Archive for the 'Excerpts' Category

Tuesday, December 18th, 2012 by Sasha White
Excerpt: One Weekend

It’s excerpt week, and I wanted to share a little bit of ONE WEEKEND with you. This was my first menage story. I’d written menage scenes, but never a story, and I was pleasantly surprised at readers reactions to it. They loved it so much, and kept asking for more, that I’ve been working on a sequel. ONE CHOICE is the title of the sequel, and it’ll be out by the end of the month. FOr now, take a peek, and see if you’re intrigued.

* * * * *

“Oh my God. You didn’t!”
Twilight had turned the sky into a wash of red purple and orange, but the temperature hadn’t dropped more than three or four degrees, so we were still out on the balcony. Our chairs circled the small glass table littered with empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, and we all had a nice buzz going. Against both Rick and Mark’s objections I’d wrapped a cotton sarong around my body when I’d gotten up to pay the pizza delivery guy, and kept it on while we ate. Despite my adding a layer—albeit a thin one—of clothing, our conversation was once again in dangerously erotic territory. For the past three hours no matter what we talked about, the conversation always worked its way back to sex. It was like the three of us were bonded by one great big horny mind.
“Why not?” Mark asked with mock innocence. “The guy wanted to suck dick, and I enjoy being sucked. We both got what we wanted.”
“But you never even saw him. You have no idea who it was!”
The men shared a laugh, and Rick grinned. “That’s the point of a glory hole, babe.”
A glory hole. A hole in the wall in the bathroom of some club that guys could stick their dick in and get it sucked by some nameless faceless person on the other side of the wall. My mind was thinking, how stupid is that? But there was no denying the arousal curling in my belly and the slick building between my thighs. How sexy would it be to suck a complete stranger off? STD’s aside, the idea was dirty and dangerous, and it got me hot in all the right ways.
As if he could read my mind Rick stared at me intensely. Then his left eye blinked slow and seductively. It was a small and simple gesture, no leer, no smile, just a wink that said he knew what the sex talk was doing to me. The man knew that behind the logical straight-laced accountant was a girl who secretly loved the raw and raunchy.
Speaking of which… “How do you know for sure it was a him?”
“Easy.” Mark shrugged. “Men do it different.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I’ve had both. If a guy is sucking your dick, he’s doing it because he enjoys it and it shows. Most of the time when a girl is doing it, she’s doing it to either get something from you or because you’ve begged. They’re not exactly enthusiastic.”
The mind boggled. What to tackle first? The fact that Mark, a guy so unrelentingly male, had been sexual with other guys before. How many and just how sexual? Had they all been nameless, faceless glory-hole types or perhaps there was something I didn’t know about our friend? Then there was the fact that some women give head because they enjoy it.
Before I could decide which direction to take the conversation, Mark did it for me by smirking at Rick and saying, “I don’t understand why women hate to give head so much.”
I tried to sound casual. “Not all women hate it.”
Mark snorted into his beer, but Rick nodded. “She’s right.”
As if neither of us had spoken, Mark continued on. “And what’s even stranger is that women don’t like getting it either. I love eating a woman until she’s come a couple of times. Then her pussy is all juicy and wet and delicious, but that embarrasses them. Commercialism has women so convinced men don’t like the smell of a cunt that they only let you get down there and have a couple of licks before they pull you up by the hair. It’s been so long since I’ve had more than a tease I can’t even remember what a woman tastes like. Guys like to know when a woman’s turned on and the juice tells us that. It’s hot.” Mark glared at me shaking his head. “I just don’t get your kind.”
“Not all women are like that,” I said again. “Some of us actually enjoy oral sex. Giving and receiving.”
“Like Angie,” Rick said, waving the hand with his beer in it in my direction. “I can tie her to the bed and eat her over and over until she screams, and then she thanks me for it.”
Mark’s eyebrows shot north, hiding under his shaggy bangs. “Really?”
“Oh yeah, and sometimes I think she prefers sucking me to fucking me.”
Both men looked at me and a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment crept up my neck and into my cheeks.
“Reeaaally,” Mark repeated, drawing the word out and smiling at me. “I’ve always known a bad girl lurked beneath those sexy secretary outfits you wear, but this is even hotter than your ability to slam tequila with the boys.”
Choosing to ignore Mark’s bad girl comments, I addressed Rick’s. “It’s not that I don’t love the way you love me, babe, but yeah, I have to admit there are times when I get off more on giving you pleasure than receiving it.”
Rick’s dark eyes gleamed. “C’mon, Ange, be honest. There’s more to it than giving me pleasure.”
Blame it on the sweltering summer heat, the sexual tension that had been building ever since I’d sauntered out onto the deck in my underwear, or the tequila, but I couldn’t help myself. Sitting around with two hot and tempting men talking about sex for three hours had loosened my tongue and primed my pussy. The naughty devil that had perched on my shoulder all night jumped up and ran away with my tongue.
“I love to suck dick,” I admitted bluntly. “I love the feel of a man’s cock in my mouth. The totally male musky flavor, the sounds a man makes when he’s on the edge, the hot throbbing against my tongue as his cock gets bigger and harder and come starts to leak out the tip. I love it. I love it all.”
Lust was stamped clearly on Mark’s face. “Damn, Rick. You’re one lucky bastard.”
“If Rick said it was okay, I’d tell you to come see me the next time you want your cock sucked,” I continued rashly. “I’d show you a woman could enjoy it. I bet I’d give you the best head you ever had, better than any man or woman has ever given you.”
Both men stared at me, mouths open in surprise. By the time my brain caught up with my mouth Rick had that look in his eyes. The look that said “I double dog dare you”.
Unlike most men, Rick wasn’t pissed off by what I’d said. Oh no, instead of getting all bent out of shape, my man was…aroused.
Sure enough, he quirked an eyebrow at me. “Go for it.”

Three lovers. Two days. One bed…

Angie Wilson is a lucky girl. She loves her job, her life, and her man, Rick Craig. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t revel in the attentions of a good-looking, athletic boyfriend who’s secure enough to encourage her most adventurous appetites?

One of the worst heat waves in memory has hit town, and by Friday Angie is ready to really let loose. Craig and his best friend, Mark, are chilling on the patio with cold beer when she gets home from work, and the three get comfortable. As the night moves on and the talk turns to sex, Angie longs for more than just cool air on her bare skin.

And the heat’s making her just crazy enough to go for it.

Read More about ONE WEEKEND

Monday, December 17th, 2012 by Carrie Vaughn
Excerpt: Kitty Rocks the House

Hey all, welcome to my last week of the Christmas rush:  I still have to do all the baking, I have a couple of handmade gifts that need finishing, and I would love to run by the mall at least once, just to take in the atmosphere, even though my shopping is just about done.  And I’m still trying to get some work done, because freelancers don’t really get vacations.  (Or, as I like to think of it, every day is a vacation…)

As you know from Sasha’s post yesterday, we’ll be wrapping up Genreality at the start of the new year.  Please let me know if you have any last-minute questions or topics you’d like to see me talk about, and I’ll get to it after the holiday break.

In the meantime, have an excerpt — a bit of holiday reading!


Chapter 1
For all the death I’d seen, I’d been to very few funerals.

This one was fraught, and I couldn’t sort out my feelings, or what I was supposed to be feeling.  Grandma Norville had fallen and broken her hip three months ago, but the pneumonia she caught after had been the final culprit.  I kept thinking I should have been there.  I could have come to visit one more time if I hadn’t been so busy, if I’d just made the effort.  But I thought she’d hang on longer.  I thought she’d always be here.  How selfish was it, to feel guilty at someone’s funeral, as if her passing were somehow my fault, or a personal inconvenience?  I was sad, nostalgic, tired, shell-shocked.

Mostly, I was worried about my father.  He seemed tall and stoic enough, his chin up, eyes dry.  Mom held her arm wrapped around his and kept a tissue close to her eyes.  He didn’t seem to be looking at anything, though.  Not the flower-drenched casket, not the dark-suited minister, not the sky or grassy lawn with its rows of modern, polished headstones.  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.  I couldn’t ask.

The service was graveside, the springtime Arizona weather was reasonable–sunny, but windy.  I kept squinting against dust in the air.  The crowd gathered was small, incongruously young.  All of Grandma’s friends, siblings, and her husband had gone before her.  All that was left were her three kids, their families, and a couple of staff from her retirement home.  It had been a quiet ceremony.

My husband Ben and I had driven all night to get here.  We stood a little apart from the others.  Not so much as to be noticeable, but enough to be comfortable for us.  Werewolves didn’t do so well in groups, even ones as small as this.  Especially when we were off balance.  We stood side by side, our hands entwined.  Ben had never even met Grandma.  He was here to look out for me.  A rock to stand next to.  He’d pulled out polish, combing the scruff out of his light brown hair and wearing his best courtroom lawyer suit with a muted navy tie.  I’d had a terrible time packing, convinced that all my clothes were inappropriate for the situation.  I’d settled on a black skirt and tailored cream blouse for the service, and pinned my blond hair up in a twist.  I looked like a waitress.

The rest of the family had flown ahead of us.  My sister Cheryl’s husband, Mark, had stayed home with their two kids.  Standing next to Mom, hugging herself, Cheryl seemed small in her dress suit, which she probably hadn’t worn since before she was pregnant with Nicky, eight years ago now.  She was staring at the flowers with a wrinkled, worried frown.

The minister, a nondenominational chaplain from the retirement home, spoke in a calm, inoffensive voice.  He’d started with a Bible verse, the one about walking in the valley of shadows and not fearing evil, and dispensed comforting words of wisdom that might have come from the lyrics of a sixties folk song.

What would the guy say if I told him that I’d had proof that people existed in some form after death?  He’d probably say, of course.  He was a  minister, after all.  I had proof of life after death.  But I couldn’t say I believed in heaven or hell.  I still didn’t know what exactly happened to us after we died.  What had happened to my grandmother.

When people at the funeral told me that my grandmother had gone to a better place, did I believe them?  I believed that part of her lived on.  But I couldn’t say where she was.  Was she here, watching us mourn for her?  I resisted an urge to call out loud to her, just in case.  Was the cemetery filled with the shadows of the dead, all of them watching?

I’d met beings who claimed to be gods.  Were they, or were they just powerful people who had existed for thousands of years and so built up a tangle of stories around them, and in those stories they became gods?    When the minister called on his own God, did he really know who he was praying to?

In matters of faith, I couldn’t believe in much of anything anymore.  I had my family who loved me, my friends I could count on, and that was about it.  Everything else–I saw the signs, but I didn’t know what they meant.  All I could do was focus on the road in front of me.

The chaplain said his amens, the rest of us echoed him, he closed his book, and that was that.  I decided Grandma would have been disappointed with the whole thing.  She’d have wanted something big and grand in a cathedral, with organ music.  But this wasn’t for her, it was for the rest of us.  Funny how we all seemed so anxious.  I wasn’t sure having a chance to say good-bye at a funeral was any better than not having a chance to say good-bye, when the people you loved were snatched away in front of you without ceremony.

We filed back to the cars parked along the curb, leaving the flowers and casket behind.  The earth that would fill in the grave had been discreetly hidden away during the ceremony, and would be brought back after we’d all left.  I spotted the cemetery employees who would do the deed lurking behind a well-groomed hedge, waiting.

I squeezed Ben’s hand before letting go and trotted forward to catch up to my dad.

“Dad?  You okay?”

He smiled a sad smile, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close to give me a kiss on the top of my head.  Without a word, he let me go and kept walking on with my mother.

So what did that mean?

My aunt, Dad’s younger sister, was hosting a lunch–catered, I found out after discretely poking among my cousins, which was a relief.  Friends had been bringing over mountains of food as well.  I didn’t want to find out anyone had been cooking for everybody, but no one had.  A little less guilt there.  I slipped my cousins some money to help with the cost.  Wasn’t much else I could do.  Ben got directions to their house; I’d never been there.  I was close to my immediate family, but I didn’t see the extended family that often.  Weddings and funerals, and that was it.  Another cliché in a day filled with them.

Before we reached the car, I took a last look over the cemetery’s green slope, toward the row of folding chairs and mountain of flowers that marked Grandma’s grave.  Said a farewell, just in case she was hanging around, and just in case she could hear.

Ben had stopped a few yards away from me and gazed off to a stand of bordering trees.  Two figures, a man and a woman, were standing there.

“You see that?” he said, nodding toward them.

“Yeah.  They just keeping an eye on us or do they want to make trouble?”

“You want to find out?”

“I kind of do,” I said, and we started toward them.

They’d put themselves upwind so we’d be sure to catch their scents:  musky, odd.  Werewolves and foreign–not part of our pack.  He was a big, burly latino; she was young and motherly, her dark hair in a ponytail, a gray cardigan over her jeans and blouse.  When we approached within speaking distance, they lowered their gazes.  She started fidgeting, shuffling her feet–pacing, almost.

“You must be Andy and Michelle,” I said.

She blushed and smiled; he nodded, only raising his gaze to us for brief moments.  The werewolf pair had gone submissive, which was a little unnerving–they were the alphas of the Phoenix pack, strong and dominant.  I’d been able to send a message ahead to warn them we were coming, that we had no intentions of invading, and could we please have permission to stay in their territory for as long as we needed for the funeral?  They’d sent a welcoming message back.  I wasn’t sure we’d even meet them while we were here, or if they’d keep their distance.

“Thanks,” Ben said.  “For letting us pass through.  I hope it hasn’t caused any trouble.”

“Oh, no,” Andy said.  “I hope you haven’t had any trouble.  You haven’t, have you?  You have everything you need?  Is there anything else we can do for you?  A place to run, maybe?”

“No,” Ben said.  “Full moon’s not for another week, fortunately.”

“Ah, good,” Michelle said.  “I mean, not good–I’m really sorry about your grandmother.”

My polite smile was feeling awfully stiff.  “Thanks.  We’d probably better get back to it.  We’ll let you know if we need anything.  Really.”  I started backing away slowly.

“It’s nice meeting you,” Michelle said.  She was so earnest I could almost see her tail wagging.  “I mean–you’re not really what we expected.”

“What did you expect?” I said.

She ducked her gaze.  “Well, you both look so friendly.  I guess we expected you to be. . .”

“Tougher.  Tougher looking,” Andy finished.  His smile appeared as strained as my own felt.  “Given some of the stories we’ve heard.”

“Ah,” I said.  “I think some of those stories exaggerate.”

“Even so.  It’s still pretty impressive.”

I shuddered to think.  Exactly what did I look like from the outside, anyway?  I was just a talk radio host.  A werewolf talk radio host who’d publically declared war on a shadowy vampire conspiracy.  Alrighty, then.

“Thanks again,” Ben said.  “We’ll be out of your territory in a couple of days.”

Their smiles suddenly seemed relieved.  Ben and I waved good-bye and walked back to the cars.

I frowned.  “They’ve been keeping an eye on us the whole time we’ve been here, haven’t they?  Just to make sure we wouldn’t start a fight.”

“Seems likely.”  His smile was amused, his hands shoved in the pockets of his suit jacket.  I was a little offended that he wasn’t more worried, or at least insulted.

“They acted like I might try to eat them.  When did I become such a badass?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Ben said.

“I don’t even know what reputation that is anymore.  I don’t even recognize myself, the way they were looking at me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“On the contrary, I think I’d rather ignore it completely.”  I wouldn’t know how to act like the badass tough they’d expected.

Cheryl was watching our approach from the edge of the groups of relatives still lingering and talking.  There was one person who’d never see her little sister as a badass.

“Do you know them?” she asked.  Andy and Michelle were walking away, into a different section of the cemetery.

“Not really,” I said, and left it at that.

“You’re kinda weird, you know that?”

“I’m a werewolf,” I said, glaring.  “Trust me, Cheryl, you don’t want to know.”

She rolled her eyes at me.

It wasn’t until the reception was almost over, after Mom, Dad, and Cheryl had already left for their hotel room, after I’d said good-bye to all the relatives without knowing when I was going to see any of them again–we made noises about a family reunion, or maybe a big wedding anniversary celebration, or something–and Ben and I were walking out to our car, parked at the curb a block down the street, that I started crying.  The tears burst, all at once, without warning, soaking my cheeks.  I choked on a blubbering breath I couldn’t quite seem to catch.

Stopping, I squeezed my eyes shut and held my nose in an effort to stop the stinging.

“Kitty?”  Ben had gone on a few more steps before looking back.

I took a deep, stuttering breath that staved off the waterworks.  “I’m fine.  It just got me for a second.”

He took my hand and leaned close, not to kiss me, but to let his breath play over my neck.  His touch, the scent of him, calmed me.  I was safe, I was protected.  We stood like that for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence.

“I’ll drive, okay?” he said finally.


I slouched in the passenger seat, watching the suburban tract housing pass by as we drove away.  I turned over the thought that had pushed me over the edge, had triggered the grief I’d kept at bay for the last few days.  Grandma had always called me Katherine, refusing any less dignified nickname.  Never mind that I hadn’t displayed a lot of dignity as a kid.  To her, I was Katherine.

Then it hit me:  now, the only people in the world who’d call me Katherine were vampires with an overdeveloped sense of decorum.  It was enough to make anyone cry.

Thursday, October 11th, 2012 by HelenKay Dimon
Excerpt Time!

This is excerpt week. Since I have a contemporary romance coming out on the 22nd – LEAN ON ME – this seemed like a perfect time to give you a little look. Cassidy is down on her luck and moving back to town after a career implosion. Thanks to an interview she gave about the place, she’s not exactly the town’s favorite daughter…and she knows it:


She turned, ready to bat away any flying tomatoes that might come flying her way, and stared into a dark gray T-shirt straining against a firm, broad chest. Her gaze wandered up and over an open plaid shirt and a set of impressive shoulders underneath. Then she got to the face and the smile with the sexy cheek dimple.

Sweet Lord.

This guy could throw anything at her and she’d be fine so long as she got to stare at him for a few more seconds. Maybe run her fingers over the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. He had a five-o’clock shadow at two in the afternoon, and, boy, wasn’t that the sexiest thing ever.

Nice to know her girl parts still worked fine even on an unwanted limited-calorie diet. “Yes, may I help you with something?”

“When did you get back into town?”

Figured he’d have one of those deep, husky voices that vibrated right down to her…yeah, she wasn’t letting her mind wander there. “Yesterday.”

He put his hands on his lean hips. “Are you staying at the house?”

Something thunked in her brain.

His eyebrow lifted. “Cassidy?”

“I’m sorry.” Boy, was she sorry. “But do we know each other?”

“We dated in high school.”
Read the rest of this entry

Tuesday, October 9th, 2012 by Sasha White
WICKED Excerpt: (Adult only)

SInce it’s excerpt week I thought I’d share one of my favorite scenes. It’s from WICKED, the fourth of what has become my Dungeon series. In WICKED, we have Karl, a ‘lifestyle’ Dom, who’s grown a bit weary of it all, and Lara, a jack-of-all-trades sorta gal who’s got a wide independant streak….and well…I think the tagline of “who wants to be on top tonight” says it all.

TO set this scene up for you, I’ll let you know that Karl and Lara’s first date did not go as Lara expected. When they run into each other after that date, she tries to one up him, and things get very hot and naughty in a back alley. After that Karl, despite himself, couldn’t get Lara off his mind, so this is officially date 2…

Warning: Coarse Language and Subject matter. Adult Only
Lara was already at the pool table when Karl entered the pub. He stood and watched her from a distance for a few minutes. She was good, but he could beat her. She played her opponent more than the table. Bending, stretching and smiling flirtatiously.
Her tight leather vest plumped up her cleavage deliciously, and her short skirt showed off legs that every man in there wanted wrapped around his waist. No, she was no sweet submissive miss – but she was a dirty girl through and through. One who was willing to try anything once.
When she flipped back her hair, bent over, and sent the eight ball into the corner pocket with a sure stroke, he stepped forward with a small smile. “Nice work.”
She winked at him as she tucked the bills from the edge of the table into her hip pocket. “Thanks. You wanna play?”
He couldn’t hold back the images that flooded his mind at that invitation, and he grinned. “Oh yeah, but not pool. Let’s grab a seat.”
He pointed to a booth near the back corner and they headed toward it. When she slid in one side, he fought his natural urge to slide in next to her, and settled in across the table. The waitress was there immediately, smiling at him and bending over the table to give him a good view down her little tank top. “What can I do for you tonight?”
“Lara?” he asked.
When she ordered a cola, he ordered a beer and sent the waitress away with a lazy smile.
“Do women hit on you everywhere you go?”
He slouched back in his seat and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do men hit on you everywhere you go?”
Her husky chuckle filled the air between them and a knowing look passed between them. They were a lot alike.
“You don’t like to play pool?” she asked.
“I do, but there are other games I’d rather play with you. Ones that will help us get to know each other better.”
She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling, her smile wicked. “Do you really want to get to know me better, or do you just want to fuck me?”
What did he want from her?
He didn’t bother checking out the cleavage displayed so temptingly before him, he knew she was sexy. Instead, he gazed into her eyes. Searching past the spark of desire therehe saw the walls she’d built to protect her thoughts, and he wanted to knock those walls down. He wanted to know what lay beneath the surface.
And he wanted to bend her over and sink his cock in deep.
“Both,” he told her. “I think you and I can embark on a journey together – a very pleasurable one.”
Tilting her head to the side she narrowed her eyes at him. “Stop talking like a lawyer.”
“I’m not talking like a lawyer. I’m talking like a Dom, sugar.”
She sat back, surprised. “A Dom? As in, tie me up and spank me?”
He chuckled. “Something like that, yes.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks and Lara watched as he paid her, tipping heavily before sending her away with an absent smile.
A Dom.
Damn, that sorta sucked, she’d been looking forward to having that delicious cock of his buried deep inside her. She hadn’t had a good hard fuck in way too long, but she wasn’t into being spanked.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I am not a submissive person.”
“I think you might surprise yourself. You enjoyed sucking my cock the other night right?”
His small smile was starting to irritate her. “Yeah, but that’s not a submissive thing. Men are ruled by their dicks. If I can rule the dick, I can rule the man. That’s not exactly a submissive way of thinking, is it?”
“So you got no pleasure from hearing my groans of pleasure, or words of praise? No satisfaction in feeling my cock throb against your tongue as my come filled your mouth?”
His words filled her head, clouding her thoughts as the memory of the other night filled her mind. His hand in her hair, his cock in her mouth, his voice being the only thing she heard beyond the pounding of her own rushing blood as he growled his satisfaction.
She’d swallowed for him. Something she’d never done before. More than that, he was right, she’d enjoyed the whole thing. Walking away from him then had been a point of pride she’d paid for when she was alone in bed with her vibrator.
She’d never shied from a challenge before, yet Karl’s words didn’t feel like just a challenge. They felt like an … invitation? She gave herself a mental head slap. Did it really matter? She wanted him, and she would try anything once.
So she straightened her spine, thrust out her breasts and boldly met his gaze. “Do I have to call you Master?”
“Master, Sir, Karl.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You can call me what you want, whatever feels natural.”
Excitement heated her blood and kicked her pulse up a notch. “Okay, how do we do this?”
“Why don’t we start with something simple?”
“I’m ready when you are.”
His voice lowered. “Are you wearing panties?”
Adrenaline surged through her. “Yeah.”
“Take them off, please.”
She started to slide out of the booth only to be stopped by his foot blocking her way. She glanced from the black boot to the man across the table, her forehead wrinkling. “Excuse me?”
“Stay here and take them off,” he commanded softly. “You proved the other night that you were adventurous when it came to taking risks in public, this should be nothing to you.”
He was right – it was nothing. So why was her heart suddenly pounding so hard it vibrated through her chest?
Without bothering to think about it, she shifted forward on her seat a little and reached under the table. Keeping her eyes locked with his she slid her fingers up her outer thighs and under her denim skirt. She planted her feet on the floor, lifted her hips and tugged at the elastic until the thong slipped from between her cheeks and down her legs.
Bunching the lace in one fist she felt the damp proof of her excitement against the palm of her hand, and pride zipped through her.
“Can I get you anything, sir? Another beer?” The waitress stood at the edge of their table, eyeing Karl.
Deliberately, Lara put her hand on the table between them, and opened it up, offering Karl her panties. Karl smiled his approval and reached for them while he spoke. “No thank you. I have everything I need for now.”
Lara tried not to smirk as the waitress stomped away. When she saw Karl lift the bundle of lace to his face and inhale, her moment of satisfaction faded into a blur of uncertainty.
“You smell wonderful,” he said. “Already turned on, are you?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. Trying not to let him see just how affected she truly was.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes, what?”
“When I ask you a question, I’d like you to answer clearly. Yeah, isn’t a proper answer.”
“Okay.” She nodded, feeling like a chastened child.
“Okay isn’t acceptable either.” His body didn’t move, but the energy around him shifted. Becoming almost palpable in its force as he stared at her. “Clear communication is essential, Lara. So is honesty. You always have the right to say no, or stop, at any time, and I will honor your choice. But you have to be clear. Yeah and okay imply uncertainty or disinterest, and that does neither of us any justice.”
Her nipples ached and she squeezed her thighs together. He wasn’t touching her, and his words weren’t particularly dirty or sexy, but her body was reacting in a big way to his tone of voice.
Pushing the heady clouds of lust away from her brain she focused on what he’d said. “I can say no at any time?”
“But aren’t I supposed to do whatever you say?”
“Only if you want to. That’s what makes the power exchange of D/s so potent. It’s a free exchange, one that is meant to give us both what we need.”
Need. She nodded, even though she didn’t really understand what he was saying. She’d understood she could say no at any time, and that was all she cared about at the moment. Need was flooding her pretty damn fast and she hoped he was going to do something about it soon.
Oh hell, he wanted honesty. She licked her lips and leaned forward. “I need you to fuck me, and soon. Is that clear enough?”
Heat flashed through Karl, straight to his cock at her words. “Very good. Shall we go then?”
He slid out of the booth and waited for her. Lara’s eyes widened and she stared up at him. “It’s as easy as that?”
“It is tonight,” he said as she slid out of the booth and stood in front of him.

Bad-boy divorce attorney Karl Dawson has seen all the ways love can go wrong. That’s why he’s given up on it. Jaded and feeling restless, he has playmates, not girlfriends. A leather-clad Dominant, he comes and goes in the city’s after-dark playgrounds as he pleases. That’s how he likes it.

Lara Fox is an independent jack-of-all-trades who can do anything she sets her mind to – except that falling-in-love thing. She’s got a need for control too strong for most men, and an inability to walk away from a challenge. Including a challenge like Karl. He’s cocky, arrogant, and demanding. That’s how she needs it.

They’re perfect for each other. But what begins as a sensual battle of wills turns into a journey neither is prepared for when Lara is threatened and emotional walls start to crumble.

Monday, October 8th, 2012 by Carrie Vaughn
Excerpt Week!

This week, we’re posting excerpts of our work for you to take a look at.  I always have such a hard time deciding what to share for things like this.  Something old?  Something new?  Something in progress?  My latest book came out a couple of months ago, and my next publication isn’t going to be released for a few months, so I don’t really have anything I need to promote right at the moment, which means my possibilities are wide open.

How about I give you a taste of my next steampunk story, due out in February in the Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination?  I’ve got plans for lots more stories starring Harry and Marlowe, and their adventures give me a fun break from other work I’ve been doing.

Harry and Marlowe Meet the Founder of the Aetherian Revolution

“We could have taken your brother’s courier ship and arrived in a quarter of the time.”

“No, we couldn’t,” Harry said, scowling at Marlowe, who  knew very well they shouldn’t be here at all, much less aboard George’s ship.  But he seemed to enjoy mentioning her brother and reminding her of the impropriety of it all.  It was a long-running joke, and she let him have his fun.   Marlowe just smiled.

They’d taken a carriage — a regular hired coach, horse-drawn even — from the Oxford station to the doctor’s estate.  The journey from London had taken most of the day, which left them facing the gatehouse on an overcast afternoon, the sunlight fading, the world growing colder.  Despite the spiked iron gate, the estate was modest.  She could have walked the perimeter of the grounds in half an hour, though the curving gravel drive gave the impression of greater space.  At the end of the curve one could glimpse the house, a two-story grey pile with a slate roof and clay chimneys, walls fuzzed with ivy, windows brooding.  All of it easily manageable, easily guarded.

The gate was the only access through a ten-foot high wall that surrounded the house.  At the top of the wall copper conductors placed every dozen feet or so guided an Aetherian charge, a crackling stream of deadly green energy.  A second barrier, impassible, should someone think that they could climb the wall.  The humming, flickering light traveled down the bars of the gate as well.

Impatient, she opened the carriage door before the driver or one of the soldiers from the gatehouse arrived to do so.  However, before she could let herself out, Marlowe slipped out, let down the step, and offered his hand to her.  Propriety, indeed.  Remembering herself, she gathered her skirt in one hand, took his with the other, and stepped neatly out of the coach.

Four soldiers on weekly rotation from the local regiment served guard duty here.  One of them–an officer by his insignia–approached.  A Lieutenant Bradley commanded the unit.  This must be him.

“I’m sorry,” the lieutenant said.  “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but this area is restricted.  The house isn’t open–”

“I know.  This is Dr. James Marlowe, and I’m Miss Mills, his secretary.  We’re here to see Doctor Carlisle,” Harry said, drawing a folded paper from her handbag.  The letter was affixed with the royal seal, confusing everyone who looked at it, but everyone who looked at it was well-trained not to ask questions.  They’d merely have to wonder why two unassuming travelers had the Crown Prince’s approval.  Not that they did, really.  The lieutenant opened the letter and read it over–taking his time, to his credit.

When he’d finished, he looked across the page and studied them, the unlikely visitors.  “Very well, then.  Give us a moment to open the gate.  Sir, miss.”  He tipped his hat at them and turned back to the house.

Marlowe tucked his portfolio under his arm and gave the driver a few coins.  “Can you return for us in two hours?”

“Yes, sir.”  The man remounted his carriage and drove off.

Marlowe could never quite manage polish, even when he meant to be traveling as a respectable gentleman.  Locks of hair escaped from under his bowler hat, his face showed pale stubble, and his tie was loose where he’d tugged on his collar.  His jacket, trousers, and boots were acceptable but not outstanding.  Truth be told, she liked him better without the polish — he looked like a man who was too busy to worry about inconsequential details like trimmed hair and neat ties.

“I hope two hours will be enough,” Marlowe said, watching the driver depart.

“I fear we’ll be wanting out of here much sooner than that.  Part of me hopes this is all a waste of time.”  She sighed.

Marlowe shook his head.  “No, this is a rare opportunity.  To meet the genius who created the Aetherian Revolution?  Without him we’d have none of this.”  He gestured ahead.

The front window of the gatehouse revealed a pair of brown-uniformed soldiers at work, one hauling down on a lever mounted on a wall, the other operating an unseen control panel.  A metallic clang followed, the banging of steel on steel; the Aetherian hum faded, and the crackling stream of power guarding the wall vanished.  Now the wall was just a wall, and the gate was just a gate.  Harry still regarded the wrought iron cautiously.

“We might have been better off,” she said.

“Never think so,” Marlowe said.  “Ernest Carlisle may be the only one who can move my work forward.”

“Don’t you think you’d solve the problem yourself, eventually?” Harry said.

“We don’t have time for that,” he said.

Of course, Harry thought.  Not with the war on.  It was the unspoken postscript to everything they did.

Bradley emerged from the gatehouse and said, “It’s safe, now.  I’ll escort you in.”

The soldiers in the gatehouse turned another set of levers, and bolts lurched open, another metallic clunk.  The middle of the gate split apart, and Bradley pushed it open.  Harry suppressed a flinch when he touched the gate.  No Aetherian charge scorched him.

Marlowe offered his arm, and she took it.  They walked with the lieutenant toward the manor.

The gates clanged shut and locked behind them, and Harry glanced over her shoulder.

Turning back, she said, “Lieutenant, tell me about the Doctor.  What is his schedule like?  How many servants are here at the house, and how do you supervise them?”

“He has no servants, miss.  By his own request.  He said the necessary restrictions on them were too great to bother.  A cook from the village comes in the morning to make his meals for the day, and a cleaner comes once a week.  But her work is little enough–most of the house is shut up.”

“Is that so?”

“Doctor Carlisle is confined to a wheelchair, miss.  He has chambers on the ground floor.  I thought you would know, since you’ve permission to see him.”

“For how long?” she said.  This wasn’t in any of the reports.

“Ten years, since the disaster.  I’m given to understand he sustained injuries.”  They’d reached the house now, and Bradley nodded.  “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll let the doctor know he has visitors.”

The door had a speaker box by it, which the lieutenant leaned into.  Harry and Marlowe stayed back and spoke in whispers.

“Did you know Carlisle was infirm?” she asked him.

“I didn’t.  There were rumors of illness, but I thought it had more to do with age.  Or a broken spirit.”

“Why is it a secret, do you suppose?”

“Out of respect for the man’s dignity, I imagine.”

“As if he had any left.”  But he did, or he would not be living like this, in a polite fiction of genteel retirement–under guard.  She frowned.  “What does it say that we’re so afraid of a man who’s crippled that we keep him locked up like this?”

“Because it’s Doctor Carlisle,” Marlowe said, and he was right.  Carlisle certainly couldn’t be allowed to go free.  Neither could he be truly imprisoned, or executed, or exiled.  He was the realm’s great conundrum.  Or rather, its second great conundrum, after the conundrum that Carlisle himself had made his name exploiting.

“Be careful, Marlowe.  You sound as if you admire the man.”

“Oh, I won’t forget the man’s murderer.”


“Are you sure you aren’t letting your personal feelings unduly influence you?”

“Of course I am.  What else are personal feelings for?”  She shook her head.  “He can’t have turned everything over when he was arrested.  A man like him — he kept something back as a bargaining chip should he ever need it.  Some scrap of research, some artifact.  I want to know what.”

“We both do.  Are you ready for this?”

“Yes,” she said.

Bradley was exchanging words with the person on the other end of the speaker box.  The responses were little more than incomprehensible scratching.  But eventually, Bradley drew out a key and unlocked the front door.

“He’s ready for you.  I’ll show you to the library.”

“I very much appreciate your help, Lieutenant.  I know this must disrupt your routine terribly,” Harry said with a kind and practiced smile.

The soldier beamed back at her.  “It’s no trouble, miss.”

“You’re very good at that,” Marlowe whispered to her.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Better you than me, then.”

It was why they made such a good team.

Bradley guided them through a tiled foyer and into a parlor.

Nothing in the house indicated the character of the man who lived in it.  She might have been in any respectable gentry home:  decent furniture, lightly used; unassuming still life paintings on the wall; neat wallpaper and drapes, carpet over hardwood.  All of it might have been chosen by some matron desperate not to stand out.  On the other side of the parlor, Bradley opened a set of double doors and guided them into the library.

This was Dr. Carlisle’s room, where he spent his time and where he’d put his things.  Apart from walls full of books, the room had a great fireplace with a well-worn armchair sitting in front of it, a window overlooking a patch of flowers, lots of framed photographs on the walls and on various desks and tables.  In the middle sat two large worktables.  One of them was overflowing with books — stacked, open to different pages, as if he were reading a dozen at once.  The other held various crafts and hobbies — fly-tying equipment, the clockworks of antique pocket watches, a sketchbook, a set of watercolor paints.  Even toys — wind-ups and clockworks that Carlisle seemed to be in the process of repairing.  Or dissecting.

Carlisle himself sat at the table in a wheelchair, a blanket over his lap, covering his legs to his toes.  He’d aged, his formerly robust form sagging on a stooped frame.

“Doctor Carlisle, here are your visitors,” Lieutenant Bradley announced, then bowed himself out of the room like a good foot soldier, closing the doors behind him.

It was good that he did.  Smiling, his eyes glittering, Carlisle greeted her, “Princess Maud.  Your Highness.”

To be continued…

Tuesday, August 7th, 2012 by Sasha White
One Weekend: excerpt

In 2010 I released ONE WEEKEND with Samhain publishing. It’s a 12,000 word menage story that I wrote purely for fun. It’s a short, sexy romp, that has turned into a reader favorite. I’m often asked when I’ll do another Rick/ Angie / Mark story….well…I’m happy to say another one will be out later this month.

So..I thought I’d share an excerpt from ONE WEEKEND with y’all. I hope you enjoy.

Three lovers. Two days. One bed…

Angie Wilson is a lucky girl. She loves her job, her life, and her man, Rick Craig. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t revel in the attentions of a good-looking, athletic boyfriend who’s secure enough to encourage her most adventurous appetites?

One of the worst heat waves in memory has hit town, and by Friday Angie is ready to really let loose. Craig and his best friend, Mark, are chilling on the patio with cold beer when she gets home from work, and the three get comfortable. As the night moves on and the talk turns to sex, Angie longs for more than just cool air on her bare skin.

And the heat’s making her just crazy enough to go for it.

Check out this little intro to Angie and the boys…

The second I entered the apartment my clothes started coming off. I kicked off my heels, dropped my skirt and peeled off my starched white blouse as I walked to the kitchen. I’d worked hard to become a CPA and I loved the work, but the uptight clothes required in our office were not what I would call comfortable. Opening the fridge I just stood there…a soft moan of pleasure slipping from between my lips as cool air finally hit bare skin.

“Ange?” Rick’s voice floated in from the balcony.

My pulse kicked up a notch, and I smiled softly. Just the sound of his voice was enough to make my heart turn over. Rick Craig was my perfect match, my other half. “In the kitchen,” I called back.

“Bring a couple more beers when you come out here, will you?”

“Sure, baby.”

Eager to shake off the tension of the day I grabbed a bottle of white wine and a couple of beers from the fridge. Bottle opener and wineglass in one hand, beers in the other, I headed out to the balcony with full hands.

Three steps from the sliding doors I realized that Rick wasn’t alone outside, and hesitated. It was easy to identify the other voice as Mark Hoffman, Rick’s best friend. I glanced down at the sheer bra and panties barely covering my parts, and a deliciously naughty heat surged through me. It wasn’t like Mark had never seen me in a bikini or something.

“Here you go,” I said as I swept aside the curtain and stepped out onto the balcony. Stopping short I glanced from Rick to Mark, all wide-eyed innocence. “Oh! Hi, Mark.”

“Hey, Angie.” Pure male appreciation was clear in the look he gave me.

“Hey, baby, come here.” Rick held out his hand, a knowing smile curving his lips. Confident in my love, Rick enjoyed watching me flirt with and tease other men almost as much as I enjoyed doing it.

I leaned down and gave him a lingering kiss, fully aware of Mark’s heated gaze on my ass the whole time. Straightening up I handed out the beers before stretching out on the empty lounger in front of their chairs. The heat was killer when covered in clothes and stuck at a desk, air-conditioned office or no, but stretched out with a glass of chilled wine, it was bearable. Almost pleasant. “How long have you boys been out here drinking?”

“’Bout an hour,” Rick answered. “How was work?”

“It sucked. The heat is making people crazy. Janice almost took a swing at a client because he called her sweetheart.”

“Is she?”

Rick snorted at Mark’s question. “Janice is one scary muther. Think tough as Gemma from Sons of Anarchy only ugly and fifty pounds heavier.”

“Hey,” I said as they laughed. “Janice is a sweetheart. You just have to get to know her.”

Rick smirked. “Mark might be looking for a girlfriend, but no matter what you say, Janice is not his type.”

Mark glanced away at that and took a deep pull from the beer in his hand. I raised an eyebrow. To say I was surprised was putting it mildly. Mark had a well-earned reputation as a player. “You’re looking for a girlfriend? Seriously?”

Shaggy blond hair and deep blue eyes made Mark a good looking guy—not to mention tall and ripped with muscles that made grown women drool—but it was his easy confidence and sexual swagger that always got him the girl. Well, almost always. It might’ve been Mark who’d first caught my eye the night I’d met the boys, but it was Rick who’d caught my heart.

“I don’t remember you ever having trouble finding a woman before, Mark. What’s the problem?”

“None of them are you, babe.” Mark’s patented grin flashed, but his gaze held a certain intensity when he looked at me and my breath stuttered. “You broke my heart when you chose Rick over me. And I’m not sure he’s willing to share.”

Warmth that had nothing to do with the sun swept over me, and I swallowed a gasp. The man had just hit on my most secret fantasy, the one that had plagued me since the first night I met the guys. Guilty pleasure had me glancing at Rick only to find him watching us both, a speculative gleam in his dark eyes. “She can be hard to satisfy sometimes.”

“Rick.” Heat crept up my neck.

“Greedy is she?”

My man nodded sagely. “Insatiable even.”

Mark reached down and adjusted himself obviously. “Another guy might come in handy.”

“A relief pitcher…of sorts,” Rick said with a grin that had me wondering what the hell he was up to.

Mark grinned back at him. “Double the dick. Double the pleasure.”

Both men turned to me, and I squirmed. I was totally turned on and a bit embarrassed about it. Bravado was the obvious way to go.

“Well, I do love cock,” I said with false casualness as I lay back and closed my eyes again. “But I doubt even both of you could totally satisfy me.”



I ignored their groans of mock pain and pretended there was nothing strange about the conversation, or my laying around in my lingerie, but the tension was building.

One Weekend is a hot, erotic romp from the talented imagination of Sasha White. Ms. White has long been one of my favorite authors, and One Weekend only cements her place on my list of auto-buy authors and “to be kept” shelf.”~ Joyfully Reviewed

HOT HOT HOT! I want more!
Once again Sasha White has hit the mark in her latest release, One Weekend which should be retitled to, One Smoking Hot Weekend Not to Miss!”
~ Cathryn Fox, author of INSTINCTIVE

Look for ONE CHOICE in online bookstores later this month.

Monday, August 6th, 2012 by Carrie Vaughn
Excerpt Week! So, here’s a bunch of stories of mine…

It’s excerpt week at Genreality!  We’ll all be posting some of our work.

I’m going to start the week off — by doing something completely different.  In trying to think of what to post, I realize I’ve had a number of stories published online in the last year, and this might be a good time to compile the links, and give you complete, published pieces to read rather than snippets.  This is actually a really good survey of my writing, past and present.  For your amusement:

Harry and Marlowe and the Talisman of the Cult of Egil on Lightspeed.  This is my first published steampunk story.  Yes, as much as I’ve loved the costuming and music, I was bound to start writing it eventually.  I’ve got another Harry and Marlowe story coming out in an anthology called The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination, due out in January.  I’m currently working on a third story with them.

Astrophilia on Clarkesworld.  One of my forays into science fiction.

The Nymph’s Child on Fantasy.  A pirate fantasy that was ever so much fun to write.  This is a reprint from the anthology Fast Ships, Black Sails.

Caverns of Science on Apex.  This is a poem, my first in many years.  Poetry is something I’d like to spend a little more time on, because it makes me focus so much on rhythm and language.

I often get so caught up in the work of the moment I forget to step back and look at what I’ve accomplished.  Compiling my work like this always reminds me — hey, I’ve been busy, I’ve accomplished a lot!  Always a good feeling.