Craft Therapy – The Zen of Weaving

“You have a weaving class looming.”

Groan.  My coworker said that to me and giggled about it for the rest of the afternoon, but he was onto something.  I’ve written before about crafts and their benefits, and it’s something we have to keep learning over and over.  Crafts bring pleasure but, more importantly, they bring us into the moment.  That class looming over me for the day reminded me that my life isn’t all about my day job.

I take weaving classes at the Chicago Weaving School with Natalie Boyett.  An amazing teacher, Natalie understands the Zen of art.  She knows how to be gentle and she knows how to inspire.  More than that, I find weaving puts me in the moment and while I’m working on the simple back-and-forth or counting, my mind relaxes.  From there, it’s an easy jump into my story.  Weaving makes me a better writer.  I’m sure it has that beneficial effect on other walks of life too; my classes are full of teachers, nurses, and professionals of all stripes.  We come because weaving is fun.  We stay because it’s a way of life.

Too melodramatic for you?  To New Age?  Let me share with you the magic and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

My project is a simple kimono.  The ancient art of kimono, developed in Japan over centuries, is a way of making clothes that shows off hand-woven fabrics.  From simple to ornate, they require little cutting or shaping and are a perfect way to use the product of our handweaving.

I decided to use a pattern from a classic weaving book.  A variation on a twill, it requires you to thread the heddles (put the yarn on the loom) in a certain order.  The process of doing so is mechanical and not very artistic:  put this thread in 1, this one in 3, that one in 2, then 4-3-1, then 2-1-4, or some other order.  It’s painstaking and detailed.

It is, though, one half of the process of weaving.  Once you’ve dressed the loom, you’re halfway done.  Magic.

Once the loom is dressed, we weave a header to even out the threads and set the stage for our pattern.  I’m using a lovely but fussy rayon thread for my warp, which is the red/blue in the photograph.  My weft, the yarn I use to weave, is a rich teal.

After the header, we start with the pattern.  This, too, is done in a particular order.  The difference is that now we begin to see the magic that is weaving.

It looks like the thread is almost beaded, as the rayon shines like fire in the light.  I can’t wait to see more of the fabric as it appears.  It’s meditative.  I look forward to my Thursday night classes all week, because I know I’ll get to spend four hours away from the world, in my little magic bubble of fiber.  When I emerge, butterfly-like, it’s with a renewed appreciation for the art of our ancestresses and not a few plot ideas.  As I weave, so shall I write.

And that, my friends, is the magic of craft.

Happy holidays!

—
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
– E.E. Cummings

My links: Blog | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | LinkedIn | Pandora

Knoontime Knitting:  Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Ravelry
Noon and Wilder links: Blog | Website | Facebook
Team Blogs: Nightlight | The Writers Retreat Blog | Beyond the Veil | LGBT Fantasy Fans and Writers
Publishers: Samhain Publishing | Torquere Press

Check out BURNING BRIGHT, available from Samhain Publishing.
Check out EMERALD FIRE, available from Torquere Books.

Check out “Taking a Chance“, part of the Charity Sips 2012 to benefit NOH8, available from Torquere Books.

Watch for TIGER TIGER, coming July, 2013, from Samhain Publishing.

NEW CHRISTMAS TRADITION

This year there seemed to be more than the usual amount of ugly Christmas sweaters. Our family decided this year to embrace the spirit of the season, by wearing the loudest, ugliest and perhaps most tasteless sweaters we could find.

Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What my son-in-law bought for my daughter as a gag gift, turns out to actually be something I’d wear. LOL. Yes. I admit it. I like to wear bold colors and sparkly things. It used to embarrass my kids no end, and often they didn’t want me to get out of the car when I picked them up at school, for fear their friends would see me. We had a pink house, too, but that’s another story (my attempt to make our home look like the Sonoma Mission Inn that failed).

So, this is the collection.  I bought the one in the upper middle for my husband. My daughter bought the light blue one for her husband. Perhaps you’d like a closer look.

Well, we are a family that reads hot romance, so what do you expect?

I also have a little Christmas cheer for you. Everyone who comments on this blog will be given a free short SEAL Endeavor or SEAL Encounter, Kindle format. Please leave your email in your comment.

Here’s a little blurb from my new release, Fallen SEAL Legacy, book 2 of the SEAL Brotherhood series, just released this month. One commenter will be sent a set of dog tags, as pictured below.

Fallen SEAL Legacy excerpt:

A tall shadow fell through the glass and ornate metal front doors of the Brownlee house. The melodic doorbell chime came all the way from an abandoned abbey in the South of France. Whoever he was, Libby Brownlee thought, he’d not be able to get through the doorway without ducking, or smacking himself in the forehead.

“Yes?” She didn’t remove the brass chain connecting the door to the door frame. It couldn’t really stop anyone, especially someone of his size. What she saw scared her, but not in the way she expected. He was a handsome, very, very tall and fair-haired young man about her age. His piercing blue eyes didn’t stray from hers as he coolly nodded his head, and took inventory of her character, without peeling his gaze from hers.

She felt undressed, yet powerless to cover up. But she didn’t look away.

“Ma’am, I’m looking for the Brownlee family.” He said this as he ducked his head and leaned forward. She observed he was trying to make himself smaller. The effort made him look huge.

“This is the Brownlee residence.” Her response was worthy of a domestic. No need to let him know she was a relative.

“My name is Special Operator Calvin Cooper. I’m…”

“I know what a Special Operator is.”

He smiled but continued, “—currently serving in the Navy. I’ve been asked to reach out to the family of Special Operator William Brownlee.”

“Uncle Will.” She bit her tongue. Too late to take it back. “My father’s brother. I never met him. He’s been dead for many years, before I was born.” Libby looked at the ground, but was soon distracted by the size of the young man’s canvas slip-ons. The light brown hair on his ankles and lower legs, punctuated by light purple scars, blazed in the afternoon sun.

A surfer.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the reason I’m here.”

“It’s a little late for a color guard. He get awarded a medal posthumously or something?”

The sailor stepped back and put his eyelids at half-mast after a flash of anger. He appeared way calmer than she knew he really was. The control was impressive. No matter how hard she looked, the anger did not surface again. He licked his lips and began to speak, softer this time.

“Look. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me, so let’s just get this over with, so I can tell my Chief I tried to reach out and you guys slammed the door in my face, okay?”

Well, this wasn’t the wrinkle she’d expected. “Fine.” She removed the chain, opened the door and the lumbering giant walked in. He smelled like he’d just figured out how to wear aftershave. Something told her he didn’t do it very often.

He scanned the large two-story living room with the carved wood ceiling done in Spanish florets.  His eyes lit on the three-foot tall bouquet of fresh flowers her mother put on the coffee table every day—bounty from her extensive flower garden. Behind the table, a bright red velvet couch was covered with lime and fuchsia-colored silk flowered pillows. No one ever sat there, Libby mused.  If they did, they’d be buried in the pillows, and hidden from view by the bouquet.

Rest in Peace.

“My mother takes pride in her flower garden.” She said. He had been staring at the blooms.

He tore his eyes off the display, and, without saying a word, continued to scan the archway that led to the kitchen, then back around to the walls of the foyer and a view of the grand metal staircase leading upstairs to the bedrooms.

His silence made her nervous. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for him to say something.

“This is about a hundred times the size of my place.” He regarded her with a crooked smile she couldn’t read. “Kinda like living in a church, although not like a church I ever attended.”

Our house looks like a church?

“Where do you live? On base?” she asked.

“No ma’am. I have a motor home I keep parked at the Silverdale Beach.”

“Wow.” A homeless Navy SEAL?

“Exactly. Got the whole ocean as my back yard.”

“Sounds—different.”

“It’s all I need.”

“Okay. Well, what’s this about? Your visit, I mean.”

“Did he have a family, or someone close, other than your family?”

“He is our family. I just never knew him.” She realized she was being short. “My grandparents are both gone, and my father was his only brother, perhaps he would know.” Libby started tracing the grout line of the marble floor with her toe. “Look, I’m going to need some answers here. You have to kind of spell it out for me. We don’t speak military in this house.”

“I can tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t speak military, and I didn’t bring an interpreter.”

“I think you should speak to my father.”

“That would be good.”

“Except he isn’t here. Maybe another time?”

She caught him eyeing the front of her cotton shirt, like he could see right through it without unbuttoning it. With an involuntary jerk, he was focused on her eyes again. It was very odd she didn’t feel afraid of him, like she had every other man who showed interest in her lately. Her heartbeat elevated and her breathing became shallow.

“When will he be here?” His voice sent a tingle down her spine.

“He gets home about four-thirty. But I wouldn’t waste your time unless you can tell me what you want.” She started for the door and he followed behind her. At the front, she stopped, and turned around. “I’m waiting.” She tapped her foot to an invisible drummer.

The giant nodded, but faced his own shoes as he responded to her command, “I’ve been asked to do a little research on S.O. Brownlee. It’s an order from my Chief.”

“And why would the Navy want to contact my family? What purpose would it serve?”

“It’s just what we do. I was given his name when I got my Trident. I’m supposed to know about him. I’m a SEAL as well.”

“After all these years? Why now? Why not let the dead remain dead? Why bother my father?”

The sailor shrugged, looked up at the ceiling, adjusting his stance. With a sigh, he turned his gaze back on Libby. She felt herself melt under the press of his intense study.

Cooper took a deep breath, and continued, “Because, I’ve just lost mine.”

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Merry Christmas, everyone. Hope your holiday is very merry and very bright.

Sharon Hamilton
Sharon’s Blog ** Sharon’s Website ** Facebook**Twitter

Accidental SEAL  SEAL Encounter  Fallen SEAL Legacy   SEAL Endeavor  all available through Amazon Heavenly Lover (Amazon) (Nook)   Underworld Lover  (Amazon) (Nook) Honeymoon Bite  (Amazon) (Nook)

Ashley A won the free download! Ashley, email me! ~DD

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Begin with the end in mind.

I’m pretty sure I learned that from some Steven Covey productivity/time management seminar back when I worked in the corporate world. And while that works for me when I set my schedule, it almost never does when I sit down to write a book. Yes, I know vaguely that at the end, boy saves girl/girl saves boy, kiss-kiss, I’ll love you forever will happen, but I don’t have the particulars concerning the ending. I like to let it happen. Endings are nearly as important as the opening of a story. A good opening ensures a reader will continue the story. A good ending ensures a reader will close the book with a sigh and a smile.

The one time I knew absolutely what would happen at the end of the story was the ending for Jacq’s Warlord. This was a story that my sister and I co-wrote. While she was working on some saggy middle dilemma, I was thinking about the ending, and it came to me as clear as day. So I wrote it before we’d even gotten to the first turning point of the story. It worked. And helped me figure out where the characters needed to go in their personal journeys to lead them to that moment.

Hope you enjoy it and that it makes you want to read the rest of the story!

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Be sure to check out the snippets on these other authors’ blogs:

Lissa Matthews
Rhian Cahill
Myla Jackson
Caris Roane
McKenna Jeffries
Taige Crenshaw
HelenKay Dimon
Shiloh Walker
Eliza Gayle
Lauren Dane
Felicity Heaton
TJ Michaels

Writer’s Support

I’m a believer that writers need a lot of support.  The family- making sure the writer gets the time in to write, for some, maybe read what they wrote, if the writer wants to share. To rejoice in the milestones, to spread the word….and so on and so forth. I know not every writer has that. I’ve heard stories where the families don’t show that kind of support, and that startles me. I am surrounded by so many people that do show me support. My mom and dad have a copy of my book. In fact, my dad snatched my proof copy and wouldn’t give it back until he finished the story.  My dad has always been an honest person, and he was touched by my book. He shares my excitement with all the milestones so far. He is the one that gave me the love of reading, and was never ashamed to admit that I’m a faster reader than he is. Lol.

My mom used to buy me tons of books, and it’s because I wanted them! Christmases, I got piles and piles of books! She bought me the spiral notebooks and pens so that I could write. I wrote my first poem at 12, after suffering the loss of a neighbor who was far too young to leave this world, and so I wrote about it. I stuck the poem in my headboard and I guess my mom came across it, and showed it to our neighbor, the grandmother of that sweet baby girl we lost.

My husband, who is also another honest person. Sometimes he’s blunt, even too blunt. But he supports my dream of writing, and he read through my now published book, edited it, formatted it, helped with the print copy process, and even shares it on his Facebook wall for his friends to see. He doesn’t read romance, he’s more of a fantasy reader (Terry Goodkind, David Farland) but he enjoyed my book.

My best friends, some of my writer buddies and partners….Where would I be without any of them?  Could I write without the support of others? I think so, but it’s still really great to have those on my side, to share the ups and downs of this process.

Most of all, to bloggers/revewiers and readers. They are the driving force for me. Yes, I’d write just for the sake of writing, I always have, but it’s the response that I’ve gotten already that tells me I’m doing something right as a writer. I’ve gotten some great reviews that brought me to tears, and frankly, I’m still in the clouds. I may not come down for awhile.

If you’re a writer, I hope that you always follow your dreams, even if you do or don’t get the support, but know that there’s always someone that loves what you do.

I just wanted to share my thoughts on that today.  Thank you for allowing me to do thank, thank you for reading, and thank you to my host today for sharing my words.

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The magic of Christmas has been lost to Jacob Winston. At the suggestion of his ill sister, Jacob takes a job as a Secret Santa at the mall, hoping to restore his Christmas spirit. Even that doesn’t seem to work, until a special little boy ambles up to make a very special wish…

Cheyenne Jensen is struggling to raise her two kids without the help of her ex-husband who refuses to acknowledge his daughter’s existence and doesn’t provide for the son he does. This Christmas is shaping up to be as heartbreaking as the last, until her son Ben’s kind actions lead a stranger to them.

Ah, but it’s Christmas time and the magic has begun.

When Jacob and Cheyenne meet, neither can deny their immediate attraction to one another. As situations arise that require they spend more time together, their feelings grow stronger and stronger.

With Christmas fast approaching, the pair learn what matters most in life. Now, if only they could ditch the ghost of Christmases past.

Maybe this holiday will bring some wishes come true- for everyone after all.

Excerpt from The Secret Santa Wishing Well: 

Jacob wasn’t far from her mind even when they weren’t talking.  Ben brought his name up constantly, admiration and love in his voice.  He really liked Jacob.  One night while tucking him into bed, Ben said something that melted Cheyenne’s heart.

“The wishing well with Santa worked.  He brought Jacob to us.  Jacob made sure my wish came true.  He really does know Santa!”  He’d said sleepily, closing his eyes with a big smile on his face.  But the words he said rang in her ears.  What was his wish?  With everything going on lately, Ben’s wish had slipped her mind.

So when Jacob called that evening, she mentioned it to him.  Asked him.  “What was Ben’s wish that day, Jacob?”

“Hmm?” he asked, obviously startled.  Distracted again.

“Ben said that the wishing well with Santa worked, that it brought you to us.  I’m curious what his wish was.”  Cheyenne leaned back into the couch, covering herself with the blanket.  She wanted to turn up the heat, but debated against it.  Ben and Desiree were warm enough, so why couldn’t she get warm?  If she turned the heat up anymore, she’d suffocate.  Not to mention the electric bill.

Jacob hesitated before answering.  “He wished for you not to have to work so hard.  That he could have a family, a daddy that loved him.”  Oh, Ben.  No wonder he thought Jacob was the answer.  Jacob had been there ever since the wish, since Ben met him.  He thought Jacob would be the daddy he always wanted?  That’s why he was so happy when he saw Jacob and Cheyenne exchange a hug or a quick kiss.

He had his sights set high.  Way too high.  While she wanted the best for Ben, he couldn’t go on thinking that Jacob was going to be a dad to him.  Jacob had his own life, though he’d been sharing time with them, it wouldn’t last long, would it?  With whatever he was dealing with that kept him at a distance, she predicted it wouldn’t.  Call it a fear, call it intuition, call it stupid, but when someone didn’t give their undivided attention and seemed to be shrouded in mystery, it couldn’t end well.

Cheyenne willed the tears not to fall.  What a wish for a six year old.  While her pride for her son was evident, the fact that a little boy had to wish for things like that tore her up.

“Cheyenne?  You okay?”  Jacob’s deep voice made her heart beat faster.

“I was just taken back.  Wow.  He shouldn’t have to wish for love from his father.  That’s terrible.”

“It is.  But you’re doing all you can.  You can’t control what his dad does, Cheyenne.  You have to know that.  Ben looks up to you.  He thinks the world of you.”

“He’s growing up too fast.  Sometimes he’s so much wiser than six.  I don’t always know how to react, or feel about that.”  A chill ran down her spine, spouting goosebumps on her arm.  She tried to shift positions, cover all of herself.  “I wish you were here.” She blurted.

Oh God, why did I say that out loud?  What was I thinking?

“I didn’t expect to hear that from you.”  Jacob’s voice went low, raspy.

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All About Nikki: Nikki Lynn Barrett lives in Arizona with her husband and son. She’s an avid reader, a dreamer, and loves everything about books. She runs a book blog, an online used bookstore, and writes various genres of romance. Nikki can also be found outside with her camera when a storm is near, snapping photo after photo. Her dreams of becoming a writer started when she was young, when she started writing books in one subject notebooks by the fifth grade. The Secret Santa Wishing Well is her debut book. You can visit Nikki’s site at: www.nikkilynnbarrett.blogspot.com for more information. She is working on her next book. Nikki would love to hear from readers. Email her at nikkilynnbarrett@yahoo.com

Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/NikkiLynnBarrettauthor
Twitter: @Stormgoddess925
GoodReads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6583655.Nikki_Lynn_Barrett

Your Kink is not My Kink

Hi everyone. My name is Lynn Townsend, and Delilah’s been so kind as to let me guest with her today. I really appreciate the opportunity. I have a story entitled “Big Trucks” in her upcoming anthology, Smokin’ Hot Firemen. It’s been exciting to work with Delilah, as I’ve really enjoyed her work. I wrote “Big Trucks” in a fever of excitement in about three days – I found out about the CFS maybe a week before it was due – because my uncle, several cousins, and my grandfather were all volunteer fire and rescue.

I’m loud and proud about being an erotica writer. If someone asks me what I do, I tell them. My family – some of whom are excessively conservative – all know. I’ve been really upfront; they’re welcome to read my work or not, approve of what I do or not. I honestly do not care. As a note, if you’re a friend of mine, I never, ever expect you to buy my books just because you know me. I won’t ask you about it. If you tell me you bought it, tell me you liked the story, great, I’m happy to run my mouth, but I am never going to put you on the spot about it. You don’t have to like my work just because you like me.

Which leads me nicely into my topic of discussion for today;

Your Kink is not my Kink.

I’ve had a couple people come up to me, eyes all shifty, and whisper, “Do you really like that stuff… bondage and spankings and stuff?” Usually they’re referring to my story in Lustfully Ever After, “Garden Variety,” which is sort of bondage-weird.

The entire stalk shuddered, forcing her to wrap her arms around it, holding her balance.  “Liked that, did you?”

The vines around her shifted, moving, enclosing her.  Thick coils wrapped around her thighs, forming a swing, spreading her legs.  Her feet left the tentative safety of the stalk and Jackie was cradled in the air, supported only by the vines and leaves.  More vines looped over her arms, encircling her wrists like manacles.

Gentle tendrils, like fingers, explored her body.  She groaned, arching against the containment of the vines.  A vine twined in her thick blonde hair, tugging, prickling against her scalp.  More vines formed, touching her, caressing.  Jackie writhed, helpless against the overwhelming sensations.  Vines wrapped themselves around her breasts, tugging at the sundress until it was shredded, baring her skin.  The tendrils, like fingers, rolled her nipples, teasing them firm and taut.

The vine in her hair pulled, arching her spine, drawing her head back to bare her throat.  A tendril snaked up her leg, nuzzling at her soft, sensitive inner thigh.  Jackie shrieked with sudden wanting, her hips bucking against the maddening, seductive caress.  The tendril teased, achingly gentle, rubbing against her suddenly molten clit, drawing moans and whimpers from her mouth.  It tickled around her feminine folds, exploring, teasing, withdrawing each time she felt the tension building across her shoulders and chest.

Jackie cried out, thrashing against the vines that held her mostly immobile.  Her breasts ached, nipples hard, as the vines twined around the round globes, squeezing and teasing the tips to rosy peaks.  She could barely move as the vines tightened, pulling her thighs apart and her arms up, stretching her to every sensation, beyond her capacity for thought, leaving only molten desire, tinged with frustration.

“Please, please,” she begged, cresting up towards relief, then pushed back again as the vine between her legs slowed its relentless torment.  Slow and easy, the vine stroked her clit, plump and wet.  It flicked and squeezed, rubbing, caressing.  Jackie grew hot, her muscles shaking and contracting desperately.  Sweat beaded across her forehead, along the column of her throat.  She panted for breath, air burning in her lungs.  A final spasm and she shattered into a million pieces.  Cries of rapture and relief forced from her throat as she came, shuddering intensely.

Confession time: I adore a genre of Japanese animation (called anime) that’s referred to as hentai. (Hentai is a kanji compound that essentially means “sexually perverted”.) You can look it up, if you care to. It’s pretty strange and often very non-consensual. And I love it. Tentacle perversions, girls who can only orgasm if their sisters are touching them, demon sex ninjas, raising Lucifer from hell in an all girls’ school…. I watch yuri and yaoi (lesbian and gay erotic animation… yaoi actually translates to something like “goes nowhere, does nothing.”)

Despite my deep delving into perversion – some of which comes through in my work, as it very much did in “Garden Variety” – I also have some sexual hang-ups. (Humans are just weird.)

I don’t like anything food-based. The idea of someone drizzling honey or chocolate sauce, or whipped cream onto me and licking it off? Ug. It makes my spine crimp up and I get all cringe-y. And that’s considered a pretty mild kink, as far as kinks go. I hate being sticky. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Over the years, I’ve managed to work myself up to tolerating flavored lubes, but that’s probably as far as I’m ever going to get.

But just because in my real life, I would never, ever, I have a strange fascination with reading or watching other people do things that I wouldn’t. Shokolada is a wonderful guy I met a few years back at a sci-fi convention. He’s an amazing cross-dresser. He keeps his beard, I’ve never seen him in make-up, and doesn’t try to “pass” as a woman. He just likes wearing dresses and has the most awesome legs I’ve ever seen. Tina freaking Turner wishes her legs looked that good. Wow.

Anyway, Shokolada (http://chocmess.com/mess/)  runs a website that talks about the sexual fetish, WAMming, Messy Play, Sploshing. Whatever you want to call it, it’s generally a pie upside the head. I would not really be amenable to participating in this particular fetish, either on the giving or receiving end.

But man, I’ll tell you, I can’t stop reading about it. It fascinates me. Reading about it can get me feeling all twitchy and wanting someone to kiss and pet me. Just, don’t put pudding in my ear, ok?

His kink is not my kink. But his kink is okay.

No judgement here. I wouldn’t want to do it, but I’m certainly glad that other people do!

And that’s what writing erotica is about; finding what you like. There’s certainly a lot of stuff out there.

And the most important thing to remember is, just because you don’t like it, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Humans are weird.

When I’m not guesting at someone else’s site, I can be found at my own blog, Paid by the Weird, (http://paidbytheweird.blogspot.com/) or on Facebook  (https://www.facebook.com/LynnTownsendwriter) generally being obnoxious.

UPDATE: I’m short entries, so I have to extend the deadline! Earlier is better as I will start reading and selecting beginning March 1^st, but if I don’t get what I need, I will hold out for a few great entries until March 22d.

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I have a brand new call for short story submissions for a collection that will be published by Cleis Press. It’s the follow-up to Cowboy Lust! Please pass the word along to all your writer friends. The deadline’s the first of March, but if you get the story into me early, there’s a better chance I’ll have time to read it and give you the opportunity to make changes, if it’s not quite what I need. ~DD

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COWBOY HEAT
Editor: Delilah Devlin
Publisher: Cleis Press Deadline: March 1, 2013

COWBOY HEATis open to all authors.

Editor/Author Delilah Devlin is looking for hetero cowboy stories for a romantic erotica anthology tentatively entitled COWBOY HEAT. Read the rest of this entry »

Good Morning! I’m so excited to be blogging here today.

When I first sat down to write this story, I never believed I could take a very short story and spin the plot out to where it is today. In the past few years, I’ve learned that what you plan on writing out doesn’t always turn out as expected. In the beginning, Amara and Marisol was a f/f story with no plans on adding a hero to the mix. Out of nowhere this strong male who met the females through The Delightful Kitten made an unforgettable entrance that couldn’t be oppressed. My sweet heroines found in him the mate who could complete them emotionally, and physically. I’m excited to have readers take a journey into the world of the Kanima and into the lives of three unique individuals, one who fought tooth and nail most of the way.

Amaranta Costa uses her Kanima as an avoidance tactic, until the one person she cherishes most is taken from her. When Gavin Ford enters the fray uninvited, she’s forced to accept the help of his pack to find her mate.

Trusting others isn’t her forte. Though her inner jaguar accepts him hands down, the woman in her fights his dominating, take-control nature. Unlike Marisol’s soft personality, Gavin’s wolf challenges her at every turn. She can find no escape. His abrasiveness both sets her on edge and pleases her. She finds being in Marisol’s arms isn’t enough; the all-consuming need to be his burns to her core. There’s no denying the chemical attraction arcing among the three of them.

Will she reach out, and accept the love and support waiting for her?

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Mari flicked a gaze between them and nudged her, leaning down to whisper in her ear. Amara jumped so fast at her words their heads collided.

“That fucking hurt. You have a head made of steel, Amara.”

“Damn it. Baby, I’m sorry. You surprised me. I can’t believe you think I’m interested in him,” she hissed low, offended by the accusation.

“You’re acting funny. Really odd. I’ve never seen you behave this way.”

“Drop it, sexy. I don’t want dick.”

“Keep on lying to yourself,” Mari volleyed back. Amara barely heard the last few words out of her lover’s mouth.

“Marisol.” Amara growled. “Drop it now.” Damn crazy woman goaded her into anger. Seeing the red haze begin to cloud her vision, she took a few calming breaths to shove her jaguar back in place.

“Ladies?” Gavin moved to come between them.

“Back off, mongrel.” Amara turned her body to the side, shoving Gavin with all her strength away from them. The bulk of his large frame crashed into the wall, knocking knick-knacks onto the floor. Draven and Theron both rose, she assumed to intervene.

“Kitten, sheath your fucking claws.” He extricated himself from the raining sheetrock and paint to stalk over to her. Rage sparkled in his eyes. He reminded her of a Berserker. Not good. Her calculations told her she could take him and win. The accuracy of such thoughts, when balanced against her ego, said otherwise. “No, you didn’t just call me some ridiculous, endearing term. We’re fighting right now. Stupid dog.”

“Oh, shit.” Mari squeaked and slid from her arms to Draven’s. Amara’s jaw dropped open. Her girlfriend wasn’t going to rub her back and calm her down. Instead, she took a front row seat. Heat suffused Amara’s face. By the look of things, the lapdog brothers of his stayed back, intent to watch, not interfere. In a dark alley on an equally eclipsed night, she’d find herself worried to go up against him. He drew his body larger with every step he took toward her. Amara quaked in her boots, not from fear but from the new awareness sparking within her. A feeling she didn’t like one bit.

Her heartbeat danced a new cadence as she fought between darting away and standing her ground. So what? A little plaster is good for a person. She curbed her rampant thought.

“We don’t have time for this. There’s a madman loose. I must hunt.” Hackles raised, she backed up a step for each one he took closer to her personal space. Gavin could easily reach out and shake her like a rag doll but apparently chose not to. She had no idea what his aim was or how to strategize a way out of venting his anger. Her gaze honed in on the growing bulge in his pants. When he turned from her and walked over to Marisol, she sucked in a deep breath, a sigh of relief. He murmured something to her girlfriend and she nodded her head yes to him.

“What are you two conspiring to do?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gavin snapped her way, baring his fangs. He pivoted, heading in her direction, his jawline twitching.

Every assassin knew all entrance and exit points in a house. In the position she found herself against the far wall, nowhere to go, her only way out was to fight. I don’t want to hurt him.

Where her traitorous thought came from, she hadn’t a clue. He drew closer to her by taking larger steps than her small ones away from him. His scent hit her nose and her jaguar paced under her skin. Her pussy began to throb. To ache. Gods, the slight twinge intensified, bringing her to her knees. On wobbly legs she rose to stand her ground, defiant, her claws unsheathed for self-preservation. Her mouth salivated, wanting a taste. His eyes glimmered in amusement. She watched him trace his bottom lip with his tongue. Her nipples hardened from the sensual act. A brief thought of what his lips would feel like grazing along her skin flitted through her mind.

“What are you afraid of?” His coarse question broke through the erotic thoughts stream-lining in her head. The second he stepped close enough to cage her body between the walls and his chest, she faced self-truth.

“You. Me.” Her second word was lost to their audience as his mouth crushed down on hers and she was taken in a tailspin of sensations. His possession dragged her into an abyss of dark pleasure. Anger never tasted so good. She heard herself moan and couldn’t stop herself from running her hands up his chest, her body leaning into his for more. Gavin angled his head to part her mouth with his tongue. The taste of him sent shards of electricity to pulse between her thighs. Her needy cunt creamed. Startled by his effect on her, she struggled to break free, and realized she’d just become an active participant in Gavin’s kissing game, with her mate as audience in the room with them. Guilt overwhelmed her and she panicked. Gavin nipped her bottom lip between his teeth and bit. The look on his face told her they were by no means finished yet. He gave her one additional suckle, let go, and pushed off the wall out of her close proximity. Like a beast guarding his territorial rights, she watched him scowl at the additional members of his team who’d come in at an inopportune time, including some she-bitch to the right of the room, whose attitude hit her full blast.

* * * * *

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Author Bio:

Being smart and sassy with a great sense of humor comes easily for Mahalia Levey. An avid reader of books, she found herself enchanted with disappearing completely into the worlds authors created. One day she vowed to herself she’d be one of them. Then family life came, and college right after. Swayed from her childhood course of action, it took many years for her to get

back to that place she held dear as a child. Now she is running full steam ahead to keep up with the many ideas flowing freely. She plans on taking her work to higher levels and expanding her genres. Her main focus is giving her readers variety. Her works in progress include paranormal, fantasy and mainstream romance. Taking characters and watching them grow past what she’s imagined is her true passion.

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