“All I ask, Lauren, is that you not embarrass me.”
When sexually emancipated MILF Lauren Gordon accompanies her husband to a convention in Las Vegas, she’s hoping for some R&R—ideally of the carnal variety. But Elliott’s running for president of NADA—the National Association of Divorce Lawyers—and he’s worried that his wife’s free-wheeling ways will undermine his chances. Reining in her frustration, Lauren promises to avoid any erotic interactions with conference attendees or hotel staff.
Fortunately she meets Annie O’Reilly, a redheaded Vegas native with luscious curves and few if any inhibitions. With Annie as her companion, Lauren becomes intimately acquainted with some outrageously wanton denizens of Sin City. Then her husband unfairly accuses her of breaking her promise and Lauren decides it’s time to go for broke.
Bringing together characters from Lisabet’s Vegas Babes and The Slut series, The Slut Does Vegas delivers heat, humor and a surprisingly happy ending.
“All I ask, Lauren, is that you not embarrass me.”
Her husband’s unexpected utterance grabbed Lauren’s attention. She’d been ogling the cute waiter who was circulating from table to table, topping up coffees. A few years older than her son Josh, the guy had a hundred-watt smile and a luscious butt.
“What?” People at nearby tables gave her strange looks. “What do you mean, Elliott?” she continued, reducing her volume. “Embarrass you in what way?”
“You know… with any of your extracurricular activities.” Elliott’s mouth pursed as though he’d eaten something sour. “It would look really bad if you got…” He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Um…involved with anyone from the conference.”
She glanced around the hotel restaurant at the other people finishing their breakfasts. You could tell which ones were the lawyers. They wore expensive suits and expressions of self-importance. “I doubt I’d be interested in any of the conference attendees,” she commented dryly.
“The hotel staff wouldn’t be much better.” Maybe he’d noticed the attention she’d been giving the server. “If anyone here finds out about our – arrangement, it could kill my chances for the Association presidency.”
“You really want to be president of the National Association of Divorce Attorneys?” She chuckled despite herself. Who’d be oblivious enough to name their organization NADA?
“It’s really important for my career,” he insisted, wiping his mouth and pushing his plate away. “And it means a lot to me personally. Plus the connections could bring in a lot more business.”
“I understand that you’d like the recognition, hon. And I know you deserve it.” She rested her hand on his for a moment. “But from what I can see, you’re already swamped with work.” She downed the last swallow of her grapefruit juice, then licked her lips. “That’s one of the reasons for my ‘extracurricular activities’, as you so delicately put it. Let’s face it, you don’t have the time to keep me satisfied.”
Her husband slumped in his chair, as if she’d punched him in the gut. “I know I haven’t been giving you the attention you deserve, baby,” he said softly. “And I’m okay with you getting what you need elsewhere, as we’ve agreed. But I need you to be discreet.”
“Do you think I’m so blatant about wanting sex?”
“Well, just look at the way you’re dressed, for starters.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” She’d thrown on some casual clothes to join him for breakfast: a dungaree skirt that reached to mid-thigh and a striped tee shirt. True, the denim hugged her curves and the scooped neckline showed off her generous cleavage, but that would be true of almost anything she wore.
“You look – well, you look a bit slutty.”
Lauren burst into laughter. “Hon, this is Las Vegas, Sin City, where even the nuns dress like hookers. Nobody is going to think this outfit is slutty.”
If you like travel–and super spicy romance– then I have found the book for you!
BLURB:
In a foreign land, a woman discovers exotic new realms of the senses.
“You were born to this. You may not understand, yet. You may not believe. But I will teach you.”
When software engineer Kate O’Neill leaves her lover David to take a job in Thailand, she embarks on a sensual journey that will change her forever.
In the glittering City of Angels, Kate becomes sexually involved with two very different men—a handsome and debauched member of the Thai aristocracy, and the charismatic, dominant proprietor of a sex bar. With Anand Rajchitraprasong, she discovers her own almost unlimited capacity for erotic pleasure. Meanwhile, Gregory Marshall shows her what she has hidden from herself: a deep desire to submit, to surrender herself body and soul to someone with the power and compassion to master her.
Each lascivious adventure binds her more closely to her lovers. Then David comes to Bangkok, and Kate realizes that she must choose one of the three men who all desire her.
Long considered an erotic classic, Raw Silk chronicles one woman’s intimate voyage toward love and self-understanding. This twenty-fifth anniversary edition has been freshly edited and includes a new introduction plus a bonus chapter.
EXCERPT:
They came around a bend in the path and Katherine gasped. They had emerged onto a marble platform on the edge of a small lake. The water was perfectly still, mirroring the brilliant blue of the sky.
In the middle of this shimmering expanse, seeming to float above the surface, stood an intricate, exquisitely proportioned Thai pavilion. Five tiers of red and green tiles formed steep, overlapping layers, climbing to a central spire. Ranks of gilded columns supported the ornate roof. Sunlight flashed on the multicolored chips of mirror that decorated the peaked panels above each entrance. The whole structure was delicate, airy, almost insubstantial, an imaginary palace from some fairy tale. The scene seemed even more unreal given the other buildings Katherine saw on the opposite shore—an Italian-style villa with arches and domes, a Chinese pagoda, and a tower that reminded her of a New England lighthouse.
“Remarkable, is it not?” Anand smiled at her reaction. “This pavilion is considered to be one of the finest examples of classic Thai architecture in the kingdom. Perhaps this gives you some idea of what Ayuthaya must have been like in its day—hectare after hectare of palaces, temples and pavilions, their graceful eaves sweeping toward the earth, their golden towers pointing to the sky.
One of Kate O’Neill’s musing thoughts describes perfectly her adventure in the exotic Thailand city after she arrives. Hired to develop software for a local company, she escapes from an average life in Boston to the streets of Bangkok. But she is not ready for the sexual temptations of this bright and floral land, where very different scruples reign than in her native country. Torn between the man she left behind, the sweet loving care of an actual Prince and an arrogant demanding master, this Irish-American beauty is well indoctrinated into the loose morality of her new country.
Sarai’s prose is filled with gorgeous descriptions of the country she knows intimately, as well as the luscious menus that delight her characters and of course, the detailed, rollercoaster stories of sex in many flavors with various partners that leave Kate, her lovers, and the reader breathless. You’ll find yourself yearning for some adventures of your own long before you reach the final page.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
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, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more.
Twenty-five years ago, Lisabet published her first novel, the exuberantly erotic romance Raw Silk. The 2024 edition of this classic introduces a new generation of readers to this intense chronicle of one woman’s sensual journey.
Lisabet lives in Southeast Asia with her husband of over forty years and several rescue cats, where she pursues an occupation completely unrelated to her literary endeavors.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website, along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance, she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads, BookBub and Twitter. Join her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh
“BDSM? Yuck!” I have the impression that this represents the reaction of many romance readers when someone offers them a title that includes Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, or Masochism. What is romantic about pain, suffering and humiliation? Why would anyone enjoy reading about whippings, spankings, restraints that contort the body into embarrassing and awkward positions, severe punishments that are administered in response to the tiniest lapse in obedience? My personal position is that BDSM literature (sometimes labeled D/s – Dominance and submission) can be as emotionally satisfying and erotically charged as any romance.
For me, the essence of a D/s relationship lies in the emotional bond between the dominant and the submissive. The physical trappings and conventional activities – the riding crop and the gag, the handcuffs and the nipple clamps, the whippings and the binding – are side issues, merely the methods chosen to express, explore, and strengthen the bond. Others may associate BDSM with humiliation, cruelty, abuse, and agony. In my view, BDSM is about devotion, commitment, trust, and ecstasy.
The BDSM that I write, and that I enjoy reading, focuses primarily on the connection between the characters in the “power exchange”. What do I mean by “power exchange”? This D/s jargon refers to the fact that submissive voluntarily gives up control to the dominant. In return, the dominant accepts responsibility for the submissive’s well-being and ultimately, for his or her pleasure. The sub surrenders herself to the Dom, in devotion and trust. (For now I’ll assume a female submissive. I’ve written both male- and female-dominant tales, as well as some lesbian D/s, but it gets awkward to keep using multiple pronouns!) The Dom can do whatever he wants with the sub; she has, after all, given her consent. He has the intoxicating knowledge that by taking what he desires, he will also give his sub what she most craves: the satisfaction of pleasing her master and the freedom to experience her most intimate fantasies of ravishment and abuse.
But what about the pain? Intense emotional connection, trust, devotion, that all sounds wonderful, but is it worth suffering beneath the lash, enduring the ropes biting into your flesh? I don’t particularly seek out pain, though I understand that some BDSM practitioners do. In any case, pain is a strange thing. It depends on expectations as much as on reality. I have read that native American women did not experience any pain at childbirth because their culture viewed labor and delivery as joyous and easy. (Those of you who are mothers might be skeptical.)
Personal experience has taught me that when you are unbelievably turned-on, pain does not necessarily feel bad. For one thing, elevated levels of endorphins decrease pain sensitivity levels. Whip strokes and spankings stimulate the senses; it is the mind that translates them as pleasure or pain, or sometimes both at once.
Have I convinced you that dominance and submission can be romantic? If not, perhaps you’d be interested to know that, although I live half a world away from him, and am married to another man, the man I call Master and I still send each other Valentines. And every time I write a BDSM scene, I think of him, with gratitude and love.
I am who I am, and I know what you want.
Rebecca believes in magic. She has never lost her childhood love of Halloween, when she can don a costume and step away from her boring, ordinary self. For one night, she transforms into someone else – someone mysterious, daring, sensual and seductive.
When All Hallow’s Eve finds her stranded at a seedy motel a hundred miles from her friend’s annual party, she is desperately disappointed. Then she discovers that her room is haunted by the invisible but unquestionably virile ghost of a rake who seduced local women nearly half a century earlier.
EXCERPT: (rated R)
The costume worked its magic. I was astonished at how regal I looked, and how desirable. The bodice pinched my waist to tiny dimensions, and forced my breasts upwards. The square-cut neckline drew attention to my swelling flesh, barely hiding my nipples. In fact, they were not hidden at all. Though I’d lined the top with muslin as the pattern specified, the tight nubs were clearly visible through several layers of fabric.
I cradled my breasts and used my thumbs to trace circles around those sensitive buds. With each cycle, the spring of tension in my pelvis wound tighter. A light flick of my thumbnail sent electricity down my spine and triggered spasms of pleasure. I worried briefly that the juices trickling out of my pussy would spoil the satin. But after all, what did it matter? There was no one to see me tonight, no one to please but myself.
“You certainly do look sexy. Like something right out of de Sade.”
“What? Who…?” I whirled around in confusion, my heart slamming against my ribs. The voice had been close, right next to my ear. Yet the room was empty, unchanged. The same warped walls, the same thread-bare carpet, the same rusty stains on the ceiling. The rumpled bed where I’d had my tantrum. The almost-empty glass on the dresser.
Ah, the liquor. I must be more drunk than I thought. I turned back to the mirror, searching my face for signs of intoxication, and yelped as something, someone, pinched my nipples.
“Hey! That hurts.” Indignation overwhelmed fear.
“It does, at first. But afterwards, it changes, doesn’t it? Afterwards, it feels quite delicious.” I stared at my image, mouth hanging stupidly open, as invisible hands caressed my breasts. Strong hands, gentle hands, hands that seemed to know exactly how to make me shiver with delight. “That’s what most people don’t understand about pain. It’s the gateway to the most exquisite pleasure.”
The voice was a melodious baritone, rich, deep, almost hypnotic. “You fear the pain, but that’s foolish. You must surrender to the pain. Let it move through you. Let it wash away your doubts and your inhibitions. Let it open you to ecstasy.”
Firm, unseen lips nibbled at my neck. A warm, wet tongue traced the curve from below my ear to my exposed shoulder, then down to the hollow at my throat. With each touch, extravagant new species of pleasure bloomed in my sex. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savoring the delicate caresses and the amazing sensations that they triggered.
Suddenly something sharp pierced the rounded flesh of my shoulder. I screamed, surprise heightening the agony that gripped me, and tore myself away from the grasp of the unseen intruder.
My reflection made me gasp in horror and wonder. Droplets of blood oozed from several wounds on my shoulder, wounds arranged in the distinctive semi-circular shape of a bite.
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, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Welcome frequent blog guest Lisabet Sarai with a new boxed set of love!
Who knew?
It had been months since I’d published any new titles. Meanwhile, my current WIP was proceeding at a snail’s pace due to the demands of my day job, summer vacations, and other real world interruptions. So a few weeks ago, I decided to mine my back list and put together a boxed set to sell on Kindle Unlimited, to see if I could push my Amazon ratings back into positive territory.
I had a few stories in mind, romance tales in the twenty-thousand word region which were originally published years ago, and which might not be familiar to my current readership. (In addition, the KU audience doesn’t overlap much with my usual readers.) I started with three titles. When I looked at the works I’d selected, I saw that they shared a focus on three-way relationships. Then, as I scanned my publishing history, I started to find additional stories on the same theme.
I ended up including six tales in the Triad collection (over 100K words). Actually, I identified a number of other candidates as well, but decided they weren’t as good a fit. Indeed, when I examined the romance I’d written over the past decade and a half, I discovered that I’d written nearly as many threesomes as I had couples.
This was something of a revelation to me. I’ve always been attracted to polyamory, but I didn’t realize how pervasive that interest had become in my writing. If you’d asked me what my “favorite” genre or theme was, I would have cited dominance and submission. But it seems three-way love is at least as common in my writing.
Who knew?
Why should soul mate be singular? Can one person really satisfy every need and desire?
Triad is a compilation of erotic romance tales about threesomes – not fleeting, lust-driven ménage a trois encounters but stable, loving relationships that involve three people. A long-married couple’s ardor is rekindled when another man seduces each of them in turn. A lonely, embittered vampire finds redemption in the arms of his two young victims. A mistletoe kiss reawakens passion between old friends, until Suzanne discovers Gino already has a life partner. An alien pair offers love and immortality to the only survivor of a interstellar disaster.
Steamy and explicit, unapologetically romantic, Triad celebrates the joys of three-way polyamory.
EXCERPT:
Rated R (From Once Upon a Blizzard)
Suzanne had never seen stars so bright. The night sky was a black bowl above them, studded with blazing jewels. The snow blanketing the yard gleamed with some faint inner radiance. At the edges of the property, evergreens clustered in deeper shadow like silent sentinels.
She took a deep breath of the crystalline air, so cold and sharp it hurt her lungs. The tiny hairs inside her nose stood on end. Her earlobes felt like icicles. From the neck down, though, she was bathed in delicious warmth. The bizarre contrast almost made her giggle.
Smooth, hard muscle brushed her thigh. After a moment, roving fingers skittered across her lap and burrowed into her pubic fur. A fiery bolt of lust struck her core.
“Gino!” she scolded. “Behave!”
“Why should I?” asked her lover, rubbing his body against hers under the surface of the water. “Harry doesn’t mind. Do you?”
The lanky blond on Gino’s other flank grinned. “Not at all. Long as you keep up what you’re doing over here, that is.”
Harris had untied his ponytail. His golden locks flowed over his shoulders, darkening to sepia where wet. With his thin face and chiseled features, he looked like some warrior ascetic, a knight on a quest for some sacred prize. Suzanne could understand why Gino found him attractive. She wondered whether he really was one-hundred percent gay.
Leaning back against the redwood wall and closing her eyes, she allowed the peace of the night to enfold her. Her limbs were heavy. Her heart felt as though it was about to overflow.
The growl of motors and a rattling of metal reached her ears. Gino’s solar-heated hot tub was at the back of the house, away from the street. Still, the faint noise shattered the intense quiet of the snow-smothered night.
“Plows,” said Harris, cocking his head in the direction of the sound. “At last.” He pointed to the cloudless sky. “Looks like they were wrong about more snow, though.”
“We’ll drive you over to Pelham early tomorrow morning,” Gino added. “Actually, the highway department might have towed your car already. We’ll call first, assuming we’ve got power. Anyway, don’t worry, you’re likely to be well on your way back home by tomorrow afternoon.”
Home. Suzanne didn’t want to think about California—her neat, modern, empty condo, all the problems and decisions awaiting her at work, the bland weather and the vacant sky.
“There’s no rush,” she said finally. “I’m going to miss my Monday appointment anyway. But thank you.” She squeezed Gino’s hand. “For everything.”
Now, despite all that they had done together, she found she was shy. Steam drifted up in pale swirls from the heated surface of the water. Underneath, she could barely make out the shape of their naked limbs. “I’m going to miss you,” she murmured finally. “Both of you.”
“You’ll be back for Christmas, though, won’t you?” Gino’s eyes were shadowed but Suzanne understood the yearning she’d see there, if there were more light.
“Maybe…” she began. She imagined another holiday with her parents, pleasant but predictable. They wouldn’t mind if she disappeared after the opening of the presents. And suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of not being with Gino again, very soon. “Yes. I’ll be back. I promise.”
“Wonderful.” Gino pulled her into a kiss that made her heart pound and her pussy tremble. “You can stay over, you know,” he added when he finally released her. “You can stay for as long as you want.”
“The house has six bedrooms,” Harris commented. “Way more space than we need.”
“Yeah—even with my office and Harry’s studio, there are two rooms we barely use.”
“We do have broadband Internet, by the way. Even if we don’t have mobile service.”
“There’s a local limo company that can get you to Logan in two hours. Harry uses it when he has an exhibition in New York…”
“This is freak weather,” Harris interrupted. “Most winters we don’t get much snow.”
“And the summers here are glorious, green everywhere, bright sun and lingering twilights, fresh sweet corn and luscious home-grown tomatoes…”
“I know!” Suzanne couldn’t keep from laughing. “I grew up here, remember?”
“I thought that maybe you’d forgotten,” said Gino, his voice soft.
“No,” she replied, flush with a recollection of the loyal, clever tease he’d been in school. “I remember very well.”
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, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
My bio says that I’ve been writing all my life, and that’s pretty much true. I was penning stories and poems when I was in early elementary school. By high school I’d branched out to novels and plays. Though I’ve also done drawing and painting, sculpture and dance, words have always been my preferred instrument for creation. And to be honest, I grew up believing that I had significant writing talent.
The more I write, though, the more I realize how much I still have to learn.
Total-E-Bound, an English indie publisher focused on erotic romance, brought out the first edition of Getaway Girl way back in 2008. This was only my third or fourth tale written specifically for a romance audience. At that time, I knew almost nothing about the genre and its conventions. (Until I signed with TEB, I’d considered myself an author of erotica.) I spent quite a bit of time reading the work of my fellow TEB authors, trying to grasp the essence of this new category of fiction and to translate that into my own stories. My editors also did not hesitate to point out areas where common aspects of erotica just wouldn’t work for romance readers.
By 2008 I’d concluded that in every romance: 1) there had to be a sense of inevitability to the connection between the hero and heroine, an attraction that might seem to make no sense but which could not be denied; 2) the couple had to at least discuss commitment; 3) the sex (this was erotic romance after all) had to be more than just casual – there should be a sense of fitting or rightness, a connection that transcended the physical.
I tried to implement these conclusions in writing of Getaway Girl. The story was accepted and published, but was never particularly popular. I went on to write a lot more romance, getting better at it over time.
Last year I reclaimed the rights to the story so that I could self-publish it, and a few months ago I set myself the task of re-editing the piece in preparation. I really hadn’t looked at it for more than a decade.
I was appalled by how clumsy and stereotyped it seemed.
Inconsistencies in character and in plot were only part of the problem. There were also long passages of purple prose, most especially in the sex scenes. I posted the tale in my critique group and discovered there were also plentiful anachronisms and inaccuracies related to its historical period (contemporary) and British setting. (The story was originally targeted for an anthology entitled Bound Brits, so it had to take place in the U.K.)
I subjected the story to possibly the most thorough revision I’ve ever done on any of my work. I won’t say that it’s unrecognizable, but I probably modified at least 25% of the text. In the fourteen years since the first revision I’ve learned a lot, both about romance and about writing in general. Practice does make perfect; I’ve published nearly one hundred titles since that early attempt, both romance and erotica. This second edition of Getaway Girl is orders of magnitude better than the original.
But maybe I shouldn’t use the word “perfect”, because in truth, as long as we authors are writing, we are learning all the time. I’m about to revisit my first novel, preparing an expanded twenty-fifth anniversary edition for release sometime this year. This will be the fifth version of Raw Silk. I have no doubt it will be the best.
Our story:
Be careful what you wish for
All Peg wants is a break, a bit of adventure, a relief from her mundane existence in the bucolic but boring Yorkshire hamlet of Kirkby Malzeard. When dashing, sophisticated journalist Lionel Hayes saunters into the pub where she’s tending bar, Peg suspects that he was just the sort of man to fulfill her fantasies of escape.
The seductive Lionel, however, is not what he seems. Before she knows it, Peg is a hostage, roped and gagged, speeding away from the scene of a daring crime. Lionel is armed and dangerous, but somehow Peg still wants him – regardless of the consequences.
Note: This book was originally published in 2015 by Totally Bound. This second edition has been substantially revised and has a new ending.
EXCERPT:
“What are you doing here, if I might ask?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the find and its historical implications.”
Peg felt a twinge of suspicion. “The press conference was yesterday.”
“My car broke down halfway from London. I spent last night in a town even tinier than this one.” His smile was charming, apologetic. Peg’s uneasiness melted away.
He leaned towards her across the bar, putting his hand over hers. “That’s why I appreciate your help, in giving me the information I need.”
His skin was warm and smooth, none of the calluses of a manual labourer. Not like the farmers Peg had occasionally dated here, before she gave up on finding a man in her home village. He ran one fingertip up and down in the sensitive crease between Peg’s thumb and forefinger. The light touch was enough to turn her nipples to aching knots and trigger a throbbing between her legs.
She caught a hint of his scent, a balsam-laced aftershave or cologne that simultaneously conveyed masculinity and refinement. His forefinger ventured higher, stroking the back of her wrist, a gesture both delicate and bold. Her pussy clenched as though he were massaging her down there, instead of merely brushing a casual finger across her hand.
She stared at the bar, blushing, angry with herself for being so susceptible. Finally, she managed to raise her head and meet his eyes, which were a stormy hazel colour.
“What paper are you from?”
“Oh, I write for an upmarket travel rag. I doubt that you would’ve heard of it. This story should enhance the romance and mystery of your already delightful village. I expect you’ll see a surge in tourists after publication.”
“You should interview Peter Lofthouse. He’s been mayor for the last dozen years.”
“I have the feeling that I’m talking to a real authority right now. Lived here a long time, haven’t you?”
She bristled. How did he know that? Maybe because she seemed such a country bumpkin. “I spent some time in London, but I had to come back. Family problems.”
“Sorry to hear that…” He scanned her chest, seeking a name tag. Peg felt as though he were fondling her breasts instead of just looking at them. Could he see the swollen tips, pushing up through her soft green jumper?
“I’m Peg,” she said, snatching her hand from his and reaching for the bar rag. “And you?”
He bowed slightly. “Lionel Hayes, at your service. But I’ll bet you’re really Margaret, right? It’s much more musical, more sophisticated. It suits you.”
He was clearly trying to flatter her. She didn’t really mind. “Lionel—sounds like an aristocratic playboy from the nineteen twenties. Nobody’s named Lionel anymore.”
The journalist laughed again, soft and intimate, sending the blood rushing again to Peg’s cheeks as well as to other body parts. He drained the last of his pint, then reclaimed her hand. “I’ve got to go. But it’s been pleasure to meet you, Margaret. Perhaps I’ll mention you in my article.”
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.
Most authors put some of themselves into their characters. We can’t help it, really. We’re all shaped by our experience, in ways we can’t fully or consciously appreciate. Our characters are likely to share our assumptions, our biases and our values, whether this is our intention or not.
For instance, my female characters tend to be independent, well-educated and unapologetic about their sexuality. Anyone who knows me at all will recognize these traits also describe me. I don’t think I’ve ever written a helpless, timid virgin or a self-obsessed beauty queen. I don’t create violent characters, either, or at least not violent protagonists. You won’t find any mafia capos or special forces agents in my books. (The one exception is Cecily Harrowsmith in Rajasthani Moon, who is Queen Victoria’s spy, and she’s a slightly comic figure.)
Sometimes I deliberately try to create characters who are different from me, but that can be a struggle. The thing is, how can you imagine the inner life of someone whose background, priorities and goals deviate significantly from your own?
So my success varies. In that regard, I’m pretty proud of Wild About That Thing.
My heroine Ruby Jones is definitely not me. She’s a black woman, for one thing. As much as I try to empathize, I doubt I can really understand what it’s like to grow up black in America. She’s also a mother – a single mother, having divorced her cheating ex-husband. I’ve never had children, so it’s a stretch to imagine what it would be like to have total responsibility for someone else’s safety and well-being. Scary. My experience with marriage has been ninety nine percent positive. Ruby in contrast has been badly burned, and is naturally wary of new commitments.
Despite our differences, however, I feel that I know Ruby well. Early in the writing process, I learned about Ruby’s parents and came to see how her relationships with both her mother and her father shaped her personality and her behavior. Somehow these insights were not intellectual. Instead, I found myself in Ruby’s head, listening to her inner critic who often speaks with her mother’s voice.
Ruby is constantly torn between her analytical tendencies and her passionate nature. I suppose this is somewhat true of me, but in Ruby’s case the conflict is particularly painful. One minute she’s a hard-headed businesswoman. The next, she’s a puddle of lust.
Anyway, I do hope my readers enjoy Ruby Jones. I feel that she’s one of the most realistic heroines I’ve created, as well as one of the most likable.
Note, though, that she still shares some attributes with me. She is independent and, as you might guess from the tag line, unapologetic about her sexuality.
She’s always been proud of her sensual nature. Now it seems to have landed her in an impossible situation. Two lovers…and she wants them both.
Ruby Jones has clear priorities. Her teenage son comes first, then her struggling blues club. Her love life ranks as a distant third, despite the efforts of Zeke Chambers to convince her otherwise. Zeke’s the lead singer in her house band, a devoted friend, and an occasional lover. He can drive her wild with desire, but can’t get her to make a commitment. Deserted by her cheating ex-husband, Ruby’s determined she’s going to make it on her own. She’s hot-blooded like her bluesman daddy, happy to satisfy her physical cravings, but she’s not about to let any man into her heart.
The stranger who takes the stage on open mike night upsets the delicate balance in Ruby’s world. From the moment Ruby sets eyes on him, Remy Saint-Michel inspires irresistible lust and inexplicable sympathy. Confused, guilty and worried about her prized independence, Ruby decides that the only way to deal with the two men is to push them both away. Zeke and Remy, however, have other ideas.
Note: Wild About That Thing was previously published by Totally Entwined. This new edition has been revised and re-edited.
The crowd erupted into claps and whistles as the Travellers finished their number. “Thank you kindly, ladies and gentlemen.” A decade in New York hadn’t erased the softness of the South from Zeke’s speech. “Welcome to our first open mic night here at the Crossroads. Hope you brought your axe, your sax or your harp—if you didn’t, well, hell, you can borrow ours! Everybody gets the blues sometimes. This is the place to let it all out!”
Fresh applause greeted Zeke’s invitation. He stood up there on the platform—his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans jacket, his axe hanging around his neck—and grinned like the country boy he used to be. At six-foot-one, with the solid build of a halfback, Zeke was an imposing figure. He’d broken up more than one drunken brawl for her over the past two years and he had a temper that could be scary. To Ruby and Isaiah, though, he’d been nothing but kind. Whatever success the Crossroads could claim was largely due to him.
“To kick things off tonight, I want to invite a very special lady to join us here on stage. She’s been through some hard times, friends, and she knows the blues. It’s in her blood, passed on from her daddy, Jimmy ‘The Harp’ Jones. When she sings, she spills her soul. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Ruby Jones, the lovely owner of the Crossroads Blues Bar!”
Applause filled the club. Zeke’s invitation hadn’t been a surprise. They’d discussed having her warm up the crowd, and of course, she’d been performing since she was a kid. Nevertheless, his effusive introduction made her feel self-conscious. Ruby wished she’d worn something a bit more glamorous than her usual jeans and tailored shirt.
She picked her way between the tables, headed for the stage. Zeke held out a big hand. When she grasped it, he swung her onto the platform, and quite neatly, into his arms. The crowd roared.
Zeke brushed his lips across hers. His distinctive scent engulfed her—clean sweat, Jim Beam and Ivory Soap. It was like turning on a movie—she instantly remembered the last time he’d been inside her. His blond stubble grazed her cheek. She saw him in her mind’s eye—body suspended above hers on powerful arms as he buried his cock in her pussy, fucking her with a smooth, steady rhythm while he scanned her face, focused on her pleasure. She felt again the way he stretched and filled her. The seam of her jeans teased her suddenly swollen clit. She wondered if Zeke could smell her growing dampness. Hell, what about the rest of the band?
“Stop it,” she whispered, pushing against his rock-hard chest.
Zeke released her with obvious reluctance. “I love her,” he told the audience, eliciting a chorus of hoots and whistles. Aching, hungry and guilt-ridden, Ruby knew he meant every word.
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.
OUR STORY:
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.
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.
And now for the adventurous side…CONTENT WARNING: This promo is for an erotic steampunk novel…so be governed accordingly.
Please welcome our storyteller, Lisabet Sarai!
Who is Gillian Smith?
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.
At Randerley Hall, lust is a lubricant to creativity. Nothing is impossible. Nothing is forbidden.
Defying the repressive morality of the Victorian era, the Toymakers Guild uses advanced technology to fabricate bespoke sexual devices for the discrete pleasure of select clients. Its members are not only brilliant engineers but also sexual renegades seeking freedom from the prudish society that surrounds them.
Nineteen-year-old prodigy Gillian Smith arrives at Randerley to apply for an apprenticeship in the Guild. With her technical abilities and her lascivious temperament, she is eminently suited to join the Master Toymaker’s close-knit band of uninhibited erotic artisans. Gillian flourishes among the Toymakers, designing and implementing ever-more-outrageous carnal contraptions. Each voluptuous commission she completes, each sensual adventure she enjoys, binds her more tightly to the Guild and to the perverse, tortured genius who is its founder.
If you like brilliant, wanton women and kinky steam punk sex toys, dive into the alternate universe of the The Toymakers Guild.
Gillian stepped into a vast space, two storeys high, luxuriously panelled in dark wood. Excitement made her heart race. The place was like something from a dream.
Overhead, a dome of leaded glass bathed the room in daylight. At the second storey level, a semi-circular gallery followed the curving walls, reachable from a stair to her left. Arrayed on the wall to her right was a dazzling collection of pliers, metal snips, tweezers, wrenches, hammers, drills, clamps, vices, springs, glass tubes, rubber piping, brass flanges, hydraulic cylinders, coils of wire, gears and pulleys, switches and dials, gauges and meters—every sort of tool and part she’d ever encountered as well as many that were unfamiliar.
On the far wall hung parts of another sort: hands, fingers, feet, splayed thighs, open mouths, as well as phalluses of varied proportions. She could not determine the materials from across the room, though some of the models looked startlingly life-like. Her diligent studies of the catalogue suggested some might be fashioned of leather, others from India rubber.
Several large workbenches filled the centre of the room, each cabled with its own electric lighting fixture dangling from a rack above. Ian and Archie huddled together at the closest table, peering through a magnifier at a mess of wiring.
“Mr. Burns! Mr. Fawcett! Let me officially introduce our new apprentice. This is Gillian Smith.”
Archie looked up, startled. “What? You accepted a girl?”
“Provisionally.” Amelia frowned at the florid young man. “Subject to the Master’s final approval. Meanwhile, I expect you to welcome her, introduce her to our procedures and processes, and put her to work.”
“I’ll put her to work, for sure,” Ian muttered.
“What did you say, Mr. Burns?”
“Um, nothing, ma’am.”
The director stepped closer to the contraption on the bench. “Is this the circuitry for the Marlborough device?”
Ian swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you have it functioning yet?”
“Almost,” Archie volunteered. “Just one more small problem to fix, and we’ll be ready to test.”
“Indeed.” She scrutinised the web of copper strands for several minutes, then turned to Gillian. “Perhaps you can assist them, Miss Smith. They appear to be somewhat out of their depth.”
Apparently feeling that this was sufficient instruction, Mrs. Featherstone headed for the door, but she paused exiting. “I shall see you all at dinner. And I shall expect a full report on your progress. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Mrs. Featherstone,” the young men chimed in unison.
Gillian just grinned.
Ian and Archie wore glum expressions in the wake of Amelia’s departure.
“So what’s the problem?” Gillian asked.
“You know about electrical stuff?” Archie asked.
“To some extent. My father taught me the basics.”
“Main motor’s not getting power,” said Ian.
“Or else the motor itself is defective,” countered Archie.
“Impossible. I’ve built a dozen motors with this design.”
“Well, I’ve successfully wired at least two dozen dildos.” Archie grimaced in Gillian’s direction. “He does mechanical, mostly. I do electrical. How about you?”
“I have some experience with both types of work, though my speciality is mathematics and logic.” She stepped closer to the circular magnifier. “Might I take a look?”
“Be our guest,” said Ian. “We are well and truly stuck.”
Under the lens, every detail of the circuitry became clear. In fact, the design was quite elegant, the layout logical and precise. She scanned the interwoven wires, focusing on their connections. In thirty seconds, she had located the fault.
“There,” she said. “Between pins fourteen and fifteen. The solder is not adhering.” Backing away, she let Archie look.
“By Jove, you’re right.” A smile lit his boyish face. “Thank you!”
“May I try fixing it? Just for practice?” She added a bit of softness to her voice, a tentative quality that did not reflect her true nature. The last thing she wanted was to intimidate the other apprentices.
“Why not?” said Archie gallantly. “If you have trouble, I can take over.”
He handed her a length of solder and a tiny torch. The tip where the flame emerged could not have been more than a sixteenth of an inch in diameter. Gillian had never seen anything so marvellous.
It took no more than a minute for her to melt the silvery metal into a miniscule blob that bridged the two wires. She surveyed the circuit again. “That’s the only issue that I can see. Why don’t you switch it on, Archie? We can see if that did the trick.”
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, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Inspiration is fickle. One day you’ll be seized by an idea that just won’t let you go. You throw yourself into the writing, intoxicated by the process of creation, certain this will be the best book you’ve ever produced. The sentences and paragraphs flow, the story taking shape on the page almost without effort.
Then, suddenly and inexplicably, the fire dies out. The magic evaporates, and you’re left to plod along, trying dutifully to complete the opus to which you’ve devoted your time, despite your doubts about its quality.
If you’re trying to make a living writing, you can’t afford to wait for the muse. You’ve got to produce. If, like me, you write primarily for the joy of the process, you may abandon the entire project when your inspiration disappears.
That’s what happened with By Moonlight. For years, I’d wanted to write an erotic tale based on the Alfred Noyes poem “The Highwayman”. One day the stars aligned. I sat down and wrote the first chapter in a couple of hours. It turned out exactly as I’d imagined it, both lyrical and arousing. I was chuffed, as my UK author friends would say, eager to push the tale forward.
The next weekend, though, when I sat down to continue, I discovered that inspiration had fled. The whole notion seemed silly. I really couldn’t force myself to write any more.
So I put the barely-started tale aside and worked on something else. I always have lots of potential projects in mind, far more than my writing time allows.
That was four years ago. I’d almost forgotten By Moonlight. Then a stormy night recently reminded me of the poem, and the poem reminded me of the story. When I pulled it up and re-read it, I was freshly impressed and determined to complete it.
After such a long lag, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to recreate the tone of that intense first installment. Fortunately I was able to get feedback from my online critique partners, who helped me to adjust the language and the atmosphere appropriately. All in all, I’m happy with the result. I think I’ve managed to fulfill my intentions, offering homage to the Noyes poem while twisting the story in an original (and happier) direction.
The lesson here, though, is clear. If you are an author, don’t throw anything away! Keep all your snippets, all your abandoned projects, all your monuments to the departed muse.
You really never know when inspiration will return.
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.
Excerpt (PG)
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.
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.
Most authors borrow from their own experience in crafting their fiction, to a greater or lesser extent. People, places, and situations from our lives get selected, altered and recombined. This helps to make our tales lively, realistic and believable.
In my most recent release, Incognito, I mined my personal history to a greater extent than usual. The novel is set in the historic Beacon Hill district of Boston, with parallel plot lines in the present and in the late Victorian era. As it happens, I had the good fortune to live in Beacon Hill myself for eighteen months, back in the nineties, and I loved every minute. As I wandered along the cobblestone streets, marveling at the ivy-covered row houses, I felt as though I were going back in time. I’ve mentioned in other blog posts that I have a peculiar affinity for Victorian architecture, fashion and culture. Living in Beacon Hill was a dream come true.
My heroine Miranda literally walks in my footsteps. In fact, her apartment on Charles Street, with its wrought iron fire escape looking out on the brick alley, is more or less based on the place I rented. The antique and bric-a-brac shop where she discovers Beatrice’s diary was a place I often browsed. Louisburg Square, where Beatrice’s home is located, is as elegant today as it was in her time.
I even threw in some of my favorite restaurants. Both Iruña and the Guernavaca Cafe are closed now, but when I lived in Boston, they were much as described in the book. The trendy sandwich bar across from Miranda’s building where she and Lucy have lunch is also based on a real place – and according to the Internet, it’s still in business!
Of course some of the book’s locations come purely from my imagination, like the Fantasy Factory sex club and the seedy bar down by the waterfront where Miranda plays billiards with the bikers. All in all, though, I shamelessly indulged myself while writing Incognito, recreating many happy memories.
I wonder if my readers can tell?
Incognito New Release Giveaway
Win a $10 bookstore GC or free books in my INCOGNITO giveaway. Contest runs from June 1 to June 15.
To enter, do any or all of the following. (Each action is one entry.)
On June 16th, I will randomly select one grand-prize winner who’ll get a $10 gift certificate, plus two runner-ups who can choose any ebook from my indie back list.
THE STORY:
During the day, Miranda Cahill works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, she has sex with strangers.
Public coupling, multiple partners, age play, spankings, bondage, lesbian lust—each salacious adventure exposes new dimensions of her depravity. Her secret life explodes when she realizes her masked partner at a kink club and the charismatic colleague courting her are in fact the same man.
Dickens scholar Mark Anderson seems like an affable, uncomplicated Midwesterner, but he has hidden depths, myriad talents, and an unlimited appetite for erotic variety. With Mark as her guide, Miranda comes to accept the intricacy of her own desires, as well as to trust her heart.
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, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
I scarcely know how to commence this account of my adventures and my sins. Indeed, I do not fully understand why I feel compelled to commit these things to writing. Clearly, my purpose is not to review and relive these experiences in the future, for in twenty minutes’ time these sentences will be invisible even to me. Perhaps in the years ahead, I will trail my fingers across the empty parchment, colored like flesh, and the memories will come alive without the words, coaxed from the pages by my touch like flames bursting from cold embers.
I have a secret life, another self, and that secret has become a burden that I clutch to myself, and yet would be relieved of. So, like the Japanese who write their deepest desires on slips of rice paper and then burn them, I write of secret joys and yearnings, and send that writing into oblivion.
Let me begin again. My name is Beatrice. The world sees me as poised, prosperous, respectable, wife of one of Boston’s leading merchants and industrialists, mother of two sweet children, lady of a fine brick house on fashionable Mount Vernon Street, with Viennese crystal chandeliers, Chinese porcelain, French velvet draperies, and Italian marble fireplaces. I devote myself to the education of my dear Daniel and Louisa, the management of my household, works of charity, cultural afternoons. In sum, the many and sundry details of maintaining oneself in proper society.
Though I have borne two children, I am still considered beautiful. Indeed, with my golden locks, fair skin, sapphire eyes and rosy lips, I am often compared to an angel. How little they know, those who so describe me. For in truth, I am depraved, wanton, and lecherous, so lost that I do not even regret my fall.
My husband is a kind, intelligent, and honorable man, for whom I have the deepest regard and affection. He treats me with the utmost consideration and respect; he rarely comes to my bed and when he does, he is profuse with apologies for his unfortunate lust. Alas, he hardly knows or understands me. I understand him to a much greater extent, enough to know that I must lie still and silent under him, not move or cry out as his manhood dances inside me. Everyone knows that for proper women, the rites of the flesh are a trial that must be endured; men are subject to carnal weakness, and women’s lot is to be the passive receptacle of their spending. This is what my husband believes. Knowing he believes this takes the fire from the moment, and makes it easier for me to play my frigid, compliant role.
I know better, though.
Today, I walked in Louisburg Square with Daniel, Louisa, and their nurse. The weather was glorious, sky of limpid blue sown with fluffy clouds, new leaves dancing in the breeze. My parasol raised against the sun, I did not see him until he was almost upon us.
He was of medium height, sumptuously attired, as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I. His mouth had a fullness that I liked, the look of someone who savors the sweet things in life, and a readiness to smile. As he swept off his hat and bowed, I noticed his hands, with long delicate fingers clad in beige kid gloves.
“Good afternoon, Madame,” he said courteously. “I trust that you and your children are enjoying this fine weather.”
Meanwhile, his eyes were sending me a different, more intimate message, which would have been lost on someone who was not sensitized to such things. There were no words in this message, only images, emotions, sensation, a quickening of breath, a heat, a tightening.
I am perpetually amazed at how we recognize each other, those of us who live beyond the pale of propriety. Is it some primal scent that we exude? Some subtle clue in posture or expression? Could it in fact be some spiritual connection, a mingling of thoughts in the ether? The mechanism is obscure to me, but I know the phenomenon only too well. I have sat in a concert hall with two hundred elegantly dressed, respectable members of proper society and found my eyes drawn to a single face in the balcony, a set of eyes that knew me, saw through my finery to the hungry flesh beneath.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” I said, my voice low and modest. “It is indeed fine, especially for so early in the season.”
“Of course, that may indicate that it will become hot sooner than usual.” The gentleman’s eyes sparkled with humor at his little private joke. Hot indeed, I thought to myself, adjusting my expression to signal some slight disapproval.
“I do not believe that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, Sir,” I said.
“Forgive me for my lack of courtesy.” He reached into his waistcoat, withdrew a card and wrote something upon it. “Here is my card.”
“Thank you.” I examined the card. It was not, in fact, a visiting card, but a blank upon which he had inscribed the following few words:
Ten O’clock this evening
No. __ Beacon Street
With respect and hope,
Charles Burnside
His name was unknown to me. Clearly he must be one of the many visitors to our prosperous city. I gave him my most luminous smile. “Perhaps we will meet again, Sir.” “I do hope so, Madame. Adieu for now.”
Alana Lorens, author 