is a group blog from several sassy erotic romance authors!
Find out about our latest releases, read scintillating interviews on Mondays, beat mid-week blahs with Hump Day Help Wednesdays, and see hot hunks on Fridays. Saturdays are "Open Mike" and full of surprises! And then, there's always our guests...!
A scintillating excerpt from my latest WIP to start your week...
She smiled. One of
those powerful, feminine smiles he never allowed his women.
A slow blink, a rise and fall of long
lashes over those violet eyes, and the smile softened. She walked to him, long
legs scissoring, breasts gently lifting and falling with each breath, and he
lost himself in his need. Lost his control, knowing it showed. Her eyes widened
but she kept her smile. Equal. He allowed her that for now. They came together,
mouths crashing, lips mashing against teeth, tongues duelling. He fisted one
hand in her thick hair to anchor her against his sensual assault until he
pulled away to breathe. Her face was flushed, lips swollen and when her eyes
fluttered open they were dazed with lust and lack of oxygen, the purple hue
soft, lighter than the flowers of the same color.
“Do you have a bed?” He hardly
recognized his own voice.
“Door on the left.” Hers was barely
above a whisper.
Dean snagged the bag on the way by,
dragging her along with him, reluctant to release her for an instant. She
pushed open the door she’d indicated and flicked on the light switch. Her hand
trembled and he could feel the desire
rolling off her like a tangible thing.
small lamps beside the bed illuminated a room sharply contrasting with the
austerity of the rest of the house, very different from the kitchen and the
work space. This was a retreat, a cocoon. A queen sized bed predominated, a
tall brass headboard and foot board anchoring it to the hardwood floor, the
thick nap of area rug squaring off the perimeter. A puffy white comforter
scattered with tiny white flowers covered the mattress. Several pillows layered
the head of it, a small black stuffed animal tucked into their midst, and a
chair with classic lines filled one corner. He took his surroundings in with
the skill of long, necessary practise before his attention was wrenched back to
Setting her crossed hands at her waist she
tugged the bottom of her shirt up and over her head, tossing it across the
chair. Busy fingers worked her jeans button and zipper, next pushing them down
the long length of her legs. She stepped out and kicked them aside then
advanced on him. The pink lace of her bra didn’t cover the darker points of her
nipples and the little briefs clung to her wet apex. The evidence of her need
further diminished his control. Dean impatiently yanked his shirt out of his
jeans and popped at least one button taking it off. His jeans barely cleared
his ass before she was on him, her silken length a sensory explosion against
his skin. They tussled for control, falling crossways across the bed, the
comforter huffing beneath their combined weight.
He pinned her wrists above her head, feeling
the fine bones under his hand. Looming over her to stare into her eyes,
searching for something maybe, a reason for his need to pursue her, but his
physical need superseded it. She
panted beneath him, small whimpering sounds emerging on every exhale. Easing
the fine chain of her necklace aside, setting his lips on the pulse beating at
the base of her throat, he suckled her, then traced a path with his tongue to
the point between her breasts where her bra thwarted him. He popped the front
clasp with his thumb and her mounds spilled forth, pushing the cups aside,
umber nipples beaded into tight points. His mouth closed around one tip, a hand
moulding the other, fingers rolling and pulling the bud. Amy whimpered louder
and arched into his touch, her legs writhing to push between his, her heels
hooking over his ankles.
He couldn’t hold on and released her
hands to slide down her body, kissing and licking a path to her underwear, slipping
them down over her hips and off her body as he knelt between her legs. A
swollen, pink pussy was unveiled, wet and welcoming, the scent fresh as the sea.
Fuck. He wasn’t coming in his shorts like a teenager with his first impending
lay. The box of condoms resisted his fumbling hands, the cardboard finally
tearing, a shower of foil packages spraying to fall over them like confetti at
the Super Bowl. Ripping open a package, Dean pushed his boxers down and
sheathed himself, wincing at the sensitivity of his begging cock.
spread her legs wider, labia parting in invitation to reveal slick, red inner
lips, and he literally mounted her, a stallion in rut, resting his weight on
one hand planted beside her, the other guiding his erection to notch it at her
Incredible, wet heat engulfed his
cockhead, sucking at it like a little mouth and he pushed against the outer
ring guarding her entrance, gaining entry with some difficulty. She was soaked,
wet and slippery but so very tight, the walls of her sheath grudgingly parting
to allow him to gain deeper access, squeezing him, making him pant with the
effort to hold off his release. Sweat beaded on his brow and broke out at the
base of his spine. At last he was seated to the hilt, balls cradled against the
curve of her buttocks. Amy moaned beneath him, her hands fluttering the length
of his back, soft full thighs rising to grip his hips. When her calves locked
behind his knees, hands settling flat against his shoulders, Dean reacted to
the way she held him, close, wrapping him up. For a moment he gloried in this
feeling so right, like coming home,
before his brain automatically rejected the intimacy and his lust took
This flash fiction piece started its life as a squiggle. With all my
artistic abilities, I scrawled a couple of funny little lines on my
paper. My writer friend filled them in and came up with a woman in the
water threatened to drag me under. I struck out against the current.
Another wave hit me. Bigger this time. I managed to gulp in a tiny
breath before I was smashed down again. Rolling and tumbling in
horrifying somersaults, fine sand ground into my eyes, my nose, my
mouth. My lungs screamed for air. Glimpses of the blue sky far, far
above mocked me.
eyes fluttered open. Above me, leaning over my face, was the most
handsome man I'd ever seen. Wet, black curls clung to his strong,
tanned face. Concerned, questioning dark brown eyes, fringed by
thick, black lashes, held my gaze.
he said again. A small hint of a pleading smile.
sighed in admiration and closed my eyes again. If you're going to be
saved from the surf by a lifesaver, he may as well be lovely. It was
amazing how great I felt, I thought in surprise. Peeking up again, I
saw white, even teeth, a masculine blade of a nose, firm lips turned
up at the corners.
drew back to sit on his haunches, so I let my eyes flit down to the
rest of him. His body matched his face. Lean, wide, bare shoulders, a
rigid six-packed abdomen, and a chest with a smattering of delicious
black curls that led down to…well,
tight fitting board shorts covered up that interesting area.
things hit me at the same time. I struggled to a sitting position,
staring beyond my dark haired lifesaver to the empty beach beyond
him. "Where is everyone? This place was packed when I went in
the surf. And how do you know my name?"
face fell. I don't think I've ever seen such sadness. "You're
not my Amber," he said, his voice flat. He set his jaw. Then,
observing my bafflement, he smiled. A tight, disappointed smile with
a hint of tenderness. "So many Ambers," he mused."
at a loss, and just a little frightened, I forced my voice to be
firm. "Did you rescue me?"
he supplied, his eyes wistful, so sad.
thank you for saving me. But you haven't answered my questions. Where
have all the people gone? And how do you know my name? I don't know
you, do I?"
stretched for so long, I wondered if he was going to answer me.
are no people here, because this is my Paradise. Mine and Amber's."
He sighed, and said again, "So many Ambers." He frowned.
"Are you married?"
shook my head, swallowing, searching the empty beach for some sign of
gave a half smile. "Good. I know that sounds crazy. You aren't
my Amber. You can marry anyone you want. But the last Amber was
married to a guy called Dave, and it hurt. Crazy huh?"
seemed to be talking more to himself than me, but I couldn't agree
with him more.
seemed to observe my mounting fear, for he smiled again. A huge,
sweet, comforting smile that worked. "Don't worry, Amber. You'll
be fine. I'll just keep waiting for my Amber. She'll come."
lovely smile blurred, dimmed, darkened.
woke up in a hospital bed.
eyes fluttered open. I smiled up at the concerned, worried face of my
Today we're celebrating at Craving Erotic Romance. Anytime a new book is out, we jump for joy! Virginnia's latest book simply sizzles and we're sharing!
Virginnia states, "Memoirs of Lady Montrose" is my first serious erotica. Although some of my other novellas are classified as erotic there's many more sex scenes in this one. Plus the requirement was to write about a menage a trois. I really had to use my imagination here, not having any experience in this field! I enjoyed the challenge and the process so much I have written a second erotic novella. As yet it hasn't been accepted for publication, but it's close. (Just a few changes required.) It's called "Landscapes of Lust" and I hope to have it released within the year."
Lady Helen attends
a Brighton Establishment to be sexually satisfied by their staff. Her husband Henry pays for this arrangement
and together they relive the descriptions of her experiences there.
This idyllic arrangement
falls apart when Christopher Mortlock, from Brighton, recognises Lady Helen in
London and endeavours to blackmail her. He is unaware of Lord Henry’s
involvement and Mortlock’s blackmail plot is turned around to the benefit of
all three of them.
Mortlock agrees to
a new arrangement to satisfy Lady Helen’s sexual needs and is inventive and
athletic in his labours as their gardener and employee; until the day he
introduces her to ‘Fairy Dust.’ Lord Henry’s wrath descends to save Lady Helen
from addiction and punish Mortlock for his audacity.
A sexual romp that
will titillate your senses as much as it delights Lady Montrose!
“Good evening Mrs. Brown”
someone murmured at her shoulder.
Helen’s stomach lurched.
Her heart leapt in her chest and pounded at speed. Fear fizzed down her spine and turned her
stomach over. Only a small group of
people knew her as Mrs. Brown and those people would not mix with, or be known
to the present company. The cream of London’s society eddied around her,
dressed to impress for their night at the Albert Hall. The interval afforded an
opportunity to be seen and husbands attended with no interest in the musical
recitals of Mozart and Chopin, let alone Beethoven’s Pastoral pieces.
She turned around, her
gaze searching the moving crowd. Three men walked away through the theatre
patrons, one younger than the others.
From the rear he looked well built with wide shoulders, dressed in
formal attire and walking with a slight swagger. The voice she heard had
sounded young. Could it be him? Even if she could see his face she wouldn’t
recognise him. When in the persona
of ‘Mrs Brown’ she always requested a blindfold.
If she had enjoyed his company, she
“Helen.” Charlotte touched her arm to attract her attention
and she turned back to concentrate on the moment and get her nerves under
“Sorry Lottie, sorry.”
“Lady Helen, may I introduce the
Honourable Stuart Whitmore, Member of Parliament for Minderhurst.” Charlotte
indicated the gentleman who’d arrived while her gaze had been fixed elsewhere.
“Mr. Stuart Whitmore, may I introduce you to Lady Helen Montrose.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk at the moment. Excuse
me.” She inclined her head towards the fawning Member of Parliament and gave
Charlotte a quick smile. “I must go, Charlotte. I’m worried about Henry. He was
a little poorly when I left this evening.”
“But the programme is
only halfway through.”
“I must go Lottie. I‘ve a
feeling something is terribly wrong.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
They abandoned Mr.
Whitmore M.P in the crowd. He would no doubt turn and inveigle his way into
another group. More important things
weighed on Helen’s mind than the ladder-climbing hopes of a back bencher.
Lottie accompanied her through the throng that filled the foyer. The combined
conversations hummed like a nest of wasps.
They nodded politely to those who moved forward, hurrying past until
they reached the entrance to wait for an available taxi.
“Helen, you’re quite
pale. Are you ill?” Charlotte had known
her for many years but this was one secret Lady Helen could not share, even
with her best friend. The nausea held its place, churning her insides and she
couldn’t explain her pallor to Charlotte, no matter how desperate her need to
share the burden. Only to Henry could she talk. “Are you sure it isn’t you who
is feeling unwell?
“I’m fine Charlotte, just
tired. I’ll be happy to get home.” The
driver waited, holding the door open. “Thank you for your company this
evening.” Helen gave Charlotte a quick
kiss on her soft powdered cheek then climbed into the back of the black
taxicab. Her heart-beat had slowed since the man had called her ‘Mrs Brown’,
but the lump in her throat still hurt. The
sour taste of distress filled her mouth and her breath came in fast gasps as if
she were panting. She leant back against
the upholstery and inhaled several deep, slow breaths in an effort to calm her
apprehension. Thank God Henry would
still be awake when she got home. She needed
his wise counsel, his old frail arms around her, his liver-spotted hands
stroking her hair.
She opened the taxi’s
door, pushing notes in to the driver’s hand, Her relief to be home made her
ignore the cabbie’s call about her change.
In her haste to reach Henry’s side she slammed their front door, the
heavy oak connecting with a thud, and ran up the staircase to their bedroom on
the second floor.
Friends of Henry’s
considered her a ‘decoration on Henry’s arm’
and said as much behind her back, not loud enough for Henry to hear, but
sufficient for her to catch the phrase.
Despite being thirty years her husband’s junior theirs was a love-match.
At first their age
difference had meant nothing, but of late the effects of Henry’s age had torn a
hole in their lovemaking. Henry’s
kindness and his concern for her physical needs was the foundation for the
state of panic now coursing through her. She threw her evening wrap over the
chaise longue, kicked off her evening shoes and climbed into bed beside him.
“What is it?” He tossed
his book aside, reached and wrapped his arms around her to pull her close.
“A man called me ‘Mrs.
Brown’ this evening. Someone from Brighton has come to London and recognised me. It can only mean trouble , Henry.”
“Sshh. Quiet, darling. Let’s think this out.”
She rested her head on
his chest and stretched beside him. He moved aside the bodice of her low cut
dress to stroke her breasts with a smooth caress, his hands no longer the
strong. With a soft touch he wrapped his hand under the giving mass, cupping
it, circling her nipple with his
fingertips in feather-light dance.
“Did he say anything
“No, I turned around but
several men were walking away from me, one a younger man. He had a thick mop of hair and his stride
held an arrogance not seen in our circles . It
could have been him, but even if I’d seen his face I wouldn’t have known who he
was, Henry. You know I always wear a blindfold - so I can pretend it’s you.”
Don’t panic so.”
Lady Helen listened to
the steady, slow beat of Henry’s heart
knowing his thought process could not be rushed. After a minute he said, “No
doubt he’ll try to blackmail you.”
Aren't you shuddering too? You can pick up this book today. It's already getting rave reviews!
THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM MY WORK IN PROGRESS, YET TO BE ACCEPTED FOR PUBLISHING.
His grin reassured her and his scent stirred deep into her mind, releasing longings, dampening her thighs and the ‘tom-tom’ of the drums of passion sounded in her mind. Already kneeling, he began to undress her with fluid movements, shedding her blouse from her body and tossing it aside before undoing her jean’s waist button, his fumbling for the zip had her helping him.. A quick shrug and he eased them down her legs. She lifted her buttocks to help him. Her knickers followed the path of the jeans, tossed aside into the bush. Hastening now she undid her bra and with a shout of delight and freedom tossed it high, to hang from an overhead branch. She laughed. Naked – the ground sheet smooth and uneven beneath her. He reached and pulled her by one hand, hauling her upright and taking a step back he gathered her into his arms, hugging her so that they were chest to breast, burying his head in her hair, cupping her chin and dropping kisses around her face. With gentle movements he slid his body against her breasts, and wrapped his wide palms to around the soft mounds of her bottom. In turn she ran her hands up and down his back, digging her fingertips into the grooves between his muscles, playing the bones of his spine as if playing a recorder. A picture from her childhood days in the school’s orchestra raced through from her memory, and with eyes closed she puffed her breath onto his shoulders and against his neck as she imagined him to be her instrument, and she the musician. They were about to make forest music.
Tommy Lee Jones (born September 15, 1946) is an American
actor and film director. He has received four Academy Award nominations,
winning one as Best Supporting Actor for his performance as U.S. Marshall
Samuel Gerard in the 1993 thriller film The Fugitive.
I’ve watched Tommy Lee
Jones movies all my life. I liked them all. When he played that crazy ex CIA
terrorist on Under Siege I realized he could step outside his tough, cop guy
role…and then there was Men In Black.
Good guy, bad guy—he
ain’t young anymore but he has presence. I like it—and him.
They walked along the river, the sounds of the city’s nightlife bouncing off the hard surfaces of the surrounding tall buildings. To Stella it felt as if the city was talking to her, urging caution and every warning horn from the auto-taxis seemed to be saying ‘beware’, ‘beware’ to her personally, instead of warning other cars that their proximity was dangerously close. He slid his hand around hers, his grasp soft and warm, a comfort to her jangled nerves. She couldn’t pull her hand away. That would be rude. Not that she wanted to release his grasp. The smell of his after-shave tickled her nose, pleasant and sharp, a clean aroma that reminded her of the gum tree plantation she’d visited with her father last year. On the other side of the river, standing under a streetlight she noted the figure of a man, watching. His shape and profile seemed familiar. Surely not Grandad? Would he really be there, checking on her safety? She’d stopped walking, her concentration on the figure’s outline had halted her steps. Could it be a security agent from the Nursery? No, Granddad has said none of the family was on the observation schedule for the coming week. The figure moved, walking away and from his gait she was sure it was her grandfather. She signed, more with acceptance of his concern than from frustration at his lack of trust. Perhaps it was Matt he didn’t trust? Not her. “Let’s sit for a while.” Matt’s pressure on her back guided her to a long seat, nearby. This one had a back, not like the ones they’d walked past, all square with edges that cut the night, the giant’s toy blocks. The seat’s curved back fitted nicely when she leaned back to look at the stars. “There’s a falling star,” Matt said. “Make a wish.” Closing her eyes tight she wished she could love this man unfettered by her genes and when she opened her eyes his face blotted out the stars above her. His lips closed gently over hers, soft and giving, while the trembling in his embrace spoke silently to her of his passion as he held her against his chest. Several long moments later she gently pulled back, to take a deep breath. She’d forgotten to breathe! His eyes reflected the lamp behind them and his dark hair fell over his forehead, tickling her face. She stroked the hair out of his eyes, her gaze devoured his features, memorising them, printing them indelibly into her memory, because this could be the last time she saw him.
Let's all thank Allyson Young for bringing this guy to my attention;
There he is, our hero Detective William Murdoch.
Could I get you a beaker or a refractive lens my good sir?
So I like a smart guy with a good lab set-up. Even better if he's playing historical. It gives my brain science, period sets, and an attractive man to wrestle with. My brain can multi-task like that.
Seriously, Yannick Bisson plays the title character on Murdoch Mysteries, a Canadian series about our fine Detective utilizing cutting edge forensic techniques in 1890's Toronto. The show is fun, hits on some fairly modern day issues, and uses big words. Again, my brain appreciates that.
Would you like me to explain the basics of DNA sequencing to you, William?
And let's not forget the fact that he's quite the looker. A-hem.
For those not into trilby hats and spats, here's a look at him in more modern garb;
Nice. He's also the spitting image of one of my heroes. I wrote this hero before I ever saw the show and I was freaked out for the first few episodes by the resemblance to the man in my mind and this man on my screen. They even have the same eyelashes...sigh.
I like real-life Yannick Bisson because he seems to be happy with his wife and family, which is truly hunk-worthy behavior in my book.
The usual disclaimer applies, I don't own copyright on these images and will of course remove if you disapprove. But he's cute so please don't!
Everyone in our group brought a
couple of items. (I brought a lollipop and a tube of hand cream.) I
was the one to lucky dip and pick out the…toy
that's what we wrote about!
"Lady, stay calm, okay?"
She started, her eyes glazed. She took a tiny step forward, and my
"Ma’am, just hold tight to the gutter. I'll have you down in a
As I absorbed the petite, dark haired woman, precariously swaying as
she clutched the guttering above her head, I wondered, as I always
did at these times, what circumstances could have driven her to take
this step. She was young, pretty. What the hell had gone so wrong in
"Ma'am, my name is Dave. What's yours?" I tried my best,
friendly fireman smile.
It seemed to work, for she swallowed and smiled tentatively back.
We'd got the 000 call ten minutes ago. A woman on the ledge, four
storeys up. The ladder just made it, and there I was, my head and
shoulders peaking over the edge. The guys on the ground were ready to
catch her. But all my training told me to take this slow. So much
could go wrong.
"Hi Amy." I grinned again, my heart pounding in my chest,
my mouth dry.
"Hi Dave," she whispered, again with a tiny smile. Her
lovely face was pale, her eyes wide, terrified.
"Amy," I said, forcing myself to sound calm, "I want
you to stay where you are and I'll lift myself up onto the ledge,
Amy nodded, opened her mouth to speak, but then glanced down into the
darkness below. In the fluorescent light above her head, she paled
even more. Sweet Jesus, she was about to faint.
I leapt up onto the ledge. Grabbed her around the waist, and dragged
her slim body up against mine. She clutched onto me, as I pulled her
toward her open window. A second later, she was safe inside her
I breathed in heartfelt relief.
Amy smiled up at me, her face still deathly pale, her eyes still
wide, shocked. "Thank you, Dave." She took a huge breath.
Why the hell had she done this to herself? "Amy,
we can help you. You don't have to let things get so bad that you
feel you have to…"
Her brows pleated in confusion.
"To, er, you know, end it all."
Amy laughed, her cheeks reddening. "Oh, I wasn't going to kill
myself. I wanted the balloon that floated out the window."