Eight mistresses of the erotic bring you eight original, never before published stories to excite and arouse, including USA Today Bestsellers Alessandra Torre and CD Reiss, and NY Times Bestseller K. Bromberg.
These are not your mother’s erotic stories.
We’re not giggling about foul language over tea, or avoiding smut talk at the Tupperware party.
This book is slick fingers and flesh on your lips. It’s twisted bodies late at night when the city sleeps and the moans fall where no one can hear them. This book is pain and pleasure, lust and passion, a body brought to the breaking point. It’s drenched in the musk of sweat, shuddering at the touch of a Master.
It’s not your mother’s erotica. It’s yours.
Filled with fear.
Sated by pleasure.
Robbed of control.
Blindfolded and bound.
Shamed she liked it.
Doomed to want it.
An identity unraveled.
Lives changed forever.
In search of strength and guidance at a nearby church, Jared happens upon a temptation. One he cannot Hope to resist. Each time he sees her, the overwhelming urge to have her consumes him. The lust is overpowering, dragging him deeper and deeper with each encounter, exposing the devil within.
Fiona Drazen, sex addict, submissive slave, celebutante, trapped in a mental ward until Dr. Elliot Chapman can help her remember why she’s there. But once she does, she might not want to go home to the Master she tried to kill.
Worth by Shay Savage
An injured Roman Tribunus finds comfort in the touch of the slave commanded to tend to his wounds. As a slave, her value is measured as a couple of coins, but as Tribunus Faustus learns more about her, he begins to understand her true worth. Still, a man of his station can never acknowledge feelings for a slave, and she is already owned by another man.
A dirty promise turns into a dark obsession…
Harper keeps her head down—invisible. Moving through life unnoticed, hiding from the past, evading the future.
James has no boundaries—invincible. Looking for a way out, looking for someone he can save instead of kill.
He must have her, take her, control her, keep her. She will submit. But she will do it when she is ready and willing. The bond is uneasy and the future uncertain. But one thing’s for sure.
Alone… Harper and James are dangerous.
Together… they are unstoppable.
After years attempting to contact her estranged grandmother, an artist who lives on a remote island, Sarah “Red” Ryder is surprised to receive an invitation. When she arrives at the island, she’s shocked to find it is now the home of J. Wolfe, the reclusive artist, who has his own plans for her.
My feet hurt. Four inches of a-size-too-small shoes will do that to a girl. Especially a girl who is used to sensible flats, paired with nylons and JC Penny skirt suits. But your best friend only gets married once, and when she is paying for an all-expense paid bachelorette party to the Bahamas, the sane thing to do is hop on that plane, put on your sexiest pair of strappies, sip on penis-shaped straws, and dance your feet off.
I wasn’t looking for a man. Wasn’t planning to do anything but hobble my swollen feet up to the room and collapse. Maybe splurge on minibar candy and a six dollar bottle of water. I may not have been looking, but when you run into a man like Brett Jacobs, you don’t walk away. You wipe up your drool, remember your southern graces, and bat your eyelashes.
I may have forgotten my southern graces. They may have gotten lost in the pushmeupagainstthewall and takemehere action that occurred. In the clothesripping ohmygod action that followed. They may have, along with my sanity and common sense, left me with bruised lips, ripped panties, multiple orgasms, and blistered feet.
God bless cheap shoes, impulse decisions, and weak willpower.
This set will only be available for a limited time, so get it before it disappears.
About the Ladies of The Erotica Consortium
The Erotica Consortium was the brain child of CD Reiss. In December 2013 she asked JA Huss to help her pull together the hottest erotica writers to start a private Facebook group that would encourage support in all areas of bookish things. Members of The Erotica Consortium were personally invited by JA and CD and the group is complete with six additional authors: Shay Savage, Andrea Smith, KI Lynn, K Bromberg, Ella James, and Alessandra Torre. BEND is their first anthology together.
Shay Savage lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband, two children, and a variety of household pets. She is an accomplished public speaker, and holds the rank of Distinguished Toastmaster from Toastmasters International. When not writing, she enjoys science fiction movies, masquerading as a zombie, is a HUGE Star Wars fan, and member of the 501st Legion of Stormtroopers. When the geek fun runs out, she also loves soccer in any and all forms – especially the Columbus Crew, Arsenal and Bayern Munich – and anxiously awaits the 2014 World Cup. Savage holds a degree in psychology, and she brings a lot of that knowledge into the characters within her stories.
Aia squeezed my hand gently before releasing it and moving back to her bench. She reached for a cloth and dipped it in a bowl of water and then ran the cool cloth over my forehead and down the side of my face. She continued, apparently determined to wash whatever remained of the blood of battle away from my flesh.
I closed my eyes and evened out my breaths as her ministrations lulled me. My shoulders still ached from the constant position against the bed, but I tried not to think of the discomfort. When I opened my eyes, I saw Aia looking down my body and couldn’t help but respond with a smile.
“Do you still think of it?”
Aia looked back at me.
“Of what, Faustus?”
“My cock pressed against your belly.”
She looked away, but I could still make out the crimson shade of her cheeks and neck in the glow of the candles on the table. I wanted to reach out and grab her hand again, but she was too far away.
“I’m still in need of distraction,” I reminded her.
“I think you need sleep,” Aia rebutted. Her lips pressed together, and I was sure she wanted to comment further, but chose not to do so. I found my eyes drawn to the front of her dress as she leaned over me, partially exposing one of her breasts.
Despite the discomfort, my cock took notice.
“Distract me,” I commanded again.
“I think you know everything about my life now, Faustus.”
“Then distract me another way,” I suggested. I kept my eyes on her, and when she looked to me, I raised an eyebrow and smiled suggestively.
Aia turned to drop the cloth in the bowl, and I watched her eyes as she looked down my body. From my supine position, the state of my cock was becoming noticeable. Her blush returned, and she looked back to the bowl again. Her hand trembled slightly as she wrung out the cloth and hung it beside the table.
Reaching out, I took her wrist and guided her hand to the hard length of my cock.
“How long will it be,” I asked with lowered voice, “until I can fill you with this?”
Interview with Shay Savage
When did you start writing?
I’ve always had stories in my head begging to be released. I first published in December of 2012 when I released Otherwise Alone, the first book in the Evan Arden trilogy.
What were you very first stories about?
The first real novel I wrote was fantasy/erotica. It was violent and dark. I set if off to the side for a year or so after writing it, and when I went back to read it again, I decided it was crap. It’s never seen the light of day. I continued along the erotica path, but focused more on the psychological and crime. I do play a fantasy based erotica story for 2015.
Have you always written male POV?
Not always, but as I delved more into first person perspective, that’s where my focus has been. Many people have asked if I really am a woman (yes, I am – ha!), but my interests lie in more male-dominated activities and most of my friends are men. I think I have a pretty good understanding of how they think.
How do you choose your character’s names?
Usually from friends (with their permission) or soccer players. Many times I’ll check out those “behind the name” websites to choose last names for characters. I like finding a name that fits a major personality trait of my characters. Example: Sebastian Stark. Sebastian is from the Bayern Munich/German national team player Sebastian Schwansteiger, and Stark means “strength”.
How do you write your stories? Chronological order, sections?
I vary a lot on this. Usually I start a story with a scene that comes into my head. That scene could be anywhere in the story, from the very beginning to the climax. I’ll build around that scene. For the most part I write from the beginning to the end, but I will jump around a lot as well. I always write the smut scenes from the orgasm backward. I don’t know why, it just works better for me that way.
Did you always plan on self-publishing?
I debated for quite a while, but my need for control has led me down the indie path. I like how quickly I can go from finishing the writing to actually having the book available for people to read. It works for me. I’m still trying to get the hang of the business side of it, but I’m making progress with a lot of help from other authors and friends.
Was it a hard decision to quit working to become a full time writer?
It really was. I toyed with the idea when I changed jobs in early 2012, but decided to stick with the day job. At that point, I hadn’t published anything though I planned to do so. I worked as a manager in the IT field and made good money, so going into the unknown was pretty frightening. For better or worse, conditions at my workplace combined with the success of Surviving Raine gave me the kick in the ass I needed to give it a shot. I’m really glad I did!
Many people consider Surviving Raine and Transcendence two great romance stories. Do you consider yourself a romance writer?
Obviously romance plays a key role in what I write, but to me it’s a side note and not the main story. I like to understand people’s behavior and what goes on in their heads to make them do the things they do. After college, I worked with a lot of kids from terrible backgrounds, and I’ve always been fascinated with the reasons a bully becomes a bully (or an alcoholic, or a hit man). I like to think of my stories as psychological studies first, full of intense action-based plots second, and erotic/romantic in nature is third.
What is your favorite genre to read?
I read a lot of fantasy books, some sci-fi, and a decent amount of erotica. I always look for stories that are going to keep me guessing and not follow a formula. The writing has to be really good to hold my interest. I’m surprised at how much out there doesn’t follow some of the basics of fiction writing, and I shy away from anything that hasn’t been properly edited. I see this just as much in traditionally published fiction as I do with indie authors.
Do your parents or children read your stories?
My parents have read many of them, though I don’t think they have read all. They’re very supportive and proud of me. They’ve given a lot of my books to my grade school teachers (my parents both taught in my elementary school), which is a little bizarre for me, so I don’t think about it too much. My daughter is a voracious reader, but too young to delve into what I write at this point, and my college-age son pretends I don’t write this stuff. Ha! His girlfriend and many of her friends have read them though.
How did you meet The Savage Trainer?
When I first started Legion Training and began to work out regularly, my gym just didn’t cut it anymore. I signed up for a new gym and was given a freebie training session with one of their trainers. I was paired with TST. He looked so much like the image of Evan Arden I’d had in my head for months that I was kind of floored the moment I first looked at him. I’m surprised I managed to speak coherently (maybe I didn’t – you’ll have to ask him). I was also impressed by how great a trainer he is, which was obvious even though I had to keep wiping drool off my chin between sets.
Did you approach him about being your muse right away, or did you have to warm up to it?
I’m a pretty straightforward person. I asked him right away, and he’s been a fabulous asset ever since then. He’s a gorgeous model, dedicated trainer, and a wonderful friend. I’ve learned a lot from him, and we work together very well both in the gym and when it comes to my work.
JA Huss is the author of the Amazon bestselling Rook and Ronin series, the epic science fiction I Am Just Junco series, and hundreds of kid-friendly science books in subjects such as biology, physics, anatomy and physiology, astronomy, and forensics. She has an undergraduate degree in equine science and a master’s degree in forensic toxicology. She has never taken a creative writing class and she hopes she never will.
“You said, ‘You don’t want to know me… I’m no one.”’ He turns to face me head-on now, his expression blank, his mouth a flat line. His eyes impassive and empty. I can see it now. This is a killer’s face. The dimples are hiding underneath the frown. The emotionless facade of a hardened assassin. A man who sees death as nothing personal, just a job to be completed.
“But you’re wrong, Harp. I’m the invisible one. You’re a beacon in the dark as far as I’m concerned. I’m the unknowable one. And if you were my contract, I would kill you.” He stares down at me with those impassive, cold, businesslike green eyes. “Just as sure as I did my brother. Because that’s what I do. That’s who I am. You might have all the moves, but you have none of the venom, angelfish.”
He turns to walk away but I grab him again. “You wouldn’t kill me—”
His hands grab me by the waist and yank me to his chest. “You think you want me? You think you want to know more?” He leans down and breathes into my neck for a moment. “Would you like me to take you, Harper?”
Tingles erupt throughout my whole body and the throbbing between my legs is begging for more contact. More skin on skin. More conversation, more soft, whispered words. More of everything. I want more of everything.
“Because I will. I’m that kind of guy. The kind who’ll seduce a little girl and fuck her wild just because he can make her think she wants him so bad, she’ll spread her legs and do as she’s told.”
“I’m almost nineteen. I can handle more than you think.”
He laughs. “A baby who has no idea what to do with a cock in her mouth.”
I’m ashamed to admit it, but instead of embarrassing me, his words hurt.
“I’m not interested in the babies, Harper. I just take what I want. And you were right to demand to know me before you let me fuck you. Because you reminded me of what I am. Why I’m here.” He yanks his arm from my grip and turns again.
My leg reaches forward and tangles with his, making him stumble, and then I grab his arm and twist. He reacts faster than I can plan the next move, and two seconds later he’s got me pinned to the concrete. Straddling my waist, hands holding me down, hunched over and leaning into my face. “You want me to stay?”
I can’t answer because I’m not sure.
He rises up on his knees a little bit, and then his hands release mine and begin to unbuckle his belt.
I lie absolutely still.
Once the buckle is out of the way, he makes quick work of the button, then the zipper on his pants.
I swallow hard.
“You will take my cock in your mouth.”
JA Huss’ Top Five Movies
The Last Samurai
The Fifth Element
Oh Brother, Where Art thou
JA Huss’ top Five Books
Daughter of Smoke and Bone series by Laini Taylor
The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay
The Edge of Never by JA Redmerski
Takeshi Kovacs Series by Richard K Morgan
Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi
JA Huss’ Top Five Dream Vacation Spots
Fiji – I just might move here. 🙂
Any place in Japan, but preferably the entire collection of islands. I’d like to spend a year there.
A summer in Antarctica because it scares the shit out of me.
A cruise around Alaska.
The Golden Coast of Australia.
CD Reiss is a USA Today and Amazon bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t pick up, she’s at the well, hauling buckets.
Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere, but it did embed TV story structure in her head well enough for her to take a big risk on a TV series structured erotic series called Songs of Submission. It’s about a kinky billionaire hung up on his ex-wife, an ingenue singer with a wisecracking mouth; art, music and sin in the city of Los Angeles.
Critics have dubbed the books “poetic,” “literary,” and “hauntingly atmospheric,” which is flattering enough for her to put it in a bio, but embarrassing enough for her not to tell her husband, or he might think she’s some sort of braggart who’s too good to give the toilets a once-over every couple of weeks or chop a cord of wood.
If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.
The club is thick with humanity. The dance floor stinks. The voices are like a bag of broken glass. The music is a throbbing heartbeat. And the man is gone.
I put my hands on bare, sweaty skin, pushing through. Amanda finds me, blonde hair stuck to her forehead, lipstick fading, her bodyguard, Joel, two steps behind in dark glasses and firearm. She kisses me on the lips. I push her away.
“You see a guy in a suit? Tall? Hair like this?” I make a motion with my fingers.
She points to the exit with a wink. I smack a kiss on her lips, and continue pushing through.
She calls my name as I walk away, but I pretend I don’t hear her. I have a man to find.
Nothing like coke to make the impossible seem within reach, or to make it within your rights to shove, tread upon, growl and curse to get through a crowd just to get a look at some hot stranger. Nothing like that expansion of the ego to make it okay to push some squealing teeny bopper out of your way when she screams “Fiona Drazen! You’re Fiona Drazen!” in your fucking face as if your name alone is front page fucking news.
Of course, they wait outside in a cluster, pressing against the red velvet ropes. Paparazzi don’t care about the weather, which is rainy and cold for Los Angeles. Lights flash. They call out my name as if I even answer to it any more. Let them get their pictures. I have him in my sights.
He hands the valet a tip and takes the keys to a black Range Rover.
He is a thoroughbred, and there are twenty assholes with cameras between him and me, which is too bad, because I have to have him.
I put my knuckles out to them, both middle fingers extended for all it’s worth. I have rings on top of rings, and I know the lights are going to glint on them like hell in the pictures. I’m going to look like a flashy rich bitch and the coke tells me I don’t give a fucking shit what Daddy thinks.
I turn to the doorman, skinny ex-cop with a pencil moustache. He looks at my chest, then at my face. I know Irv. He’s a hustler. He keeps these assholes off us when we’re around, but he takes cash to let them know when Amanda and I show up.
“Irv! What the fuck?”
“I got it,” he says.
“Outta my way cocksuckers!” I shout, plowing through, with Irv’s help. They back off for him in a way they’d never do for me. I know they’d chew me up, spit me out, and photograph me crawling to the hospital.
I get to the Range Rover and pound on the passenger side window. It’s tinted. The car doesn’t move and the window stays up. Do I have the right one?
They’re behind me, and I’m on the curb, in the drizzle, out of Irv’s field of influence. If he comes to get me, he’s leaving the door, and that’s not cool.
I pound on the window again. Bursts of light flash on it.
I’m about to get mobbed.
“Hey, asshole,” I shout.
The window rolls down so slowly I feel as if I’m in a movie about falling.
And there he is. My heart jumps out of my chest.
“Hi,” I say, sticking me head in. I can feel them behind me. I can hear them calling my name, over and over. “You took something of mine outta the bathroom.”
“Really?” He’s older than I thought, and this makes him more attractive then humanly possible. “What?”
“My heart.” It’s a stupid come on, but I’m a girl. I can get away with it.
“Ah. I thought maybe your shirt buttons.” For the first time, he glances at my chest, and I feel that my breasts are chilled.
My shirt is wide open. Fucking Earl with his octopus hands.
“Don’t make me turn around,” I say. “They already got enough pictures.”
He takes a second to think about it, looking me straight in the face. A little smirk plays on the perfect line of his lips and I think I just might die.
Alessandra Torre is an exciting new author who astonished the publishing world with the success of her first novel, Blindfolded Innocence. Initially self-published, the intriguing romance and erotica title quickly rose to the top of the charts on Kindle and Amazon where it attracted the interest of major publishing houses. Currently available on Kindle, iBookstore and Nook, Blindfolded Innocence will be available in print in through Harlequin Publishing on January 25, 2014.
Torre’s captivating story about a young intern’s sexual awakening has won praise and rave reviews from numerous critics, bloggers and book reviewers, including the acclaimed Dr. Laura Berman. In her recent article “35 to Read After 50″ in Everyday Health, Dr. Berman recommended Blindfolded as a must-read for book enthusiasts searching for a new fix after Fifty Shades of Grey. The book has also received high marks from readers on Goodreads and other literary web sites where fans frequently remark they can’t wait for a Blindfolded sequel.
Momentarily stunned by the book’s rapid success, Torre resumed her daily writing routine and published ‘The Girl in 6E’, an erotic thriller that explores the hidden fetishes men covet and the life of a female recluse who battles an overwhelming desire for murder. The Girl in 6E will be released in Summer 2014, as a hardcover novel, through Redhook, an imprint of Hachette.
From her home near the warm waters of the Emerald Coast in Florida, she devotes several hours each day to various writing projects and interacting with her fans on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Happily married to her “best friend” and with one son, she loves watching SEC football games, horseback riding, reading and watching movies.
Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hungover selves will be strapped in and flying back to ATL. I hang an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaning my head back, weight on their shoulders,and bellow the chorus of Sweet HomeAlabama, the club singing along, my mouth breaking into a grin too big too contain, the familiar tune never failing to raise my spirits. Never mind that,between the six of us, we’ve set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It is the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we own every syllable of the damn thing.
The last chorus rings out, and I release the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass begins, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.
I slow my hips, glance at our table, seeing Beth and Tammy there,the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I am pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tries to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yank at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and move to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon lit exit sign. Air. I need air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with the fact that none of the men in this club will be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seem worthy of a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too … not who I am looking for.
I bang through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I take two steps to the right and lean against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wish I still smoke. I remember the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I don’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet are enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to I-Can’t-Even-Remember-His-Name-Ville.
I sense the presence before I see it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffen, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it is with my gaze. Then he speaks, and I relax, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lieI’ve told myself is exposed. I need him. My body needs him. Wants more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8th floor. I had made a mistake. I don’t intend to make another.
He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping,pulling me tighter. I love it.
“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh,pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping,taking it in his mind as his own.
“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.
The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing. His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.
Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.
Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most. My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head. Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.
Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.
He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there,the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, andI just about lift off the ground in my need for more.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp.
“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands.I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”
Top 10 TV Shows That Dominate Alessandra’s TV
1. Vikings (I’ll take a threesome with the two brothers ANYTIME)
2. Black Sails (almost makes me want to be a wench)
3. The Good Wife
5. NCIS: Los Angeles (LOVE me some LL)
6. Family Guy (Stewie just said that!)
7. Spongebob (I’d blame it on the 11 year old but… we love SB)
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author K. Bromberg is that reserved woman sitting in the corner that has you all fooled about the wild child inside of her—the one she lets out every time her fingertips touch the computer keyboard. She’s a wife, mom, child rustler, toy picker-upper, chauffer, resident web-slinger, LaLaloopsy watching, American Girl doll dressing multi-tasker of all things domestic and otherwise. She likes her diet cokes with rum, her music loud, and her pantry stocked with a cache of chocolate.
K. lives in Southern California. When she needs a break from the daily chaos of her life, you can most likely find her on the treadmill or with Kindle in hand, devouring the pages of a good, saucy book.
On a whim in 2013, K. Bromberg decided to try her hand at this writing thing. Her debut novels, Driven, Fueled, and Crashed of The Driven Trilogy were well received and went on to become multi-platform bestsellers as well as landing on the New York Times and USA Today lists.
My body begins to writhe, its need to sate the burning ache a sharp contrast to the warring emotions in my psyche. My only focus is on the slow slide in of his fingers and the pressure and friction against nerves unexpectedly reawakened. The tortuous withdrawal of leather not wet enough tugging softly on the most tender of flesh, causing a different but equally arousing sensation.
I try to fight it.
At least I tell myself I do.
I try to understand how this is possible. How an orgasm can rip me apart right now—again—when fear still holds my breath captive.
I should have never accepted the drink, never looked up to acknowledge him with a subtle nod of my head.
My body vibrates as the swell of white-hot heat sears through me, taking nerve endings hostage and overwhelming all thoughts.
I shouldn’t have looked up—no—so the question is, why am I glad that I did?
Ella James is a Colorado author who writes teen and adult romance. She is happily married to a man who knows how to wield a red pen, and together they are raising a feisty two-year-old who will probably grow up believing everyone’s parents go to war over the placement of a comma.
Ella’s books have been listed on numerous Amazon bestseller lists, including the Movers & Shakers list and the Amazon Top 100; two were listed among Amazon’s Top 100 Young Adult Ebooks of 2012.
Red & Wolfe Excerpt
I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.
The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving frenziedly. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips.
I shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag, lean against my hood, and wait.
What will Gertrude look like? I watch the boats docked, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a muggy but swift breeze, and I wonder which of the boats could be hers.
My phone vibrates. “Walk closer to the dock. The boat name is ‘Fog.’” My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start walking. I walk along the long plank of the dock, passing boats—“Double Trouble,” “Choppy Cass,” “Stupid Does.” The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips. I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, looking down a few slots, watching for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth. I’m walking slowly I see him: a tall man with broad shoulders, a short beard, and piercing black-brown eyes. He’s wearing a pair of slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.
Before his eyes even meet mine, my body flares like a lit match. He takes a few strides toward me, and his gaze touches my face. The heat fades from my cheeks, replaced by bloodless cold.
“You’re Red,” a low voice says.
“You’re not my grandmother.”
K.I. Lynn spent her life in the arts, everything from music to painting and ceramics, then to writing. Characters have always run around in her head, acting out their stories, but it wasn’t until later in life she would put them to pen. It would turn out to be the one thing she was really passionate about.
Since she began posting stories online, she’s garnered acclaim for her diverse stories and hard hitting writing style. Two stories and characters are never the same, her brain moving through different ideas faster than she can write them down as it also plots its quest for world domination…or cheese. Whichever is easier to obtain… Usually it’s cheese.
The Devil in Me Excerpt
The nerves on my neck lit up, tingling down my side. It woke me from my trance, and I turned to find innocent eyes looking at me from one row up on the other side of the aisle. When our gazes connected, she didn’t flinch, her eyes didn’t widen, but a slight blush did appear on her cheeks.
The strange current continued to move through me.
I was caught, roped in, staring at her.
She seemed young—early twenties maybe. I went from studying Jesus to studying the woman who called to me. That was the only way I could explain the firing off of every nerve ending in my body.
She had large, blue doe eyes that bored into my soul. Dark brown, wavy hair curled around her smooth, pale skin and full cheeks. She nabbed her full bottom lip with her teeth before looking away, hiding from me.
It didn’t stop me from staring at her. I tilted my head to the side, forehead scrunched as I tried to figure out what the hell had just happened—and why my cock was so hard. It was just a look, but at the same time, it felt like so much more. A connection, and not that love-at-first-sight bullshit.
Base level between a man and a woman—a need that populated the earth.
Our strange interaction caused images of fucking her on the altar to course through my mind. Was she as untouched as her innocent face suggested? She looked soft, inviting, and corruptible. How would her full hips feel beneath my hands as I thrust my cock into her?
I turned back to the front and began to ask for forgiveness for the things I was thinking about doing to her. My dick, however, continued to dream. A small groan slipped from my lips, and her head snapped up. I cupped my cock through my jeans, adjusting it so it didn’t press so hard against the seam. It twitched against my palm as she squirmed in her seat.
I sat still, staring at her profile. Her lips parted, skin pink, and she moved her ass again. I blew out a breath to calm myself. It was ridiculous. I was just horny because I hadn’t had sex since Monica gave me a break-up fuck three months prior.
After a few minutes, she stood and headed to the confessional. I couldn’t help but turn to look at her delectable ass as she walked. Soft curves called to me, begging me to touch them, own them.
As soon as she stepped out of sight, I ran down the steps to the restroom and locked myself in. I splashed some water on my face, staring at the image in front of me. Someone else stared back. My brown eyes were almost black, lids heavy with a force of lust I’d never experienced.
My teeth clenched, muscles coiled tight as my hips rocked, searching for her. I grabbed hold of the sink, my breath heavy and hard.
What is wrong with me?
It was overpowering. An internal battle for control waged as consuming need pumped through my veins. I popped open my jeans and pulled my cock out. It didn’t matter that I stood in the bathroom of a church—I had to get off before I went insane.
The Devil in Me Soundtrack
Obsession by Animoto
Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge
Fight Inside by Red
My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark by Fall Out Boy
Monster by Imagine Dragons
Monster by Lady Gaga
Monster by Skillet
Seven Devils by Florence and the Machine
Bitch Came Back by Theory of a Deadman
Killin’ It by Krewella
Dark Horse by Katy Perry
Closer by Nine Inch Nails
Timber by Pitbull