How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
Imagine being an American trapped in a war-torn country and fearing there is no way out. Now imagine there is a way out. With so many Americans in Israel and Gaza looking for an escape, I am focusing this month on Special Operations Association of America. SOAA is “a voice for special operations,” and one of their current missions is to evacuate Americans from areas of the Middle East currently in conflict. “We advocate for all past, present, and future members of the Special Operations community and their families. Fighting for those who fight for us to ensure the mission success and lethality of those that bear the greater burden.” In today’s environment, SOAA is working to rescue Americans from where “…the fighting and terrorist regimes are causing havoc in the region of Israel, Palestine, the Gaza Strip and surrounding areas.” Please comment and help me support the SOAA. Thank you!
Blurb: Dr. Margaret Amis-Hollings, professor of women’s studies at a small New Jersey college, is a woman who confidently knows who she is and what she expects of life. Until she loses her teaching position, and her well-ordered life gets turned upside down. Then, in a subtle stroke of whimsy, fate tosses her a gift in an historic home and property in Virginia.
Harboring visions of Gone With the Wind, she determines to use River Peace as a temporary reprieve from her troubles. Images of Tara quickly evaporate when she arrives to discover the reality of her inheritance, however.
River Peace has history, grace and style going for it. After only one night, Margaret discovers that it also has a ghost. She’s visited by a male spirit from the time of the War Between the States, who knows how to make a woman feel special. And very loved.
Aaron Belton meets Margaret when she first arrives in Virginia. He’s renowned for historic renovations on a multitude of properties, but he’s got a special place in his heart for River Peace. He and his family believe the property always should have belonged to them. In fact, Aaron will do almost anything to make that happen. When his passion for the house changes to a passion for the house’s owner, Aaron’s as surprised as anyone. Can he gain both, the woman and the house? To do so, he’ll have to face a spectral being.
Excerpt: “What do you mean I’m being cut?” Dr. Margaret Amis-Hollings, professor of women’s studies in the sociology department at Hardis College, shot out of her chair and stared at the dean, Sally Smith, who remained seated.
“Calm down, Margaret.”
“Calm down? Calm down? You just told me that I’ve lost my job.” Pacing, she raked her hand through the tangle of auburn hair that never seemed to stay contained in barrettes. A million things went through her mind, not the least of which was how she would make her rent, her car payment, buy food.
“Oh my God, how am I going to live?” Collapsing in the chair she’d just vaulted out of, she turned to face her friend and boss. Her expression was half despair, half anger, all shock.
“I’m so sorry, Margaret. The board has ordered more budget cuts. It hasn’t been easy. You know how we’ve had to scrimp for the past few years. Now we even have to cull courses we think aren’t serving the full interests of the students.”
“But—but…” Tears choking her throat, she couldn’t at first finish her sentence. “But the women’s studies classes? They’re vital.”
In fact, she had thought the reason for meeting with Sally was to discuss the addition of a new offering: Women Villains. She’d been so proud of the catchy and intriguing title and even had the hook for the course description. “What makes ‘Jane the Ripper,’ and how do her contributing factors differ from Jack’s?” She’d anticipated sharing the materials she’d already prepared, and hearing Sally’s happy response when she revealed the number of students who’d already indicated an interest.
She’d planned for questions of course, but anticipated support and excitement from Sally. The last thing she imagined was being let go.
Author Dee S. Knight:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.
After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website (www.nomadauthors.com). Fortunately, Dee’s high school sweetheart is the love of her life and husband to all three ladies! On the last Sunday of the month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for her newsletter for exclusive access to free novellas, poetry, and stuff.
When a woman atoning for past sins heals the human avatar of an ancient god, she’s drawn into a perilous dance of destiny and desire. From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gate of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power. Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos and cost her life. Despite his dire predictions, they fall in love. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind—and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.
Note: Serpent’s Kiss was previously published by Totally Entwined. This new edition has been re-edited, revised and expanded. Reader Advisory: This book may not be appropriate for individuals with a fear of snakes.
Excerpt: “Doctora!” The voice rose out of the darkness—the voice of the man who had vanished that morning from a sealed room, leaving no trace but a brilliant, multi-colored feather. As if conjured by her thoughts, Jorge Pélikal emerged from the shadows. He waited at the foot of the steps, mutely requesting her permission to ascend.
He looked far healthier than when she had seen him last. His step was firm and strong, with no indication that he was in pain. His hair cascaded over his shoulders, gleaming in the light of the rising moon. She could not see his face—he was still too distant—but she could smell him. Vanilla and wood-smoke—the same scents that were evoked by the mysterious token she had found under the bed.
He was dressed in rough-woven trousers and a peasant’s cotton tunic, all in white. His skin, in contrast, was a deep cocoa-brown.
Elena’s heart rose into her throat. He was beautiful. He was dangerous—she sensed this—not because of what he might do, but because of who he was. But who exactly was he?
“Jorge! Why did you run away?” She gestured for him to join her on the porch. In an instant, he stood in front of her, a half-smile on his full lips.
He grasped her hands. His skin was cool now, and moist like the jungle night. His fever is gone, she thought gratefully. Joy bubbled up in her chest. She almost laughed. She had thought that she would never see him again.
“I had no choice. I was in grave danger. And by remaining in your clinic, I was placing you in danger.”
“Moving when your chest has been ripped open and is held together by nothing more than a few feeble stitches wasn’t exactly the safest thing to do,” she scolded. “But I’m happy to see that you’re so much better.”
“Much better, thanks to you…Elena.” He squeezed her hands. Desire raced through her, sharp, irrational, irresistible. “I’m sorry that I had to return and place you at risk once again. But I left something behind. Something important.”
“I know. I have it, hidden safely away.”
He searched her face, apparently trying to determine how much she knew about the feather. “Give it to me, then, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No—I don’t want you to go. I’ll give you the feather, but only if you promise to spend the night with me.” Listening to herself, Elena was appalled. What was she saying?
She had not planned this. She was keeping the feather for him and had honestly intended to return it. But now she wanted him, with a single-mindedness that drove out all reason. She would do anything to satisfy this uncharacteristic craving. She could not let him escape again.
He cupped her cheek in one of his strong brown hands. Elena nearly swooned.
“You don’t know what you’re asking. It’s not possible.”
“I know what I want. What I need. And I won’t return the feather until you give it to me.”
He removed his hand, leaving her mourning for his touch. “I could force you.” Though his voice was soft, his words rang with power.
“Go ahead and try.” Elena’s words were defiant, but there were tears in her eyes.
“You don’t understand what you ask. If we couple, you and I, we will open the gates of chaos.” He hovered close, leaning over her, gazing into her eyes. His scent made her dizzy.
“I don’t care. So be it.”
“No. I dare not, Señora.” Taking a step backward, he glanced around the porch, as if seeking a way to push past her and enter the clinic. She moved to block the door, legs apart and hands on her hips.
Perplexity marked his handsome features. She didn’t doubt he was strong enough to physically overpower her, but he seemed reluctant to do so.
“Please.” Now his voice held a note of supplication. “Be reasonable, Elena.”
“Don’t you want me?”
“What I want does not matter. I must do my duty and refuse you. The tasks before me will be difficult enough without the distraction of love.”
Love? That wasn’t what she was asking for, was it? The desire that raged through her seemed as far from love as a fierce hurricane from a gentle spring shower. At the same time, her intuition told her that a single night in Jorge’s arms would never be enough.
Introductory Essay: Embracing the Shadows
What makes paranormal romance so popular? I’ve been pondering this question for a while. Readers, it seems, are happy to consume as many tales about vampires, shape shifters, ghosts and psychics as we authors can produce. You’d think that they’d get bored, but that doesn’t seem to happen. Why not?
I’ve got a theory. We’re all tempted by the dark side.
The realms of paranormal romance are vast, but most books offer characters with dual natures, torn between normal humanity and―otherness. The “other” aspect conveys special powers―unnatural strength, heightened sensation, hidden knowledge―but always at a price. The characters suffer because of their power. Blood-drinkers and half-beasts are ravaged by conscience because they maim or kill. Immortals bear the weight of lonely, isolated centuries and the pain of watching mortal companions wither and die.
In my novella Fin d’Espoir, vampire Etienne de Rémorcy haunts the forest around the ruined plantation of his former mistress, guilty, bitter and alone. He has sworn to never again taste human blood, but when the woman he rescues begs him to take her, he cannot resist. My prescient hero Kyle in At the Margins of Madness can see the future but the fury of his visions drives him insane. In my new release Serpent’s Kiss, Jorge Pélikal is the incarnation of an ancient god but each time he makes love to his human mate he comes close to killing her.
In the paranormal genre, power and darkness go hand in hand. Yet somehow, we are attracted to the darkness. We brush the suffering aside; we want to feel the power. A vampire isn’t sexy when he’s fighting against his blood craving. Only when he sweeps his victim into his arms and buries his fangs in her flesh does he make us breathless and moist.
How many books have you read where the human hero or heroine willingly submits to “the change”, the transformation that will make them “other” as well? How many characters, in contrast, manage to resist the pull of the dark side? Not many. Normal mortal life seems absurd, bland and empty after you’ve tasted power. This is especially true because sex on the dark side in erotic romance is always more intense, more extreme, transcending the limits that bind ordinary humans.
Even a villain with supernatural powers tempts us. A well-written antagonist should invite enough identification that the reader can understand what moves him to do evil. The best bad guys are ambiguous, able to justify their deeds so well that they draw our sympathy. They dazzle us with their logic and their beauty, until we can’t see their wickedness. Lucifer still looks like an angel as he bargains for your soul. Stefan Aries, my villain in At the Margins of Madness, is handsome and brilliant enough to make Kyle want him, despite his being a murderer. Jorge’s evil twin Teodoro Remorros is suave, handsome, and terribly convincing as he tries to persuade Elena to abandon Jorge and the world he’s trying to save.
We’re drawn to the dark side, I think, because it’s an escape. Sometimes the real world leaves us feeling so powerless―we can’t help wanting the ability to take control, to bend the world to our will the way our paranormal characters do. Who wouldn’t want to leave the dirty dishes and the unpaid bills behind and slip away into the night, to slink through the shadowy streets scenting for blood or to howl, unfettered, at the moon?
The dark side calls to us in paranormal romance. Every time we open a new book, we flirt with the possibility of ecstatic surrender.
About Lisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
My latest book, Serpent’s Kiss, is dedicated to my father. He has been gone for for nearly fifteen years, but I still feel his presence, every day. During the time since his passing, the pain of loss has healed. I’ve come to understand that he’ll always be with me, in my memories and in my heart.
More than any other individual, it was my dad who inspired me to read, and to write. He had the gift of words, and passed it on to his children. I recall him reading aloud to my siblings and me, folk tales, fairy stories, adventures like Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe. He told his own stories, too, inventing worlds and characters for our pleasure. There were the Gulkons, terrible demons who lived in the fire on the hearth, and Houligan, the god of snow. (I grew up in chilly, stormy New England.) I still remember sitting spellbound while Dad recounted his story of the hapless wizard Thomas Carl Sefney who had to touch his wand to every one of the monster’s thousand tentacles before it consumed him.
Both my parents encouraged me to write. My first poems date from about third grade. During my childhood I wrote fantasies about Martians and ghosts, and plays about the Beatles and politics. In my adolescence, too shy to speak to any of my crushes, I poured out my adoration in anguished free verse. In my twenties and thirties, I wrote science fiction and first tried my hand at romance. Finally, in my forties, I actually managed to publish something (other than in my high school newspaper). My first thought was to call my father.
My dad and I shared favorite books, characters and authors. When he and I got talking about Sherlock Holmes or Frodo Baggins, H.P. Lovecraft or Edgar Allen Poe or Anne Rice, the rest of the family would roll their eyes and leave us to our obsessions. I never had any difficulty figuring out what gift to get him for his birthday or Father’s Day. There was always some book that I had seen or heard about that I knew he’d love.
I never did introduce him to my erotica, though. I was so tempted to show him the pile of paperbacks with my name on the cover, the multiple volumes I had penned or edited. I wanted to autograph him a copy of my first novel, telling him how much he had contributed to my literary endeavors. I wanted him to be proud. However, I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. I recalled the way he reacted when I gave him Anne Rice’s BDSM classic The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty – an embarrassed grin and a “oh, that’s interesting”. We didn’t discuss that book much. Though I would have welcomed the opportunity to open up to him about my own pursuits in the world of sex and sensuality, dominance and submission, I sensed that he would rather not know.
I guess that there are just some things you can’t share with your parents, no matter how close you are. But at very least, I can acknowledge him as my lifelong inspiration.
How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
This month I’m donating (with your comments!) to Fill the Needs to help Maui relief efforts. I had never heard of Fill the Needs until watching a news show where they were featured sending help to the Maui victims of wild fires. Here’s their short description: “What began as a community of coordinated volunteers responding to flooding in Cedar Rapids Iowa in 2008 and Southeast Louisiana in 2016 launched into Fill the Needs in 2022. We rapidly deploy our network and resources in the first fourteen days following a disaster.” They seem to do a lot of good, and currently fill those needs of the residents in Hawaii. Please comment!
Blurb: As one of a set of triplets, Jonah Goodman has always stood out as the least academic—and the last one to take the world, or commitment, seriously. Thing is, that’s not really who he is. But who can he convince of that? Not his family, who see him as they always have. And maybe not his one love, the sweetheart he left behind in high school but with whom he is now sharing an erotic holiday. Will he get his second chance to prove to Kelly that he is a loving man who wants more than a sensual few days, but a real relationship with the woman he lost once and doesn’t want to lose again? With that chance and Kelly’s love, Jonah knows that a “good man” can become a better man.
Excerpt: . “A burger and fries, please.” Jonah had said the words, but in synch with someone else. Someone whose voice was slightly higher and a lot more feminine. He turned his head to the left and met the green gaze of the last person he wanted to see tonight. For an instant, the spit dried in his mouth and his eyes widened as his past slammed headfirst into his present. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and his body responded with an immediate and aching erection.
Then she opened her mouth.
“Oh hell,” Kelly said. “It’s you.”
Author Dee S. Knight:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.
After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website (www.nomadauthors.com). Fortunately, Dee’s high school sweetheart is the love of her life and husband to all three ladies! On the last Sunday of the month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for her newsletter for exclusive access to free novellas, poetry, and stuff.
<a href=”https://www.linkytools.com/wordpress_list.aspx?id=294166&type=basic”>Click here</a> to see the list of other authors participating in today’s blog hop! I hope you’ll visit them too, to find out about the charities they are supporting.
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How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
This month I’m highlighting the Gary Sinise Foundation. While most of us know of Gary Sinise as an actor and musician, the role he and his foundation fills for our heroes and their families is even more phenomenal. Here is the Foundation’s mission: “…we serve our nation by honoring our defenders, veterans, first responders, their families, and those in need. We do this by creating and supporting unique programs designed to entertain, educate, inspire, strengthen, and build communities.” I hope you’ll comment and help me make a donation to this very worthwhile cause. Thanks!!
Book of the month: Burning Bridges
Blurb: Winner! Coffee Pot Book Club awarded Burning Bridges the Gold Medal for Best Romance 2020!
Not your typical “secret baby” book! This Southern romance packs in the emotion.
Letters delivered decades late send shock waves through Sara Richards’s world. Nothing is the same, especially her memories of Paul, a man to whom she’d given her heart years before. Now, sharing her secrets and mending her mistakes of the past means putting her life back together while crossing burning bridges. It will be the hardest thing Sara’s ever done.
Excerpt: Sara stared at the letters arranged before her in numerical order. The moment in time she and Paul shared was long ago, yet her dream had conjured his presence as though she’d just seen him. In her mind, his blue eyes darkened with passion before his lips captured hers, and he moaned his appreciation when their tongues met. She tasted his sweetness and knew the steel of his arms as he held her. How many nights had she put herself through hell reliving those memories? Too damn many.
After the concert, they’d met clandestinely on weekends, mostly at Sandbridge, where they could walk and talk undisturbed. With each meeting, stirrings built deep in Sara that pushed her to want more, but Paul insisted they restrain themselves because of her age.
Then the weekend before he shipped out, she’d planned a surprise and her life changed forever.
The kettle screeched, bringing her back to the present. Sara prepared a cup of tea and then picked up the envelope marked twenty-eight. At one time, she would have given her right arm to hold this letter. Now, curiosity and the desire for a brief escape drove her more than the passion of youth. Blind love had faded when she’d had no word to bolster her during the long weeks after the ship left.
First had come the waiting. No letters arrived, even though she wrote him daily. There were no phone calls, no notes, no anything, for days that dragged into weeks then crept into months.
Anticipation morphed into anxiety. She worried he was sick or hurt and unable to write.
One day she admitted that Paul must be afraid to write for some reason, and she feared what he would say if she did receive a letter. That their time together had been a mistake, that she was too young to be in love. That he really loved someone else and Sara had been only a stand-in while he was in Virginia. Perversely, she began to sigh with relief when she arrived home and found no word.
Now, knowing why she hadn’t received mail, what would she feel if she opened this letter and her old fears proved to be true?
“Nothing,” she murmured. “Paul’s dead. He can’t hurt me anymore.” At the very least, his letters might allow her to put his ghost to rest. For that reason alone, she had to read them.
She slid her thumb under the flap and ripped the envelope open. A single sheet held his hurried scrawl.
Author Dee S. Knight:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.
After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website (www.nomadauthors.com). Fortunately, Dee’s high school sweetheart is the love of her life and husband to all three ladies! On the last Sunday of the month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for her newsletter for exclusive access to free novellas, poetry, and stuff.
Physicist Dr. Christine Monroe signs on to the Archimedes, a sub-light-speed mission to colonize Sirius-B. Waking from stasis, she finds the ship wildly off course, the crew dead and her ship haunted by two virile aliens who appear human. As Archimedes begins to disintegrate, Christine must choose between the planet she was sent to save and the unearthly beings she’s come to cherish.
Note: This book was previously published by Totally Entwined but has been revised and updated.
Erotic Energy For most of my career, I’ve been writing erotic stories which include explicit sex. Now, many people think that sex is the ultimate physical experience, that it’s all about body parts, stimulation of erogenous zones, pleasurable sensations and ultimate release. That’s not my view.
Eroticism begins in the mind. If this were not true, why would certain activities be arousing in one person’s company, boring or even aversive with someone else? When I think back over my rich and varied sexual experiences, I don’t recall the detailed sensations, but rather, the emotions I felt and the connections I enjoyed with my partners. My personal slogan tries to capture this observation: imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
When I began writing Bodies of Light, originally published in an anthology of space-themed romance, I tried, as I usually do, to put a different spin on the tale. Love scenes usually occur in the physical world, but what if you’re making love to beings without bodies? What if you encountered aliens who were pure energy? Could a human woman love such creatures? Could they return that love? And if so, how would they express it in a realm where matter was not relevant?
These are the questions I explore in Bodies of Light. Nearly a century ago, Einstein demonstrated that matter and energy were inter-convertible. An entity composed of energy could take on material form, creating a body out of the light that was his fundamental nature so that he could express physical love. Perhaps, though, this experience would be far less satisfying than connecting and exchanging unadulterated erotic energy.
This realization lies at the heart of my heroine’s journey into an unlimited universe.
Excerpt: The alarm buzzed in Christine’s ears like an angry wasp. Electric current crackled along her skin, goading her long-dormant nerves into responsiveness. Her attempt to inhale turned into a racking cough as her body expelled the last traces of fluid from her lungs. Her eyes flickered open. Dim as it was, the blue-tinged light within the suspension pod made her head pound.
Her limbs felt weighted with lead. She tried to wiggle her fingers. They were stiff, as though encrusted with rust. The gel that cradled her gradually warmed. As it did, her joints grew more flexible. Little by little the pod thawed her long-immobile body.
As soon as she could lift her arm, she groped for the release switch. Her movements were clumsy and slow. The curved hatch over her face slid back, exposing her to the cooler air outside. Goosebumps rose on her bare skin. She pulled the tubes from her arms and pushed aside the tangle of cables strapped around her brow. When she struggled to sit up, a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She waited for the vertigo to subside.
The fog in her brain thinned a bit. She remembered where she was—the Archimedes, en route to Sirius 2. Had they arrived, then? Listening closely, she heard nothing but her own breathing.
The suspension bay was located near the center of the ship in order to protect it from possible meteor damage to the hull. There were no viewports. It hardly mattered. Christine was a physicist, not an astronomer or a pilot. Even if she could have seen the stars, she couldn’t have read them. She needed to get to the bridge, to figure out how far they were from their destination and whether it was time to revive the rest of the crew.
She swung her legs out of the coffin-like suspension capsule and took a stab at standing. Her knees buckled when she transferred her weight, leaving her slumped on the rubber-clad floor. Her head swam. When her vision cleared, she tried again. This time she managed to stay upright although she had to lean on the capsule for support.
Christine took a deep breath. She felt the strength returning gradually to her body. Her skin was slimy with residue from the nutrient gel that had nourished her inanimate form during the months —or was it years?—since the ship had departed.
At point-nine lightspeed, the maximum velocity of which the Archimedes was capable, the journey to the Sirius cluster should have taken almost thirteen years. Was that long wait really over? It had seemed like the blink of an eye. A kind of rosy haze hung in her mind, a sense of peace and well-being, but she couldn’t remember any details about her time in stasis.
She surveyed the nineteen other capsules arranged around the perimeter of the bay. She seemed to be the only one the ship had awakened. She stumbled over to the closest pod—Ravin Conter, the xenobiologist and her assigned partner—and peered in through the curved glass. She could just make out his rugged features, pale and composed.
Something wasn’t right, though. Her thoughts still disordered by the transition, it took her ten seconds to put her finger on the problem. The capsule should have been lit from within by the same low-intensity blue as her own had been. However, there was no interior illumination. Only the ambient light of the bay made Ravin’s face visible.
“Ravin!” she cried. Her voice woke hollow echoes in the metal-walled chamber. The vital sign indicators on the control panel were blank. She keyed the emergency revival sequence into the controls on the top of the pod. Nothing happened. There was no power running to the capsule. It was dead, and so, it was obvious, was the person within.
“No!”
She stared at Ravin’s naked form, cradled in blue-green gel and twined in wires and hoses. How could he be dead? What had happened? Christine whirled around to check the next capsule—Amber Stone, ship’s doctor and the closest thing she had to a friend. Like Ravin’s, Amber’s pod was dark and unresponsive.
Fighting down her panic, Christine examined the remaining suspension capsules. All appeared to have malfunctioned. All the occupants lay in darkness within, perfectly-preserved corpses.
“No, no—please, no!” she keened, sinking to her knees in the center of the room. “Oh, please…” Her eyes burned as tears welled up for the first time in years.
She had not really been close to anyone on the Archimedes—she and Ravin had been paired solely on the basis of genetic and psychological compatibility—but she had liked and respected them all. They’d had the courage to volunteer for Earth’s first interstellar mission, to risk their lives for the future of humanity. Hell, they’d fought hard for the opportunity, beating the hundreds of other candidates. They’d endured the two years of grueling preparation. They’d climbed willingly into the suspension capsules knowing they wouldn’t emerge for years—if ever. Each had left his or her life on Earth behind, well aware that the odds of the mission succeeding were small and that, even if it did succeed, they could never return.
Now they were gone and, with them, all hope of establishing a colony. The mission was a failure—one final failure in the long series that had been her life.
About Lisabet: Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
I’ll come for you by moonlight – though Hell should bar the way In her eighteen years on earth, Bess has never traveled more than twenty miles from her Devonshire village. The raven-haired innkeeper’s daughter has little time to dream of adventure as she labors from dawn to dusk to keep her abusive father satisfied. Then, at the weekly market in Tavistock town, she meets a handsome dandy who claims her with a single stolen kiss. When the gallant gentleman makes a midnight visit to the inn, Bess learns that her new lover is none other than Kit Latour, a notorious French highwayman who has been boldly relieving the local nobility of their valuables. Well-aware of the risk she’s taking, Bess still offers herself to the seductive outlaw. Even Kit’s darkest secrets cannot quench the flames of her love.
She must have drowsed, despite her determination to remain on guard. She heard no hoof beats clattering in the inn yard, no tapping on the barred shutters, only a soft whistle under her window that had her instantly alert.
She leaned out, her hair spilling over the casement. “Kit!” she cried, heedless of anyone hearing. “You’ve come at last.”
“Well met, my fair lady.” The lithe figure below gave a little bow. “Did you doubt me?”
“No doubt, my love, only fear. Your fame has spread wide. There be many who’d delight in spilling your blood.”
“Even more after tonight, I’ll wager. I’ve had rich takings along the high road. A fat, dyspeptic earl and his broomstick wife contributed generously to my cause.”
“Lord Haverstock? Oh Kit, he has the King’s ear.” She shrank back into the shadows of her bedroom, then peered anxiously into the distance. She almost expected to see His Majesty’s troops mustering on the country lane. “Why must you take such risks?”
Kit chuckled. “Without risk, life wouldn’t be worth living.” The bandit grasped the gnarled ivy vines that clung to the old inn and clambered up to the second floor. In moments, Bess was face to face with her beloved.
What was her Kit thinking, to ride in such finery against the wealthy and powerful? The coat was burgundy velvet, worn over a pure white linen shirt with a ruffle of lace at the throat. Supple doe-skin boots rose half-way up those strong thighs. The jeweled hilt of a dagger glittered at Kit’s waist. The hungry light in the bandit’s eyes burned brighter still.
“Oh, Bess, how I’ve missed you!” Kit seized her, crushing her against the velvet, and captured her mouth. Bess pressed her soft body against her lover’s harder form, savoring the heady mixture of familiar comfort and forbidden arousal she always felt in Kit’s arms. A brazen tongue ravaged her mouth while knowing hands slipped under her shift to palm her buttocks and pull her closer still.
“Take this off, girl, before I rip it from your limbs,” Kit gasped, tugging at the fabric that hid her flesh. “I cannot wait another instant.”
Not so long ago she’d been a bashful virgin, but there was no shyness in her now. She pulled the garment over her head and tossed it onto the chair, shaking her long hair free. Moonlight from the window made her pale skin glow. Kit’s eyes roamed over her nakedness. She’d never felt so beautiful, or so needy.
Introductory Essays
Changing the Ending
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. ~ The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman
My latest release, By Moonlight, was inspired by the poem above. This tale of tragic love and sacrifice has been a favorite of mine since I was in high school (though it does not seem to be that widely known – none of the members of my critique group were aware of it). As a teen, I though the poem was devastatingly romantic. Of course, this was before I started writing romance. I didn’t realize that to qualify as Romance with a capital R, a story needed a happy ending.
When I decided to write my own version of Noyes’ story, I knew I had to change the ending. It just wouldn’t do to have Bess and her bandit beloved perish as they do in the poem – even if they do live on as ghosts. In fact, I wanted to play with the conflict in the original, to show Bess ultimately getting the better of the men who mock her and condemn her to death.
By Moonlight deliberately borrows the atmosphere, and indeed some of the dialogue, from the Noyes poem. The first two chapters follow the source quite closely. I tried to capture the sense of danger, the terrible risk Bess takes in accepting a wanted outlaw as her partner. Then the story veers off into unexplored territory – as indeed it would have to if the lovers are to have the HEA they deserve.
AboutLisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
This month, I’d like to highlight Big Dog Ranch Rescue, Their mission: “Big Dog Ranch Rescue was founded in 2008; since then, we have saved the lives of more than 50,000 dogs. Our mission is to save 5,000 dogs every year, to heal and place them with loving families and to educate people about the proper care for dogs and the importance of spaying and neutering.” The work now includes rescuing dogs from the US-Mexico border, where dogs have been abandoned by migrants entering the country. Migrants cross the border and get on buses to go throughout the U.S., leaving their dogs to fend for themselves. BDRR has stepped in, at the behest of the National Guard, to help save the animals and help them find homes with loving families. Please help me by leaving a comment, and I will donate to this worthy group. Note: BDRR is rated four stars on Charity Navigator.
In Regan (Book 1 of the historical, ménage romance series The Sisters O’Ryan by Jenna Stewart), Seth doesn’t have a dog, but he does have a horse for a constant companion.
Blurb: Davey and Regan O’Ryan Stone bought an Oregon farm sight unseen, hungering for adventure. Davey regretted the impulse far past the point of no return, and then he died. Now, unskilled and alone on her farm, Regan fears going home a failure—as a daughter, a wife, and a farmer. With money quickly running out, she gladly accepts the offer of help from Seth Pratt, an acquaintance from the wagon train, and his friend Haywood Lawrence.
One-armed Seth seeks work at the remote farm at the end of an Oregon trail with low expectations. When he finds Regan, alone and widowed, he tamps down desire. She deserves better than a handicapped man searching for his soul. She’s worthy of someone like his Shakespeare-spouting best friend, Hay. Nothing could have prepared Seth for Regan’s simple solution—that both men stay. On the farm and in her bed.
Excerpt: “Do you know this lady, Seth?” The second man split his gaze between his companion and Regan.
Suddenly heat flamed on Regan’s cheeks. Why should he have noticed her, though he certainly stood clear in her mind. Indeed, Seth Pratt had made quite an impression on all the single ladies in their wagon train. Once, despite her married status at the time they shared the trek west, he made an embarrassing appearance in her dream, too, much to her shame. Her imagined image of his naked body joined to hers had pleased her so much, she banished him from her thoughts afterwards.
She glanced at his companion, hating that he should witness her complete ignominy.
“I apologize for not recognizing you, Mrs. Stone,” Seth said. His gaze raked the yard again. “Should I speak to your husband about the job?”
“Mrs. Stone?” the other man said. Seth shot him a silencing look.
“My husband passed away just west of Cheyenne.” Seth had left the train in western Nebraska, headed, or so she heard through gossip, for the Dakota Black Hill country. At the time, that had been a relief. She thought never to see him again, never to be tempted to dream of him again.
“My condolences,” he said softly. She acknowledged his comment with a nod. “Was the man in Cold Springs correct, then? Are you really lookin’ for help?” He asked the question, but his expression started to close down as though knowing before she answered that there would be nothing for him here.
“There is a problem, Mr. Pratt.”
“My arm. I understand.” He fit his hat back on his head and tipped it at her before tapping the flanks of his horse with his heels and giving the reins a tug.
The second man said, “Hold on, there,” at the same time she cried out, “No!”
He stopped and waited.
“No, Mr. Pratt,” she said. “The problem is not your arm. I assume you would not apply for the position of farmhand if you felt you were not equal to the task.” His eyes lit with interest, and she continued. “The problem is the distance from town, and I’m alone here. I fear it’s too far to travel back and forth each day. Indeed, had I known my property was this far removed from any town, I’m sure I would have faltered in my determination to continue west.”
Seth’s brows wrinkled. “Are you safe out here alone?”
She shrugged. “I feel perfectly so.”
He didn’t seem to like her answer much, but he didn’t argue. “I see.” He sat quietly. “Ma’am, I’ll be honest with you. I need a job. I didn’t have much stake when I lit out for these parts, and I have next to nothin’ now. Folks aren’t anxious to hire a one-armed man, as you might guess. If you give me a chance, I won’t trouble you for nothin’, at least until the snow flies, and then I would need only a roof. I can bed down in the barn.”
“There are accommodations. But Mr. Barker should have explained that I am interested in hiring a man and wife, so that proprieties would be maintained.”
“Why the hell did…Begging your pardon, Mrs. Stone,” the second man said, “but I wonder why the man in town sent us out here, then.”
“Us?” Regan looked more closely at the man, so different in dress from Seth. So different in every way. His clothing spoke of money, though he wore a simple white shirt and vest under the jacket. Obvious hand tooling on his horse’s saddle and the burled-wood rifle butt protruding from a pouch on the saddle screamed taste and the money to afford it.
He smiled once more, showing good teeth and deep dimples. “Forgive me. I’m Haywood Lawrence, late of Charlotte, North Carolina, traveling the West with this disreputable reprobate. That is, until he decided he wanted to become a farmer instead of a seeker of fortunes.”
She smiled. “We have something in common, Mr. Lawrence. I hail from Asheville.”
Smoothly he swung his leg over the horse and strode to her. “‘Such stuff as dreams are made on.’” He took her hand and kissed it.
Regan blinked in surprise but couldn’t keep a smile from her face. “Asheville is the stuff dreams are made on, Mr. Lawrence?”
“Not the city, Mrs. Stone, its lovely citizens.”
“I have it,” Seth said in a quiet tone.
Startled because she had forgotten momentarily that Seth was there, she yanked back her hand and looked up.
“The man in town must have heard me tell Koda that I bought a penny candy for Francis. He musta thought I meant a woman.”
“Who is Koda?” asked Regan. Holy Mother! As surprised as she was to see Seth again, Haywood Lawrence took her breath away. Adding a third man to the mix would surely be too much.
Haywood sighed. “It’s his horse, I’m afraid. Our friend Seth talks to the horse more than he does to people.”
“He don’t quote Shakespeare day and night,” Seth grumbled.
“Well then, who is Francis?”
“That would be me,” Haywood said, with a glare at Seth. “Though no one calls me that who doesn’t want a fight.” Seth raised his brow and shrugged. Haywood turned back to Regan. “I was christened Francis Haywood Lawrence, but I much prefer Haywood to my first name. Or rather, Hay, which I hope you will call me.”
“Oh, I…uh.”
Seth stared at Hay. “I thought you were catchin’ a boat downriver to the coast. Somethin’ about lumber?”
Hay’s gaze didn’t waver from Regan. “Perhaps not. Never fear, my friend,” he tossed over his shoulder to Seth. “‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.’”
Seth said something impossible for Regan to decipher.
She forced her gaze from Hay. “I’m sorry the position won’t work out, Mr. Pratt,” she told Seth. “However, it’s too late for you to go back to town tonight. Why don’t you stay and ride back tomorrow?”
“It wouldn’t be right. I was so wrapped up in my own troubles that I didn’t stop to think.” For the first time, worry clouded Seth’s startling blue eyes. “I wouldn’t want to do anything that might cause you or your reputation harm, Mrs. Stone.”
“Who will know if you camped out or slept in comfort, Mr. Pratt?” Regan smiled. “My parents raised me to be a proper young lady. But when I lay in my safe, snug bed in my father’s home, I imagined how it would feel to be wild and carefree. To do something scandalous. You would be fulfilling a childhood dream if you stayed for the night.” Holy mother of God! Had she really said that? How would he take her words?
Author Dee S. Knight:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.
After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website (www.nomadauthors.com). Fortunately, Dee’s high school sweetheart is the love of her life and husband to all three ladies! On the last Sunday of the month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for her newsletter for exclusive access to free novellas, poetry, and stuff.
Book 3 in The Toymakers Guild. Available for pre-order now. Launch date January 13, 2023.
How do you train a steampunk sexbot?
Gillian Smith’s promotion to journeyman proves she’s ready to lead the Toymakers in producing astonishing new erotic artifacts. Creative, brilliant, and debauched, she’ll stretch her capabilities to the limit as she juggles a talent shortage and a pair of jealous rivals. Then there’s the challenge of their latest commission—a life-sized programmable sex doll intended to replace a client’s deceased paramour.
Normally she would consult the enigmatic Master Toymaker, but he seems preoccupied with his own concerns. Though her lusty crew of sexual renegades can offer technical and carnal assistance, Gillian is ultimately responsible for delivering the promised, near-impossible technology.
It’s fortunate she’s not one to give up—not even when events threaten the Guild’s very survival.
Contest! Lisabet Sarai is running a contest to celebrate the release of The Master’s Mark. The prize is a $10 book store gift certificate, plus an ebook copy of the new novel in your choice of formats.
To enter, do the following:
Send an email at contest [at] lisabetsarai [dot] com
In the body of the email, list the names of two characters in The Master’s Mark. (You can discover this from various blog posts and excerpts.)
One entry per person, please. On the first of February, Lisabet will randomly draw a winner from among all the entries. Be sure to send your entry to the “contest” email address above.
PG Excerpt:
“Aha! I knew you were no schoolteacher, Miss!”
The familiar voice jerked her back to the present. She looked up, startled, and her eyes connected with those of Jeremiah Manley. Without thinking, she covered the drawings with her arm in an attempt to hide them from his curious gaze.
“Engineer Manley! How lovely to see you again.”
“Right you are, Miss – Gillian, wasn’t it?”
She nodded and flashed him a smile, flattered that he’d recalled her name. He looked every bit as attractive as he had upon their first meeting, taut and lean, brimming with life, seemingly ready to tumble into laughter at the slightest provocation. “My close friends call me Jill,” she volunteered.
“Well then, Jill!” He reached out to lay a dark hand upon her sleeve, pushing gently to expose the hidden designs. “And what have you here? Not some girl’s spelling homework, I’ll warrant.”
Warmth flowed from his palm, heating her own skin through the fabric of her dress. “That’s none of your affair, sir.”
“Sir – that hardly sounds like the response of a close friend! Come now, let me see. I already caught a glimpse. I know they’re blueprints, or something similar.”
“It’s a private commission,” she replied, gathering the papers and slipping them into her satchel. “We’ve promised the client complete confidentiality.”
“Ah! So who is ‘we’, Jill-who-is-not-a-schoolteacher? Indeed, who are you?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that,” she replied primly.
“Really? Perhaps I can persuade you, Jill.” He swung himself into the chair close beside her, earning scandalised stares from the other inhabitants of the Ladies’ Lounge. She suddenly noticed that he was not wearing his uniform, though his grey tweed trousers and coat fit him equally well. Under the jacket he sported a blindingly white linen shirt without a cravat. The open neck exposed an enticing near-black triangle of bare skin.
“What happened to your uniform, Jeremiah? Are you not on duty?” He wasn’t touching her any more, but she still felt the heat, radiating from his all-too-close form. Her nipples beaded under her bodice.
“I resigned.” His normal smile fled. The scowl that replaced it made him look unexpectedly dangerous. “Couldn’t endure that jackass Thomas any longer.”
She nodded. “I’d hate to work under such a boor, I agree. But to throw away such a solid position – second engineer on a fine vessel like the Invicta – are you certain that was wise?”
He shrugged. “I’m more clever and nimble than wise. Otherwise I wouldn’t have survived this long.” His clouded expression broke once more into a sunny grin and he settled a hand on hers. He leaned closer, so close that she caught a hint of his spicy scent, and spoke more softly. “So, Jill-who-is-not-a-schoolteacher – would you like a tour of the engine room?”
Her heart did a somersault in her chest. “Oh, yes! Please!” She couldn’t have said whether the offer or Jeremiah’s proximity had more to do with her breathless excitement.
He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Wait just a few minutes, till we’re tied up at the dock. Then I’ll take you below. This is Invicta’s last crossing for the day. The crew’ll be busy filling her coal holds, so we won’t be disturbed.”
“But – I thought you were no longer employed—”
He held up a key. “You can never tell when you’ll need to check the engine.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper as he dropped it back into his coat pocket. “I had thoughts of doing some damage, actually. Thomas would be responsible and it would serve him right. But I decided a clean break would be best.”
“That was wise,” said Gillian with relief. He squeezed her hand, setting her pulse racing once again.
The boatswain’s shrill whistle announced their arrival at the dock. The lady passengers were already filing out of the lounge, casting disapproving glances in their direction. Jeremiah bounced to his feet and pulled her up after him. “We’d better get out of sight,” he urged. “The first mate does a sweep for stray passengers after every trip. Never know when you’ll find some gentleman who took excess advantage of the SS Invicta’s fine whisky.”
He stepped behind the bar into the small galley that served the lounge, then prised open a door on the left. “In here,” he murmured, pushing her in front of him into a dark, narrow space lined with shelves. When he pulled the closet shut, crowding against her, the blackness was nearly absolute. The storage area must have been located against an outside wall. She could hear footfalls upon the metal deck as the disembarking passengers headed for the gangway at the stern.
The space was redolent of tea, ginger marmalade and Jeremiah’s personal, peppery scent. They were crammed together, face to face, though he was a good deal taller. He rested a hand on her hip to stabilise her. She felt his breath stirring her hair and his heat penetrating her clothing.
Her own lungs seemed to have stopped working. She scarcely dared to move.
His hold on her was loose, their bodies still separated by a fraction of an inch. She imagined his chest pressed against her, mashing her breasts against his muscled torso. Her nipples ached for that missing stimulation. It was all too easy to conjure the sensation of his swollen prick prodding her belly, his pelvis grinding against her, his fingers tracing the line of her spine then cupping her buttocks to pull her closer…
A smooth palm caressed her cheek. Bold fingers tilted her chin up toward his unseen visage. “Jill…” he whispered, barely audible, before he pressed his lips to hers.
She melted into the kiss, flowing into his arms. The reality of his hard body was even better than her fantasies. A lush cloudburst of sensation drenched her as she opened to his brazen tongue and let him plunder her mouth. Tangy spice tickled her nostrils and a second heart beat between her thighs. She floated on the surface for a while, then sank gratefully into the passion of the moment, letting herself drown.
Introductory Essay: Gillian Smith, the heroine of my Toymakers Guild series, is a scientific genius and a sexual adventurer. She’s only nineteen when she shows up at the door of Randerley Hall, successfully figures out the access code and demonstrates sufficient talent in both the technical and carnal realms to win a place for herself among the secretive and selective band of erotic artificers.
As the series continues, she becomes more mature, taming some of her impulsiveness and learning to understand the nuances of desire. She assumes increasing responsibility for the work of the Guild, providing design guidance and supervising the other engineers. Meanwhile, she remains open to the varied opportunities for sensual pleasure offered by Guild membership. She understands that lust is the lubricant for the Guild’s creativity and that despite the outrageous ways that it is sometimes expressed, the bonds among the Toymakers go far beyond the physical.
Authors often – perhaps even always – use aspects of themselves when creating their characters. Nevertheless, Gillian is not me. When I was nineteen, I was a dreamy bookworm, not an engineer. While she is bold and self-confident, I was painfully shy. Her appearance – tall, slender, with curly reddish hair – has little in common with my short, curvy build and mousy brown locks.
Still, at her age I was as fascinated by sex as she is, if nowhere near as active. As I grew older, that fascination deepened. I began to explore my kinks and cravings and live out my fantasies in a manner that she’d understand. I’ve had sexual adventures she’d find quite familiar. In the meantime, my view of sexuality ended up having quite a lot in common with hers – that even what seems like casual lust has emotional and spiritual dimensions.
I also must admit to basing some of Gillian’s emotions and behavior as a technical project leader on my own experience. I did end up as an engineer of sorts: a software engineer. Most of the technology in the Toymakers Guild series comes straight out of my imagination. I couldn’t wire a motor or machine a set of gears to save my life. But I do know what it’s like trying to deal with bugs in your programs when you’re facing a critical deadline. I understand the heavy burden of responsibility that comes with commitments that seem impossible to fulfill.
So, yes, Jill and I do share some traits and beliefs, though there’s more than a century between our worlds and half a century between our ages. To me, though, she’s an independent individual – and after three novels, remarkably real. As an author, I’m amazed by the way characters develop over the course of writing a book. They begin as a sketch, perhaps borrowing from people we know (including ourselves), but before long they have lives of their own. Having followed her for more than three years and two hundred fifty thousand words, I know who Gillian Smith is. Honestly, though, I don’t know where she came from.
Praise for The Toymakers Guild: The Pornographer’s Apprentice,The Toymakers Guild Book 1 There are many more plot points, but I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment of this book. It has varied and steamy sex scenes that will take your breath away, a plucky heroine who doesn’t always come out on top (ahem), but who always prevails in her quest to be accepted as a Toymaker. ~ Fiona McGier, Goodreads
With thoughtfully written characters, hot sex scenes, and a well-paced and interesting plot, the Toymaker’s Apprentice leaves you asking only one question….when is the next book in the series coming out? ~ The Phantom Tollbooth, Amazon
[A] fast paced, hilarious, and thoroughly entertaining story as Gillian gets intimate with the staff and technology, only to find that there is a plot against the Guild that she takes on to save the day. I can’t wait to read what happens in the next book! ~ Arthur Royo, Amazon
The Journeyman’s Trial, The Toymakers Guild Book 2 Lisabet Sarai has taken on the challenge of following up The Pornographer’s Apprentice. I’m happy to say she’s exceeded her own lofty standards of writing. The dialogue in the story is unique, accurate to the era, and oftentimes features beautiful lines. You can look forward to a shocking mass of creativity from the ingenious mind of Miss Sarai. The erotic scenes are written beautifully and explosively. I found the pleasure of the characters hit me just as hard as it hit them. I’m looking forward to more from this world and the characters! ~ Amazon Customer, Verified Purchaser
Wow! Wonderful stories and superb writing. Black Velvet Seductions’ usual great job!
I’ve been lucky to be part of several anthologies produced by Black Velvet Seductions. They’ve all been excellent, really. But having just finished reading the newest, Dark Desire, I have to admit that I think this one might be my favorite. The stories are all very different. Even the ones with similar themes (shifters or ghosts) handle them in unique ways. Often in an anthology I might find one I’m not thrilled with. In Dark Desires, I enjoyed every single story.
Dark Desire has 12 stories written by: Alice Renaud, Alan Souter, Nancy Golinsky, Anne Krist, S.K. White, Virginia Wallace (two stories), F. Burn, Deborah Kelsey, Gibby Campbell, Zia Westfield, and Estelle Pettersen–all wonderful writers. If you don’t have a favorite among them now, you will when you read the book!
Here’s my review of the stories. I give all of them 5 stars.
Blood of the Ocean—Alice Renaud I love Renaud’s mer stories but this one is slightly different in that the heroine is a mermaid criminal and exiled from her home islands. Without choice and in fear of betrayal, she teams up with a vampire to steal a precious, magical stone, the Blood of the Ocean. She didn’t expect her feelings for her new partner to be as strong and potent as her distaste for the task she had before her. The ending to this tale was a real surprise!
Wonder Town Station—Alan Souter I so enjoyed this tale of the west as it changed from bare prairie and harsh winds to towns like Wonder, finally—maybe?—coming into its own. Bob Cramer and Chelsea Pickle wait for the train on a clod station platform to take them away from Wonder, which had not lived up to its name or promise. In the course of the night, they might find wonder in each other…or they might end up dead.
Grow Where You’re Planted—Nancy Golinsky I love good ghost stories! Nancy Golinsjy’s story is one that combines ghosts with psychics who see them. The way Gina and Mike work together to get past the fear if seeing the dead and learn to use their powers for good is so good! Grow where you’re planted is great advice for sure.
Seen and Unseen—Anne Krist Some people only believe in what they can see when sometimes the unseen is what saves you.
Linked—S.K. White Linked will keep you guessing the whole way through. Lily and Colin are in an accident when his truck hydroplanes into her car and rolls them both over an embankment. It’s a miracle that he’s able to carry her to an abandoned house a short way down the road. But that’s when strange things start happening—it seems they just need to wish for things they need and they appear. But eventually, questions have to be answered. Are they dead or caught in some hallucination? Something is not right. Read on and you shall see.
The Ritual—Virginia Wallace OMG! I loved this story, a romance unlike any other you’ll read. It feels weird to think of it as sweet, but it is. Kinda. Bert and Romy are two pieces of work who found each other, for better or (probably) for worse. It takes an exceptional writer to make readers like two such unlikeable characters, but Wallace has done it. I enjoyed Wallace’s story very much.
The Substitute—F. Burn When Seth is hired as a supplement teacher in grade 6, both Michael and Natasha are instantly stunned by his good looks. But it’s Tasha who captures the new man’s attention. They come so close to admitting their feelings—Tasha is ready—but then Seth retreats. What could he be hiding? Slowly, Tasha uncovers his secret, and it’s a big one. When is true love eternal? She finds out.
Stille Nacht—Deborah Kelsey This particular Christmas nacht wasn’t so stille dring one of the darkest periods of world history when the Nazis occupied Paris. I wondered what the final outcome would be between Dieter and Faber in their duel of sexual superiority. Faber is obviously the Dom in the pair, but his desire for Dieter leads them on a dark battle nonetheless. Who will win? Or will the answer be both?
Electrifying—Gibby Campbell When Alex, an ER doctor, lost her job and her sub al in the same day, she was faced with life-changing decisions. The move to Boulder, Colorado brought more advantages than she expected, though, when she boarded her horse with rodeo cowboy Josh. Not only easy on the eyes, Josh intrigued her. She sensed he might make a good sub, and she proved to be right. With Josh, she explored dark ideas she never dared before.
Beginning Forever—Virginia Wallace “Werewolves and serial killers have one thing in common: seclusion is ever their ally.” This line described Jillian as her wolf. She’s found him, David, and is ready to go in for the kill That’s before she sees her him…and he sees her. Of course, she doesn’t kill him but that’s because they have a past. One he doesn’t remember. He’s also not aware of what she is. Their attraction grows until Jillian just can’t keep her secrets any longer. And then what will they become? I’m a real fan of Wallace’s writing!
Ryker’s Destiny—Zia Westfield I loved this story! Fantasy, with shifters, fae, and war between the clans. Ryker is a bear shifter who takes his injured brother to a great healer. She agrees to heal his brother if Ryker agrees to save her granddaughter. He does agree, and at their first meeting realizes that she is his fated mate. This is a story that could be read in segments to middle schoolers.
The Wolf of Varg Island—Estelle Pettersen Another wonderful story of wolf shifting. Harper has been plagued by dreams of chasing a wolf. No, the shadow of a wolf. Only the shadow. She is with an abusive boyfriend and needs time to recharge her batteries and evaluate her life, so she takes a cabin on Varg Island for a week. There she meets Chris Varg. Soon, she discovers his secret. And then she discovers her own.
I know you are going to enjoy Dark Desire as much as I did! I’d love it if you would leave a review to let BVS know what you thought!
How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
Gigi’s Playhouseis a worldwide organization dedicated to helping children and young adults with Down syndrome become better developed and to be accepted by their communities and their families. A large number of pre-birth children who are detected to have Down are aborted. Gigi’s Playhouse show what a joy and blessing those children can be. Their mission is: “To change the way the world views Down syndrome and to send a global message of acceptance for all.” Please check them out. One of their 55 locations might be near you if you have a need, or near someone you know. Thanks for commenting!
My book this month is The Man of Her Dreams.
Blurb: It will take a heck of a psychic to keep Dan from getting killed. Is Cassandra that good?
A woman who has traveled thousands of miles searching for a tall man with brilliant blue eyes, a man she’s been dreaming of for months.
A man whose life is in danger—or so the screwy woman having dreams and visions says—but who doesn’t believe for one minute in the occult.
A man who has been thought dead for two years and who disappeared with a bundle in stolen cash.
How will these three come together? And who will be left standing at the end of their encounter?
Excerpt: “What did you mean that after seeing me you thought you might be in the right place?”
A few moments passed while Cassandra considered what to say. People so often took her precognitions the wrong way. Finally, she screwed up her courage and turned to him.
“This is going to be hard for you to understand. I’ve… seen you before. I’ve had dreams for the past several weeks that feature you pretty prominently. I recognized you as soon as I saw you.”
Dan glanced at her, incredulity plain on his face and then he chuckled. “I have to admit, I don’t think any woman has ever told me that she dreamed about me before. Not literally, anyway. You mean you had a dream about a guy like me.”
“No, I mean I dreamed about you, you specifically. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.” She looked out the window to the side of the road, seeing only pines and a house here and there, in the growing darkness. Dan didn’t speak immediately.
“What is it you dream? Something enjoyable, I hope.” His words were light but his tone made it clear that he wasn’t happy with the subject.
“Actually…” She turned to look at him again, “I’m glad you asked, because I wondered how I was going to bring this up. I dream that you’re dying. Drowning. You need to take special care around water.”
Dan glanced at her again, his lips compressed and his eyes narrowed into slits. “Not so pleasant then. Good thing I don’t believe in that sort of stuff. I noticed you’ve got California plates. The land of nuts, they say. No offense, but maybe there’s some truth to that.”
Cassandra glared at Dan. “You’d do well not to toss around old clichés and misconceptions, considering how many there are about the South. I appreciate your stopping and helping me as you have, but let’s not go any further down this path of conversation.” She lapsed into silence.
Fortunately, Dan didn’t try to engage her in any more talk. She’d have to consider how to bring up the subject of her dreams again when maybe he’d be in a more receptive frame of mind. She hadn’t traveled over three thousand miles to give up after one brush off.
After several minutes of tense silence, he pulled up in front of the Green Hills Inn. “I’ll wait here while you find out if they have a room.”
Cassandra went inside, returning shortly with a key. Opening the back door to reach for her suitcases, she said, “Thanks very much, Dan. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me. Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Wait a minute.” Dan jumped out of the truck and grabbed her suitcases. “I’ll take these up for you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Just get on inside, will you?” he said harshly.
Cassandra scowled, but walked through the lobby to the elevators, where she jabbed the Up button. At room 410 she slid the keycard into the slot and opened the door just enough to admit herself. Turning, she wrestled her suitcases from Dan.
“Thanks again. Bye.”
As she backed into the room and dropped her bags beside the bed, Dan put his hand against the door to stop it from closing and followed her in.
“Wait just a damn minute,” Cassandra started, “you’ve got no right to come into my room. Just because you helped me out doesn’t give you any claims, and I’ll thank you to leave. Now.” Fire filled her tone. She’d been single long enough to know how to take care of herself, but she was a little tired for a fight.
“I’m not asking for any claims, lady. I’ve just got something to say to you, and I think it will be in your best interest to listen up. There’re a lot of superstitious notions still believed by some people in the South, but most people are going to look at you like you’re crazy if you go around telling them you’ve been seeing and hearing things. And rightly so, to my way of thinking. So just a friendly word of warning. However long you’re in my town, you’ll get along better if you keep your little loony visions to yourself.” He had stepped right up to her and looked directly down into her eyes.
“Your town?” She felt the heat from his body and his breath softly blowing her hair. Although she knew she was frowning and appeared in control, inside she trembled. Like a tug-of-war, he had the power to pull her closer while she fought to remain steady, cool, and calm. Or at least appear that way. With effort, she steeled herself.
“My town, California.”
“Point taken. Now you can leave. Or do you have any other words of wisdom to pass on?”
His eyes fell to her mouth then slowly moved back up to her eyes.
“I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you,” he murmured. Grasping her shoulders, he lowered his head and kissed her, softly at first, but then harder as his body began to respond.
Without meaning to, Cassandra moaned, falling into the kiss as she leaned into him. His lips were soft and warm. He used them to massage hers and coax them into opening. His tongue was light on her lips, silky, brushing them as if to imprint their texture and form. She forgot for a moment that she had only known this man for a couple of hours.
Just as he tried to slip his tongue between her lips, she came to herself and pushed against him. She caught her breath and without thinking, slapped him hard across the face.
Shock filled his eyes, and then anger as he stepped back. She could see her handprint on his cheek and knew that it had to have hurt, because her hand hurt. Putting her fingers to her lips as though to erase his kiss, she stared at him.
“I hope you enjoy your short time in Greenwood and have a safe journey when you leave. Dill will take good care of your car. Goodnight, Ms. Hudson.” He turned and stormed from the room. A minute later, alerted by the unmistakable noise from the diesel engine, she strode to the window and watched him pull away from the motel and onto the street.
Cassandra took her bag of toiletries into the bathroom and undressed for her shower. Although she was shaken from the kiss and her initial reaction to Dan Morgan, the water beating against her body helped relax her. By the time she had put on her soft cotton gown, she knew she could sleep.
However, she hadn’t been in deep sleep very long before the dream started again.
Author Dee S. Knight:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.
After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website (www.nomadauthors.com). Fortunately, Dee’s high school sweetheart is the love of her life and husband to all three ladies! On the last Sunday of the month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for her newsletter for exclusive access to free novellas, poetry, and stuff.
