Bad Sex Awards-2007

When I found this on The Guardian, I couldn't help but laugh!

From Will by Christopher Rush (Beautiful Books) p132-3

O glorious pubes! The ultimate triangle, whose angles delve to hell but point to paradise. Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird's wing, the chink, the cleft, the keyhole in the door. The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim - I'd come close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue, the end of all odysseys and epic aim of life, pulling at my prick now, pulling like a lodestone.

Anne Hathaway's cow-milking fingers, cradling my balls in her almond palm, now took pity on the poor anguished erection, and in the infinite agony of her desire, guided it to the quick of the wound. At the same time I searched wildly with the fingers of my left hand, groping blind as Cyclops, found the pulpy furred wetness, parted the old lips of time and slipped my middle finger into the sancta sanctorum. It welcomed me with soft sucking sounds, syllables older than language, solace lovelier than words. She pulled my hand away, positioned the prick, slid her buttocks deep into the grass, raised her thighs back high, crossed her legs behind my back, dug her heels into my spine and hauled at me savagely and hard. I fell into her.

It was exhilarating, to be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space. But Anne Hathaway was a cruel queen. Her calves crushed my ribs, her crossed heels digging in hard, drawing me in deeper. She responded with those cries that men long to hear, the sweet deep moaning sounds that echo the sigh of oceans, the ebb and flow of fields, the sough of stars. So we drank from one another, clung together on the ship we'd made of ourselves, breasting the irrelevance of time.

All around us nature joined in ... Streamers of heat lashed my back and shoulders and far beneath me now the body of Anne Hathaway began to rage and founder in the rising foam as I clung like a mariner to her heaving haunches, the deep keel of her backbone dipping and lifting through July, through the green surge of growth, till at last the moment came when some colossal wave flung her up high, and I held on for my life, and she screamed loud and long Then O! then O! then O! my true love said and I felt death go through her. Our vessel ran shuddering onto the rocks, a wave of wetness ran through us, the air was rent with screams and I became aware that the bank on which we lay drenched and grounded was journey's end, love's end, the very sea-mark of our utmost sail.

From Apples by Richard Milward (Faber) p 179

She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn't shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet.

'So, you just gonna sit there?' Abi asked, and I laughed nervously. I was hardening up, but it was all a bit of a shock really. All I'd planned that night was listening to a selection of records and maybe some homework. I tried to go down on her, thinking back to the Razzle and how the boys did it in that. But my heart wasn't into it - her cunt smelt a bit like an armpit, and when I pulled the lips open I knew I'd have to shut them numerous times or else I'll die of Aids or I'd fall into it.

From The Stone Gods by Jeanette Winterson (Hamish Hamilton) p 27-28

Spike doesn't say anything, but she looks at me, and I know she'll be reading my data-chip implant. Everything about me is stored just above my wrist.

'I can't read your data,' she says, reading my mind instead. 'That function is passive while I'm draining.'

'How long will the draining take?'

'A few hours, including questions, then I'm done.'

'You were built entirely for the space mission, right?'

She nods and smiles. She is absurdly beautiful. I start to slip off my jeans and I feel her gaze as I stand in my bra and pants. Why am I embarrassed about taking off my clothes right in front of a robot? I pull the dress over my head like a schoolgirl, untie my hair, and sit down. She is smiling, just a little bit, as though she knows her effect.

To calm myself down and appear in control I reverse the problem. 'Spike, you're a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot? I mean, is it necessary to be the most sophisticated machine ever built and to look like a movie star?'

She answers simply: 'They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.'

I am pondering the implications of this. Like a wartime pin-up? Like a live anti-depressant? Like truth is beauty, beauty truth? 'How good? I mean, I'm assuming you're not talking sexual services here.'

'What else is there to do in space for three years?'

'But inter-species sex is illegal.'

'Not on another planet it isn't. Not in space it isn't.' ...

'So you had sex with spacemen for three years?'

'Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.' ...

p88

We made love by our fire, watching the snow shape the entrance to the cave.

When I touch her, my fingers don't question what she is. My body knows who she is. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known. There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am.

She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.

From The Castle in the Forest by Norman Mailer (Little, Brown) p67-68

'Are you all right?' she cried out as he lay beside her, his breath going in and out with a rasp that sounded as terrible as the last winds of their lost children.

'All right. Yes. No,' he said. Then she was on him. She did not know if this would resuscitate him or end him, but the same spite, sharp as a needle, that had come to her after Fanni's death was in her again. Fanni had told her once what to do. So Klara turned head to foot, and put her most unmentionable part down on his hard-breathing nose and mouth, and took his old battering ram into her lips. Uncle was now as soft as a coil of excrement. She sucked on him nonetheless with an avidity that could come only from the Evil One - that she knew. From there, the impulse had come. So now they both had their heads at the wrong end, and the Evil One was there. He had never been so close before.

The Hound began to come to life. Right in her mouth. It surprised her. Alois had been so limp. But now he was a man again! His mouth lathered with her sap, he turned around and embraced her face with all the passion of his own lips and face, ready at last to grind into her with the Hound, drive it into her piety.

From Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart (Granta) p201

"You wanna pop me?" she said. This must have been some new-fangled youth term. The verb "to pop."

"I wanna bust a nut inside you, shorty," I said. "I wanna make you sweat, boo. Let's do this thing."

I'd like to say that she stepped out of her jeans, but in truth it took a while to maneuver two large dimpled buttocks and the accompanying vaginal wedge out of the hard shell of her Miss Sixty denims. We huffed and sweated; I had her hanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans; I nearly pulled a groin muscle getting her naked; but through it all I stayed hard, a testament to how much I wanted her. She kept her T-shirt on throughout the initial popping, which is just how I like my sex, infused with a little mystery. I slipped my hands beneath the cotton tee and felt the smooth creamery of her breasts while saving the visuals of those brown glossy globes for later. Her vagina was all that, as they say in the urban media - a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges - the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo, while providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair, one running up to the navel, the other to the base of the spine.

Naturally, considering my size, she got on top of me. But given her impressive overall body mass and natural resilience, I could see a day when we could broach the missionary position, not that there's anything special in attacking a poor woman that way. After we had fussed with the condom, I reached for her pubes, but she slapped me away. These preliminaries did not interest her. Instead, she just plain mounted me, holding on to my tits for balance, slipping me inside with no effort, both vaginal lips working to usher me into her tightness. I find it clichéd when couples insist that they have "the perfect fit," but between the busted-up, zigzag, Broadway boogie-woogie of my maligned purple khui and the all-encompassing nature of her Caspian pizda, we reached a third way, as it were.

That is to say, she rode me. It was all very classy and contemporary, like a modern-art survey course at NYU. I wanted to have the slogan I RODE MISHA VAINBERG imprinted on her T-shirt. "Yeah, do me," she kept saying, after issuing a few grunts so male and assertive they startled me into a brief homosexual fear, a fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into my tight rectum. "Do me, daddy," she said, her eyes closed, her thighs slapping against my upper and lower stomachs, my own tits making wet noises against my frame. "Just like that," she said, stealing a brief glance at me and then turning her head to the side so that I could lick her ear and plunge into her neck. "Just ... like ... that."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm fucking you, boo," but the words did not convince me. "I'm busting my nut tonight," I sang.

"My pussy fills so tight," she sang back in perfect ghetto English.

"Ouch," I said. She was crushing my pubic bone, grinding into it. "Ouch," I repeated. "Baby doll ... ouch."

"Just a minute, pops," she said. "Just give me a minute. Do me right. Just like that."

"Move up a little," I said. "Move up. It hurts. My bone."

"Just ... like ... that," she said.

"My bone hurts," I said. "I'm losing it."

"AW," she shouted. "FUCK ME." She leaned back. I slipped out. Her thighs trembled before me, and I felt a warm, abundant liquid spreading on my own thighs, not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled with the smell of asparagus and related greenery. "Aw," she said again. "Fuck me."

From Boy Meets Girl by Ali Smith (Canongate)

Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. We were a bird that could sing Mozart. Her beautiful head was down at my breast, she caught me between her teeth just once, she put the nip into nipple like the cub of a fox would.

Was that her tongue? Was that what they meant when they said flames had tongues? I was hard all right, and then I was sinew, I was a snake, I changed stone to snake in three simple moves, stoke stake snake, then I was a tree whose branches were all budded knots, and what were those felty buds, were they antlers? were antlers really growing out of both of us? was my whole front furring over? and were we the same pelt? were our hands black shining hoofs? were we kicking? were we bitten? We were blades, were a knife that could cut through myth, were two knives thrown by a magician, were arrows fired by a god, we hit heart, we hit home, we were the tail of a fish were the reek of a cat were the beak of a bird were the feather that mastered gravity were high above every landscape then down deep in the purple haze of the heather were roamin in a gloamin in a brash unending Scottish piece of perfect jigging reeling reel can we really keep this up?

From The Nature of Monsters by Clare Clark (Viking)

Unhooked by longing, my body arched towards him. When at last he reached in to touch me, there was nothing else left, nothing in the world but his fingers and the delirious incoherent frenzy of pure sensation they sent spiralling through me, as though I were an instrument vibrating with the exquisite hymns of the angels. Did that make him an angel? My toes clenched in my boots and my belly held itself aloft in a moment of stillness as the flame quivered, perfectly bright. I held my breath. In the explosion I lost sight of myself. I was a million brilliant fragments, the darkness of my belly alive with stars. When at last I opened my eyes to look at him, my lashes shone with tears. He raised a finger to his lips and smiled.

From The Late Hector Kipling by David Thewlis (Picador)

This is not pleasurable. How could anyone find having burning hot candle wax dripped onto the flesh of their belly pleasurable? But I don't want to tell her to stop cos the last time I told her to stop I got belted in the mouth. She wears an average of three rings on each finger. God, Mum was right, this lousy settee does stink. No wonder Dad's in hospital. I might well be joining him by the end of the night.

I think I'm still inside her but, quite honestly, it's difficult to tell ...

Avanti!

"You fucker!" she drawls, and brings the flame up close to my left nipple. "You pathetic little fucker," and tries to light it like a wick.

"Ooowwww!" Oh shit, my nipple's on fire. She's poured lighter fluid onto my chest and my tit's gone up in flames like some dessert in a posh restaurant.

"Fuck, Rosa! Aggghhhh! For fuck's sake! Blow it out! Blow it out!"

"OK, baby," she whispers, suddenly gentle, "OK, my angel," and with this she reaches down and pours half a can of Stella over my scorched chest. I'm beginning to regret that I ever invited her in. "How's that?" she says, lowering her head and lapping up the ale. "That nice? That nice, baby?"

"No!" I scream.

"No?"

"No, Rosa, no that is not fucking nice! It bloody kills!"

She cracks me across the face with the back of her hand, grips my throat, spits in my eye and scrapes her nails across my scalded flesh. And that's when I come. Oh yes. That's when the core of my soul spasms and snaps, spilling out its filthy pips.

It was a dark and stormy night....

I was so inspired by Allie Harrison's blog post, I decided to share it with everyone that may have missed it, but with a twist. We have a lot of authors getting in on the action here lately, but not nearly enough of our fans. Join us over on the Reader Forum and let's finish this story!

It was a dark and stormy night. Allie was sitting alone in the living room, swaddled in a warm fleece blanket, with a horror novel in her hands. The wind howled outside the window, and the lights flickered momentarily.

Latest Releases

Volarn Chronicles I: Love's Captive by Myra Nour

When Serena awakes, after a close and unpleasant encounter with some sort of stun gun, she learns that resistance is futile and escape only a yearned for dream. She comes to find that she and the other Earth women have been captured by the Moyds.....interstellar merchants, and their mission is to procure fertile wives for the men of Volarn because their own race has been endangered due to the wide-spread sterility of their own women. Serena is disgusted to realize that they are nothing in the men’s eyes but baby makers, but she’s aware that she has no other choice than to face the fate that awaits her with as much dignity as she can.

After arriving on Volarn, Serena finds that her assessment had not been entirely accurate. The Volarn men used their power crystals in the Tarthra Ritual to approach the women to find the mate most suited to them, a women to love and who can love them and Serena has been chosen to become King Rhamus’ Queen but, just as she feels herself weakening to him and his romantic, passionate nature, Rhamus’ enemy Xarath abducts her......

Genre: Futuristic Romance

Possessing the Flame by Ann Lory

She possesses the power of fire and earth...

Terrorized by a man who comes to Jillian in the form of a shadow--he tries to steal her powers-- powers she doesn't know how to control. She's in a constant battle for her life, but one night she is saved by a gorgeous, Egyptian lord who is searching through time for her, his lost mate.

He possesses the power of water and air...

Jarha's mate was lost to him, sent to the future as a babe to be borne by another woman. When he finally finds Jillian in a dream he will never let her go and uses magic to bring her back through time, back by his side where she belongs.

Jillian is a woman of the future does not easily bend to Jarha's will, but together is the only way they can defeat their enemy, a sorcerer that wants their powers for evil. In the Sahara Desert, swirling through the sands of time, they will come together in an explosion of elemental fire that rivals the Egyptian sun.

Genre: Paranormal, Time Travel, Erotica

New Releases from NCP

Serena inhaled the sweet air, fragrant with the native flowers and the scent of the sea.  A deep longing stirred within her and her eyes as if being commanded by another force, settled on the softly lapping waves that rolled against the beach.  She started when she saw movement out in the dark depths.  For one split second, she thought she’d seen a human head bobbing out of the water.

The moonlight sparkling against the water put her soul at ease.  She could easily swim in that water, despite the risk involved, it sang to her.  Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she shivered, as deep melancholy washed over her.

She gradually became drowsy enough that she had to leave the balcony.  Zander had taken his leave without a word to her, and in a way, she didn’t care.  She walked to the door and tested the handle.  Not surprisingly, it was locked.  Shrugging her shoulders, she walked back over to the bed, and collapsed wearily upon it.  She shouldn’t feel this lethargic not after the night of ecstasy she’d had, but dreamland beckoned to her, and she went without a struggle.

“Serena,” her name was softly whispered by a man whose voice she didn’t recognize.  She smiled and rolled over in the bed.  That same man touched her on the arm, and his light touch made her shiver with delight.  She slowly opened her eyes.  In the darkened room, she barely made out his silhouette next to the bed.  He was larger than both Chiron and Zander, and from the moonlight spilling into the room from the open balcony she could see that he had blue-black hair.  His eyes captivated her; they were the color of the sea and sparkled like diamonds.  In a way they had the same effervescent life her eyes possessed.  “Come with me, my water princess,” he said softly, his melodiously deep voice lulling her into submission.  She sat up, and tossed the sheets off her body.  Still wearing the robe, she put her feet on the floor, and gripped the strong large hand he offered to her.  It felt cold and also a bit wet.  Still believing it was a dream, she followed him to the balcony.  He levitated them up into the air, and together they rode the wind out to sea.  As the sea spritzed up onto her face, she became fully alert.  Her eyes opened wide, and she struggled to pull away from the man of the sea.  

He walked into the waves, and pulled her behind him.  “No, you don’t understand,” she said desperately, fear slicing through her heart, “my kind doesn’t live under the sea!  I’m not a mermaid!”  Her fierce protestations were cut off as he pulled her beneath the depths, and she lost consciousness.

“Come here.” Adam started around the table.
Diana pulled away easily, because he allowed her. She backed up, out of
reach as he stalked her. The hunter and his prey.
Diana wasn’t afraid. She supposed she should be. Werewolves were
supposed to be crazy monsters. She did feel threatened, though in a very
feminine way. He was so very big. Her flight ended as she bumped into the
refrigerator. His arms came up. He laid his palms on the door, caging her in.
She had to crane her neck to look up into his face.
Diana’s mouth went dry. Her heart pumped out an erratic beat. Her limbs
felt heavy. Breathing was an effort. But not with fear, with desire as she’d
never felt it before. She had to get away.
“Look ... I ... I was probably out of line.” She gulped a breath as his blond
head descended. His gaze held her mesmerized. “I didn’t understand what
….”
Adam’s mouth settling over hers, stopped her words.
He growled low in his throat, reveling in his possession. Palming one full
breast, he kneaded through the soft material of her dress. The hard bud of
her nipple made his mouth water in anticipation. Her moan elicited another
growl and a tiny nip at her lip before he laved the sting away.
She thought to escape him, but he would not allow that. This female was
his. Kissing her was the only thing left to do. He pressed close, crowding her
into the cool metal behind her, letting her feel what she did to his body.
His cock throbbed in time to their heartbeats. He literally ached for her. He
needed to finish what they’d started. He’d bound her to his pack. The
psychic joining only lacked physical completion to make her complete the
mate’s bond. She belonged to him.
The wolf in him, the beast, roared with demand. Take her. Take your mate.
A date? She wanted to taunt him with another male? No male in his right
mind would dare show an interest in the alpha’s female.
Adam plunged his tongue deep inside her mouth, tasting the unique flavor
that was Diana. He memorized her, demanded that she respond, that she
only remember him. Mentally, he reached out, merging their essences even
as he ground his body against hers.
Diana’s whole body was swept up into a storm. Her mind, her being, was not
her own. She felt both her own desire and Adam’s feeding hers to greater
frenzy. When his other hand closed over her breast, Diana shuddered.
She had to touch bare skin, needed to feel the overheated warmth of his
skin next to hers. Struggling with the buttons on his shirt, she finally ripped
it free of his jeans. Diana tunneled her hands under the material. She
reveled in the sheer tactile delight of ridges and valleys of his work hard
body. Sliding her hands around and up the trunk of his body, she dragged
her nails back down the ridge of Adam’s back.
Groaning, he arched his back against the second draw of her nails. He
straightened, wild, animal eyes fixed on her. He pulled her hands out from
under his shirt and sucked in a breath.
“I want to see you.”
With dizzying speed, Adam whipped the dress over her head. It fell
unnoticed to the floor as he stared in wonder at the soft curves he’d
unwrapped. An unexpected gift dressed in the barest of blue satin
undergarments. Her brown eyes watched him with a hesitancy that he felt
through their connection.
“Beautiful.” Adam let out a breath as he went to his knees. Drawing her
close, hands sliding over the sexy bounty of her hips, he buried his face
against the softness of her stomach. He inhaled the scent of her sex—hot,
musky, ripe for him.

  I knew day had dawned when Tristan appeared in the head librarian’s office door.  He stared at me and Dan.  Dan was engrossed in some Walt Whitman poetry that had just appeared on the shelves a few hours ago.  Apparently, the deceased writers and poets only had to wish their works into the places where the literature-starved dead gathered.  Sort of like how the King George Hotel’s chef fed us his memories of delicious cuisine.  The netherworld was magical when you got past the morbid aspects of it.

I wallowed in frustrated enjoyment of a nearly-impossible Sudoku puzzle.  Doing battle with grids of numbers proved a pleasant way to pass the time once Dan and I had exhausted our more wanton urges for awhile.  Now my mind wanted a workout.

I began to see the possibilities for the next several hundred years or so.  Languages I could learn, the books to be read, new knowledge to be gained.  Dan had told me he liked to, excuse the pun, haunt the local college and attend the lectures.  Surely I could put off the boredom that afflicted so many of the earthbound dead for several centuries.

The movement at the office door filled me with dread.  Somehow I knew it was Tristan before I looked up.  I didn’t want to look at him, not after I’d seen him and Patricia go full predator.  I’m like Lot’s wife though.  I just have to look.

Tristan stared at me, his too-handsome, too-human face worried.  And darn if my heart didn’t go pitter-pat at the sight of him.  It was like he was a set of twins; one all scary and evil, the other a disheveled angel.

I sighed. When Tristan wasn’t a vampire, I felt as gooey for him as I did Dan. Maybe he and I didn’t sing the same tune, but only because his nighttime persona freaked me out.  If not for the bloodsucking side of Tristan, I’d be equally besotted with him as with my Marlboro Man.

I’m a smart enough girl to realize that my interest in Tristan kept me in Dan’s arms though.  If Dan had been my only option for romance, I’d be running for the hills, unable to deal with the terror of putting my trust in one man.  I also realized that this situation was terribly unfair to them both.

Knowing something and being able to change it are two entirely different things.

I stood, putting my puzzle down  I noticed how Dan kept his eyes on his book as I walked past the desk on my way to speak with Tristan.  I went into the office, and the vampire closed the door behind me.

Without preamble, Tristan said, “I could kill Augustus for making you watch that.  I know he has his reasons for what he does and they’re usually very good, but that’s not how I wanted you to see me.”

I studied him.  He stared at me with those dark, almost black eyes.  He looked so tormented.  Ashamed.  To see Tristan’s cool confidence stripped away like that startled me.  I had the feeling he didn’t let many people see this unsure side.

I fought off the urge to throw my arms around him in a comforting hug.  “I guess being a vamp isn’t so great sometimes?”

Tristan considered my question.  I appreciated that he gave my words such weight.  To so many men, I’m just a Barbie doll, all form and no substance.  I’m not slighting them; I put myself in that position.  But I sure enjoy it when I’m taken seriously.

When Tristan answered, most of his calm self-assurance had clicked back in place.  “Being a vampire has its good points.  I’m not going to lie in order to sound nobler than I am, Brandilynn.”

“Honesty makes for nobility,” I offered.  I leaned against the desk behind me, strangely excited to get a more accurate picture of Tristan Keith.

He folded his arms over his chest.  “I like the power that comes from being a vampire.  I like sitting on top of the heap.  I worked for powerful men when I was alive, but I didn’t have the money or social standing to claim that world for myself.”

“You like the challenges being a vampire has opened up for you.”

Tristan nodded.  “I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy taking the risks and maneuvering around the obstacles.  It’s a game I love to play.”

Men.  Whether it’s over women or status, they just have to beat their chests.  My smile for Tristan was pure affection.  “Hey, I worked for those kinds of men in my own way.  Ambition doesn’t put me off.”

He grinned back, the relief evident.  “Good because I enjoy your company.”  He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind him.  “You care about Dan.  I can tell.”

 A pang of guilt went through me.  But I’d been up front with Dan.  He knew what the score was.  Still, I felt the urge to remain true to him in words at least.  “Dan’s wonderful.  He means a lot to me.”

Tristan’s eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s.  The eyes of a man who takes whatever he fancies.  “What about me?  I’m someone who easily gives up what I want.  I’ve never desired a woman as much as I desire you, Brandilynn.”

Even making myself imagine Tristan swinging from a vine with a wild Tarzan yell couldn’t keep me from shivering at his dark, possessive stare.  I tried to remember him as he’d been when feeding on his little blood bank the night before.  Nope, that didn’t cool my jets either.

I was so screwed.

I made a very unhappy sound.  “When you’re not sporting those sharp incisors, I enjoy your company too.  Dan’s not thrilled about sharing me, but he’s willing for now.  What are your thoughts on the matter?”

Tristan closed the distance between us.  His fingers trailed through my hair.  The selfish expression had disappeared to be replaced by simple, warm need.  With real regret he said, “As much as I’d like you to be monogamous with me, I can’t ask you to make me your one and only when my hungers lead me to seek other women.  Blood and sex go together.  No vampire is exempt from that one-two punch.  But know this, Brandilynn, if I could be with just one lady, you’d be the woman for me.”

 Jeez, he’d stopped just shy of proclaiming his eternal love.  What did I do to make these men act like this?  I was Brandilynn Payson, a BDSM-loving, no-commitment making, high-end prostitute.  It made no sense Tristan and Dan would want a woman like me, not for keeps.

I tried to play it off like my brain wasn’t twisting itself inside out over the situation.  “It’s just as well I’m polyamorous.  At the risk of sounding racist, I don’t go for bloodsuckers.  You really freaked me out last night.”

“I know I did.”  Tristan’s smile was a bitter thing, one that didn’t sit well on his handsome face.  “We have the daylight hours though.  Look, Brandilynn, no fangs.”  He opened his mouth to show me.

I laughed.  When he kissed me, I snuggled in tight.  So sue me for wanting to bang a vamp.  He’d been honest.  He’d been open.  He’d treated me like I was a real person with real feelings.  You don’t toss aside a man like that, no matter how long his teeth grew after the sun set.

  Cade De Montgomery mounted the coal black stallion then raced across the coastal border
edging bitterly close to the edge of the cliffs, sending rock and dirt flying in the wake of his
reckless path. His thoughts raced blindly in his grief, as he barely felt the sting of the wind and
light rain as it touched his heated skin. His blood seemed to pound in his veins, and his chest felt
so tight he could hardly inhale the damp cold morning air as he began to slow his mount.
His thoughts wandered as he thought back over his life and how often he felt at a loss, in what
was his duty to the Queen or his duty to his father. Never taking what he wanted, fighting for
their causes, and how he hated the way they could twist his life to do their bidding, and forfeiting
any of his own personal goals or dreams or happiness that he might want or need in his life.
And the prize they had said was his, and he thought just might be, was now lost forever. So
young she was to die, and for what, greed, ambition, land, such a man’s world, that a woman
didn’t have a say in her happiness or future. Her life had been so fragile, and the child he would
claim as his was now lost forever, too.
Did they think him blind not to care, or to see the truth in the web of lies they spun so easily? He
would never forget or forgive what they had done. He made a vow to himself and swore to God
that he would never use or be used, nor be made a fool of by them again. He would make his
own destiny, and he would choose who to love, and who to marry. No longer would he let an
innocent pay for anyone’s greed or hunger for power. He would use the dowry she had brought
to this marriage during their brief union and would do things to benefit others less fortunate.
Anyone who dealt with Cade de Montgomery would be treated fair and honest, for his wrath
would be swift and just.
Alas, this day will so begin, and the night not forgotten.

Great releases!

We have some more great releases for everyone today! His Wicked Touch by Taylor Manning is a sexy futuristic you won't want to miss!

Drawing her forefinger into his mouth, he suckled it slowly, then with increasing intensity. When she moaned softly, he released his hold and withdrew her finger, only to guide it to a caress of his lower lip.

A glance at her face showed her eyes still closed, but now her lips were parted, as he had wanted.

But he was not yet ready to take his kiss. Far from it. There was one more thing he needed, proof that he had the power to control her. He wanted her acknowledgement that she desired his kiss. He wanted the truth from her.

With a slow movement he drew her finger from his lip and lifted her hand to his chest, pressing her open palm over his heart.

"Feel what you have done, Bess," he whispered. "My pulse quickens, my heart races. Your mere touch has made my heart your slave, yours to command."

She opened her eyes, drowsy with desire, but said nothing.

"Will you command it, Bess? Will you set my heart free and confess that you, too, wish this kiss?"

He watched her face intently as he spoke, and saw what he wanted. Her lips parted further and the pink tip of her tongue came out to slake them.

But when she still she did not speak, he slid his arm around her waist and drew her gently into him. With infinite slowness he lowered his lips to hers.

Hovering a bare finger’s breadth from her, he could feel the warmth of her breath. "Say it is so, Bess."

"It is so," she whispered.

She swayed, leaning fully into him, her lips seeking his.

A wave of desire coursed through him. Tightening his arms, he crushed her breasts to his chest until he felt her nipples harden with desire. His loins thrust forward, seeking the ultimate pleasure.

Dishonorable Intentions by Shannon Steeves is finally out in print! This hot historical will have you craving a man with intentions as wicked as Nathan's!

“A window?  You can’t be serious?”  He looked over one shoulder, then the other, before confiding, “I’ll be eight and twenty next month Cassie, too old to be climbing trellises and maneuvering dark balustrades.  What’s the matter with the door?”

“There’s a tree and a ledge, Nathan, and I’ll leave my window unlocked as well.  What on earth could possibly go wrong?”

“It wasn’t the earth I was worried about my dear,” he muttered in an aside.

“Besides, you have to come.  No gentleman would dare refuse a ladies invitation, and telling you the truth is the only way I can think of to keep you safe.”

He took her hands in his and used his thumbs to swirl small circles on her palms.  Damn her traitorous knees, she could feel them starting to turn into jelly.  And where the heck did his gloves go?  His voice was a deep and husky, his breath fanning gently onto her ear.  “If I am such a person, why would I sneak into a young ladies bedroom in the middle of the night?  That would be something a rakehell, not a gentleman, would do wouldn’t you agree?”

Cassie was starting to wonder if maybe he was a genuine rogue.  She couldn’t tell, she was having difficulty concentrating—his nearness was permeating her senses to the point of incoherency.  She quickly took a step away.  They couldn’t risk anymore time out here, someone might come outside and find them like this.

“Gentleman, rake, does it matter?  All we are going to be doing is talking.”  He shot her a look so unbelieving that she had to question her own words.  She shrugged to herself, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been wrong about something, no sense worrying about it now.  “So you’ll come?”

He raised her hand to his mouth and gently kissed the tip of each finger, lingering on the smallest one to gently suck it into his mouth.  “Perhaps,” was all he said before disappearing like a specter into the mist.

Finally, we have Guarding Miranda by Amanda Holt, also just now out in print. Be warned, though, this contemporary romance may leave you hot and bothered.

Russ wasn’t the most demanding client that Brian had ever had, but the bloke certainly liked to be updated on a day-to-day basis. It wasn’t Brian’s style, to give status reports first thing in the morning, every morning, but what the customer wanted, the customer got.

And Gundy paid him very well for his services. Very well indeed.

“Good, Mr. Gundy,” he began, as he pictured the red headed man on the other end of the phone. “And you?”

“Good as I can be, given the circumstances. You left a message on my voice mail,” replied the older, wealthier man. Now that Brian had some concrete evidence for his client, he hoped that the morning phone calls would cease. Unlike the other mornings, it was this morning that he had been the one to call Russ. “You said you had good news, evidence?”

Brian looked at the photos that hung, drying, on the line. As his gaze fell on the blond haired man pictured in many of the frames, his stormy gray eyes narrowed with cool speculation.

“Well, I’m not sure that you would take it as good news.”

“Well, out with it. What did you find out?”

“Richard Alba is definitely in the business of trafficking drugs,” said Brian, looking at one of the pictures he had taken with the help of a telescopic lens. The image of Richard bent over a table, drawing a line of cocaine through a straw to his nose, testing the product he was about to purchase. “No doubt about it.”

“I knew it.” Russ sounded pleased. “And you really have concrete proof?”

“Photos taken by telescopic lens and a recording taken by directional microphone.” Brian was proud of his work, the long months of research that had culminated into the surveillance of the drug deal. His own pride in a job well done thickened his Australian accent, and deepened his baritone voice. “An entire drug deal caught on film and tape. These last three months of work, non-stop, have finally paid off for you, Mr. Gundy.”

“Excellent!” The older man sounded ecstatic. “And what of my niece, Miranda?”

Brian’s dark gray eyes glanced at the picture that was his favorite of the batch. Miranda was, in short, a photogenic beauty. The camera loved her, as did the film.