well. Which is harder? Composing, Directing? Writing a novel? Is one more rewarding than another? Perhaps a Rock Opera of The Cowboy Singer in your future?

Rock opera! That is a life-long dream of mine, to write a rock opera, stage it, make the movie and then put out the book! I absolutely adore The Phantom of the Paradise and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Of course it will have to be an epic life and death story with tragic consequences at every turn. I can’t wait. But going back to the first question, my attitude has changed over the years. I used to find writing more difficult whereas directing came naturally. Now I find all the work of putting a production together exhausting. Casting calls, location scouting, pitching people for money – whew! I’m getting tired just thinking about it. But sitting at my desk alone with my words and emotions? Easy! Plus I used to be able to work until wine ‘o’ clock, then enjoy cocktail hour(s) and go to bed. Now I have to be ‘on’ with the kid each evening, so I notice it much more when I have a physically tiring day.

  1. Inspiration comes in many forms and authors are not always inspired just by other writers. Who or what energizes you in your work?

Usually all I need is one good Idea for a fruitful writing session. If I’ve got nothing, I’ll just write nonsense until an idea hits. It doesn’t have to be anything big –  a piece of dialogue or an emotional motivation for a character will do – and then I’m off and running. Other people’s writing rarely inspires me to actually write – it inspires me to curl up in bed – especially if it’s good. Bad writing sometimes inspires me to write, if the subject isn’t being done justice.

  1. What’s your writing practice? Quiet room? Distractions? Loud music? Munchies?

Definitely a quiet room and lots of munchies. I eat constantly when I work. Or maybe it just seems that way because the day is only ever broken up by those treasured trips to the kitchen. If I liked classical music I could probably write with music, but rock and roll with all its lyrics and licks is way too much of a distraction. I also like to neurotically check my e-mail and Twitter, to the point where I have to set time goals – “no Twitter until 2pm…”

  1. As a filmmaker and musician you must be accustomed to working in a group. Was it difficult to write a novel, not having as much interaction? Do you ever write with others or is writing a purely solo venture for you?

I like collaborating with other writers. I have a number of film and TV projects in development with actor / comic Tanya Henley and we work well together. it’s fantastic to hand something off to another writer and have them fix it, finish it, or at the very least come back to you with a whole slew of ideas you’d never even considered. The project takes these giant leaps that are very satisfying.  Although I don’t know that it would work with fiction. I doubt I’ll ever collaborate on a novel. Non-fiction, sure, but there’s something about fiction that is so deeply personal. You have to become the voice of your characters from the inside out, and I’m not sure if that would work by committee. Writing for the screen is different because so much of that intimacy with the character is left up to the performer.

  1. All writers, except the very few (and I don’t know who they are) have to face it at some point. Love it? Hate it? Fuel you up to try try again or crush you like a bug? Or can you shake it off and just move forward?

Are you talking about rejection? What else could you be talking about. Oh boy, it’s everywhere, isn’t it? I’ve certainly faced my fair share. My official policy is absolutely: Shake it off, move forward. Then my unofficial policy is to say things like, “It’s so goddamn easy to be a critic,” or “Critics are so lazy,” or “They didn’t even spell my name right.” There are always those choice reviews that stick with you and you can’t shake them. One reviewer began his rant on my movie Goldirocks (a film about a girl who starts her own band) by saying that I should have made a documentary about Broken Social Scene instead. Seriously, it was so weird and disrespectful. And it still bugs me.

  1. What’s on your reading list these days?

I just found out Ann Patchett wrote a new book without notifying me! How dare she. So I need to get that. Right now I’m reading this hilarious British novel by Susan Alison called White Lies & Custard Cream. I haven’t read anything quite so frantic in a long time. I really like her voice and how she writes with such urgency – it’s addictive.

  1. As a filmmaker you may have scripts which may work well as novels or perhaps novels which work as scripts. Do you have any plans to work a screenplay into a novel, or vice versa? If so, how difficult (and rewarding!) is that process?

Funny you should ask, I am finding out the answer to your question as we speak! I’m novelizing a romantic comedy screenplay of mine that’s working out quite well in the fiction medium. I’ve had to get over that stigma in my head about ‘novelizing’ though. It reminds me of when I was eight years old and bought the novelized version of the movie Grease. Lots of glossy production stills and verbatim dialogue. But it’s actually quite a challenging and fascinating process. You’re constantly making decisions about point of view and which character should be witnessing the events of a scene. With both mediums you can have an omniscient narrator of course, but in fiction there’s no camera. I’ve never been more conscious of the camera as in novelizing a screenplay.

  1. Any thoughts on revising The Cowboy Singer for a different market? There are many romance sub-genres out there. What are your thoughts on issuing variations on your novel? Or is it a fixed work and it’s time to move to the next?

I’m definitely moving on to the next project, although my cousin Anna asked me if I would consider doing a version of The Cowboy Singer without the sex scenes! She really loved the book, but she’s a Mormon and they don’t go in for sex scenes apparently, so she skipped over them. She said she saw the sex coming and ‘skipped three or four pages.’ I was like, “Wow, how long do you think I can keep a sex scene going? You might have missed some important story.” But anyway, I’m still considering that. And my friends at Deambulations are putting out a Spanish version which is very cool. I can’t wait to see what the title translates into!