Now here’s a topic that will certainly get you a wide array of answers, and the remarkable thing is – every one of them will be “correct” to the view that expresses it. We all see romantic in a different way, and what is highly romantic for one person is a total turn off for someone else. Erotica is for many an expression of romantic thought, for others it’s a variation on pornography.
What defines the word/concept that is romance? I have my view, and I’ve stated it often. What is your definition? What is romantic in your mind? Is it the explicit sexuality of erotica? Or the gentle awakening of sweet love and passion? I think we all carry the two aspects within us, and depending on what situation we’re in, one is always more appropriate than the other would be.
In romantic fiction, the barriers have long ago been crossed and forgotten. We’re in an “anything goes” sort of atmosphere, and in truth if you look at the vast array of publishers who are now publishing the minted genre “erotic romance” you can see the diversity of definition. I don’t think a lot of what is being labeled in that genre is either erotic or romantic, but that’s my personal mindset and I accept it as such.
I grew up reading Harlequin’s Presents imprint–in fact my first “grown-up” book purchased was a title from the relatively new imprint called “Moon Witch” by Anne Mather. It made me a lifelong fan of her work. I still remember the 34-year-old hero, and it’s been a few years! The line has changed with the times and it’s still their most popular imprint. A few years after I discovered these books, I began buying the racier ones, and they were fabulous, too. (And, yes, I remember my first title in that line, too!) I always come back home to Presents, because for me, the type of stories are the definitive romance stories. Larger than life heroes, the Alpha-male as they’ve since labeled him, exotic settings–in my case, I can’t get enough stories set in Italy–and scorching, tension laden awakening to burning and enduring passion. For me, that’s romance!
So, what are your favourites and what is it that sets them apart in your mind as the definition of romance? Do you prefer detailed sexuality, or the sensual middle-ground, or even behind closed doors love scenes? I’m curious, and would like your thoughts?
Ironically, I’m one of those authors who actively avoids the sex scenes in my books until I absolutely have to deal with them, so how in hell did I end up writing three ménage stories back to back? Believe me, no one is more surprised than I am by this strange turn of events. All three of these books are currently in the top ten best-sellers for the publisher who contracted them, too. Apart from the trio of lovers in these stories, when I wrote Stolen Rapture, I discovered one of my vampires was a dominant, and my heroine was waking to her submissive nature, so that was another new element for me.
I can’t really say that I’m wildly enamored of this kind of story, but it’s certainly been fun to touch the genre, and I might very well get back to it, if in small ways, for future stories. I like mixing genres as most of my readers know, so taking ménage, as requested by the publisher for their anniversary print release, then adding in a paranormal element with my sexy vampires–it was, I admit, a lot of fun! I hope you’ll enjoy this peek at Stolen Rapture… I’ve already been asked to create a story for the secondary male of the trio, and he’s speaking loudly at the moment, so I may not be able to ignore him for much longer!
We’ll do the usual, and I’ll offer one of our visitors today a free eBook of any title on my site, as well as a surprise that I’ll post to you! So, let’s hear your thoughts?
When work brings Deluna Jordan face to face with a man who knows her better than she knows herself, she soon discovers he shares everything with his boss, including lovers…and a thirst for blood…and she is about to become the lucky recipient of all their desires…
Rahve knew the instant Cord and his playmate arrived. He turned and even with a room between them, he could smell sex. He snorted silently. So Cord had fucked her already tonight. That explained the limousine service. His eyes swept over the woman, cataloging the elegant dress, the voluptuous curves that were just a little too rounded for current fashion, and the sparkling hazel eyes that were still a little dazed from orgasm.
He went to join them.
“Nice of you to show up,” he said to Cord.
“Screw you,” Cord snapped, then laughed. “This,” he turned to the woman at his side, “is Deluna Jordan. Baby, this is my partner—”
“Partner,” he repeated, ignoring Rahve’s correction, “Rahve Falcon.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Falcon,” Deluna said, offering her hand. He took it and brought her fingers to his lips, kissing the backs of them very softly. She stared in surprise.
“Rahve,” he requested. “Cord’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to put a face to the name. Welcome to my home, and thank you for coming to the party.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cord hasn’t told me a lot about you,” she replied.
“I’m not surprised,” Rahve answered. Falcon was genuinely amused. Cord watched him with thinly veiled suspicion. “Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.”
Rahve was being summoned from the other side of the room and his dark eyes flickered with annoyance that was easily read. He excused himself and on his way to the agitated woman waving less than discreetly to him, he stopped and directed one of the waiters to bring her a glass of champagne.
“Be careful around him,” Cord advised. “He’s interested in you.”
She stared at him, eyebrow raised. “You can tell that from hello, can you?”
“I’ve known Rahve a lot of years, baby,” he said, tone ominous. “He enjoys dangerous games.”
“And you don’t?” There was ice in her voice, making the words caustic in tone.
Cord’s blue and green gaze was hard when he met hers, and she shivered.
“You like my games,” he stated. “Rahve plays by different rules.”
She shrugged with false indifference and strolled into the crowd, fully aware of Cord’s eyes watching every move she made. The night was going to be a long one. The thought had barely passed into her awareness when she felt someone staring at her, the look almost a tangible touch that brushed her spine and made her entire body tingle.
There are things Cord should have told you. Rahve’s voice was inside her head somehow and she looked around, trying to locate him in the large crowd. Chills that had nothing to do with the actual temperature make her quiver. She closed her eyes, her equilibrium gone as the room faded to grey shadows. Her last thought was that she’d never fainted in her life, and this was not the time to start.
“Live the Romance, Become the Fantasy…”
** Predators & Editors Best Author 2012 **
News about Saturday’s contest is at the bottom of this posting!
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Woke up this morning to find this in my inbox! Whee! Still seems odd that Montlake puts the stories in this category, but hey, the books are suspenseful and do contain a mystery…
As with a lot of my bigger stories, publishers don’t quite know where to “shelve” them, which is why some of them are never found by readers. Sad, sad. We’ll have to see what happens with Crescent Moon too. Maybe I should write a more predictable full-length novel…?
What have I been up to lately? Too many things. If you followed me around for a day, you’d be shaking your head. I’m behind on most everything, and yet still taking on new projects. I think I must have an addictive personality. Addicted to stories or work. Not sure which. I do know I have a very hard time saying no.
The weather’s finally cooperating, and the pool is warm enough to enjoy—although it is a little cloudy and green. I’ve dumped chemicals and run the pump. Don’t know what it’s going to take to make it look less like a swamp, but that hasn’t stopped me from jumping in! When I find a snake or a gator in there too, maybe then I’ll get serious about curing the algae problem.
So y’all wanted to know who won those pretty “Crescent Moon” Egyptian earrings, right? The random number generator chose commenter #4—me! So, I think I’ll let it ride for a week. Never question chance! For any comment that’s left for the next week on this blog, any posting, you’ll get another entry in the drawing!
June’s fast approaching. I have four books due out! Craziness shall ensue. Since I haven’t had anything release in a couple of months, you should be about ready for something new. I just hate giving you so many choices because they are all my babies and deserving of attention.
More later. I have to get my website updated so that you can see what’s coming next!
Thanks for having me, Delilah. Hi everyone. *waving* Sharing research today.
Bounty hunting originated in a medieval society where no professional police existed. To right a wrong, punish a thief, or execute a murderer, one had to first catch the culprit. Kings and aristocrats didn’t hunt the wrong-doer—they offered a reward and a “no questions asked policy” that exonerated the hunter from any crime he committed during his hunt. (Source)
In the United States, these hunt-for-profit entrepreneurs have been a part of the American justice landscape since the 18th century. During the 19th and early 20th centuries, a handful of daring private citizens made a living tracking down wanted desperadoes. *ahem*
So far I’ve used this info in three books— Five Card Stud, Wolf’s Tender, and Trouble in Disguise —all published by Ellora’s Cave Publishing and all about the McCallisters— a family of bounty hunters.
Trouble In Disguise, releasing June 5th, is a double measure of bounty hunters. Deacon McCallister’s rival, Beau Beauregard, a woman of many disguises, sneaks up on Deacon and captures his heart. 🙂
An Eclipse Heat Novel
Since both his partners have married and retired from the hunt, Deacon McCallister is alone when he visits the Pleasure Dome, an infamous brothel in Fort Worth’s Hell’s Half Acre. He’s tracking a counterfeiter but what he finds is TROUBLE—dressed in a man’s ruffled shirt and nothing more.
Bounty hunter Miracle Beauregard pretends to be male, calls herself Beau and for years has fooled the general public concerning her gender. But underneath Miri’s disguise, beats a feminine heart in lust for Deacon McCallister. Though she spends a lot of time dreaming about her rival, she never expects to act upon her longings.
When Miri follows an outlaw to the fanciest whorehouse in Texas and crosses paths with her heart’s desire, she trades her buckskins for bare skin to play the part of Deacon’s paid companion.
Inside Scoop: Miri figures wrong when she thinks one taste of Deacon will be enough and quickly discovers her undercover lover has forever on his mind.
A Romantica®/Lawless erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Yesterday’s prize, that pretty little pair of lapis and silver earrings,
is still up for grabs! Be sure to comment to win! ~DD
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Anyone Can Write a Book!
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this: “Anyone can write a book.” The statement usually comes from a person who doesn’t write, but I believe the premise is true. Each and every one of us has a story. It may be about our lives or a tale of fiction, but how many of us will actually write it?
You need a beginning that grabs the reader’s interest, a middle that doesn’t sag and a satisfying ending that ties everything together. It takes time, effort and dedication.
But romance, especially erotic romance isn’t a real book! I’ve heard that too. But I can assure you that I want to write a good book. That’s what motivates me each time I turn on my laptop.
I’m not trying to change your life or lecture you on how to live it. Nor do I seek to change the world. I write to entertain. I write to fulfill a personal need. I love to create characters, build worlds and tell tales. Stories are always churning in my brain. Ideas come from myriad sources. If I can’t write, I miss it.
A new book excites me. Edits and revisions drive me crazy, but I know the end result is a better story. Seeing the final product with the cover art and title makes me happy.
The world of writing has changed. Social media, an abundance of publishers and indie publishing allows equal opportunity to anyone who wishes to share their imagination. If you have a story, tell it. Be happy.
An officer for the Dead Souls Agency, Harper Croix’s job is vampire enforcement. One night her job takes a lethal turn and Harper has a showdown with an old one. He’s nothing like the rabid bloodsuckers she burns, arrests and destroys. He’s handsome, strong, disciplined and he wants revenge.
Egan wants Agent Croix to suffer for her sins against his kind. Revenge is a dish best served cold, but Croix is hot and tasty. One encounter leads to another. Enemies become lovers.
Harper has sworn to enforce the vampire laws, not break them. An affair with a vampire is reckless. Falling in love is crazy stupid. Egan is irresistible.
B.J. McCall is published in paranormal, sci-fi and contemporary erotic romance by eRed Sage, Cobblestone Press, Changeling Press and Ellora’s Cave. Her books are available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and ARe. B.J.’s latest release is Night Sins, the second book in her urban fantasy series, Forever, published by Changeling Press.
Since the theme is my choice today, I thought I’d introduce you to an exciting new story! Crescent Moon will release on June 4th—or at least the first installment of the book will release on that date. The scary part for me? It’s not all written. Once the first part releases (the first five chapters), readers will have a chance to interact with me to let me know what they think about the story, and maybe to influence the rest of it! I have just two parts completed and am working on the third. There will be eight altogether. This will be a full-length novel by the time I am done, but you will only have to pay $1.99 to begin reading, and then every two weeks, a new installment will be shipped automatically to your Kindle. You won’t have to pay another penny.
What’s Crescent Moon all about? I’m not 100% sure.
The story’s still germinating. I do know that the first part begins in ancient Egypt with my heroine who lives an exalted life as the wife of a god. You will get a hint of her predicament when you read the following scene. Then the story picks up in New Orleans with a gruff, damaged cop, Juste Henry Boucher, who finds the heroine during a robbery investigation at a local museum. That’s pretty much all I know, except that demons are rising…
Because I’m so excited about this project, I have a special prize to offer one lucky commenter today. Let me know how you like the story so far. Be sure to check out the book at Amazon (just click on the cover!). The prize? A pair of earrings, handmade by me. Silver and lapis lazuli. Something Egyptian-themed to go along with the book! I will choose a winner Sunday night! Enjoy the excerpt!
From Crescent Moon:
One last time, her mind drifted, peacefully content…no shadows or disquiet to disturb her…allowing her to separate the parts of herself, first body from spirit…and then the mournful, dying part of her soul to dwell forever in the pit, while what remained, the part that would be born again, floated upward on golden wings.
Her sprit ba left her mortal shell and spread its wings, flying through the small bright hole in the ceiling, leaving behind her swaddled human form, which lay on a bare wooden bench.
One, two, three strong surges of her fluttering wings and she flew toward the sun, free at last and feeling grateful to her husband for his generous gift. Her wings caught an updraft and she held them still, floating on the wind, the glorious waning sun warming her back.
Her spirit flew above white limestone cliffs and past a deep quarry littered with enormous blocks of carved stone. A sudden gust riffled through her feathers, forcing her to fly west, high above a barren valley.
But at last, her ba tired, circling downward, searching for the great river to lead her home. But no familiar white-washed city dwellings, no temple walls lay below. No fields of cotton and wheat.
Confused, she made her way back to the dismal pit. Not wanting to enter, she flitted around the opening, feeling weary and afraid. Something dark awaited her. Some horror in the shadows.
And then she spotted the man with the dark watchful gaze, standing beneath the opening, his arms outspread to catch her…
Her heart pounded against her chest, the sound intruding on the vision. Khepri’s eyes slammed open.
Freedom was only a dream, a memory. How long had she been sleeping?
Slowly, Khepri grew more aware of her surroundings. Pressure enveloped her from head to toes. Frayed edges of linen strips surrounded her eyes. An ache centered in her head made her want to gasp, but when she tried to draw a deep breath, the constriction around her chest made the movement impossible. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. Her body, other than her head and chest, was numb.
Something was terribly wrong. Short, panicked breaths huffed in the silence.
She blinked, bright sunlight streaming through a hole in the rock ceiling above, blinding her, making her eyes tear. Unable to turn her head, she peered beneath the fringe of her dark lashes, through the openings left in the fabric, gazing upward. Her sight cleared slowly, but was filtered as though looking through the gauzy curtains that surrounded her bed in her tiny house inside the temple walls. But the haze obstructing her sight wasn’t merely physical. It was a thin curtain pulled over her mind. One placed there. Purposely, to confuse.
Her head reeled, not understanding, not recognizing where she lay. The sickly-sweet scent of frankincense tickled her nose.
“Precious little warrior, you are awake.”
If she could have drawn a deep breath, she would have spit. Sudden fury trembled through her body. She didn’t understand what was happening, but knew he was the one to blame. She wanted to rage against him, ask how he dared abduct her. She was Amun’s wife, his mortal consort. But the only sound that scratched from her throat was a tiny whimper.
“You have questions,” he crooned from beside her. “We have little time. Pharaoh’s army marches. They will find us soon. We must bury the nameless one, hide him before they can entomb him. No one must ever find his body. He will not sleep in a sarcophagus. No texts will be written to reawaken him, no mask placed over his head so that he may recognize himself in the afterlife. He must not rise.”
Her lashes drifted downward. She remembered the moment the handsome, lying vizier stepped off the plank lowered from the side of the barge.
“Pharaoh is dead,” he’d said, his voice uninflected.
Her heart had grown still. The news was devastating to be sure, but why had he traveled so far from Luxor to tell her?
And then snippets of memories bombarded her mind.
Khepri moaned, spreading her lips and baring her teeth to catch the edges of the strips surrounding her mouth, but they were stiffened and wouldn’t give. Her eyes rounded in fear as she realized how dire was her predicament.
He bent closer, his dark eyes alight with sympathy. But then he moved away. Taking with him his masculine scent, musk she’d found attractive. The odor mocked her now.
Although she feared him, she wanted to cling to the sight of him. Didn’t want to feel so alone, so trapped and helpless. Perhaps she could reason with him. But he was insane. Would no one stop him?
Deep in her mouth, she gurgled, nearly choking on the tears that leaked from her eyes and burned the back of her throat. “Please,” she whispered. From a distance, she heard his footsteps. He drew nearer, holding in one hand a slender reed with one end frayed and trimmed to form a brush and dripping red paint, and in the other a palette, red pigment swirled. He leaned over her and made strokes on the coverings enclosing her chest, down her belly, splitting over her thighs and moving down to her toes.
“What are you doing?” she rasped, as some of the cool liquid seeped through to touch her skin.
“Painting spells, Khepri, Amun’s wife. Introducing you to Set, the protector of souls, entreating him to keep you close until you are needed. To hide you from Osiris so your soul will not be judged. Not yet.”
“Until I am needed? I am needed at the temple.”
He tsked and continued to paint, accompanied by the soft chuffing sounds of bristles rasping on resin-hardened fabric.
Her tears quickened, soaking her skin beneath the wrappings and leaking into her hair. “I am The God’s Wife. You have no right.”
He sighed and strode back into view. When he leaned over her, sympathy no longer shone in his eyes. A deep furrow dug between his sharp dark brows. “I need quiet to think,” he said, his words peppering her like hard pellets. He placed a hand over her nose and mouth, cutting off her air.
Panic made her gurgle, but she was unable to fight. She stared upward at his gleaming eyes until darkness closed over her vision.
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Be sure to check out the snippets on these other authors’ blogs:
When I stumbled into writing romance, it was not planned. By pure accident, I began revising a paranormal suspense piece I was working on and it slowly transformed into a romance. Now, keep in mind, I’d not only never written one but I hadn’t even read one.
I was lost and sinking in treacherous waters without a life jacket. I had no idea what I was doing at that point and yet my muse refused to yield to venture back to the safety of the genres I knew and read. She insisted the romantic element to my book blossom into a full-blown, paranormal erotic romance.
I had much to learn and learn I did. Through the wonder of the internet, I found writer resources, made contacts, found guidance and even some how-to articles. But using my male brain, translation was dim and I needed more light. So, I read over 200 romance novels, hoping it would sink it. It wasn’t until I realized I could keep my man-card and still write romance, that it eventually clicked. That mission impossible my muse sent me on, became my first published book, Gothic City Lights.
So, let me pass on some advice for the male author seeking to try their hand at the Romance Genre.
I bet you’re expecting me to say something like “embrace your inner woman” or “get in touch with your feminine side”. Well, I’m not. In fact, probably the exact opposite. The first thing that men notice about romance novels, is the hero. He is the guy we want to relate to, but just can’t. And more men than won’t will toss the romance novel aside and go back to their paramilitary thriller books they are comfortable with. I confess, I nearly did too.
The very first thing a male author writing romance has to understand is that he is not writing for male readers. This quite obviously explains why he can’t connect with the Romance Novel Hero. The hero is purposely a fantasy. His job is to tantalize the deepest desires of the women who read his tale. He is unreal, yet, if crafted well, at least believable. For women. Men for the most part, simply go “Yeah, right.”
Think of it like this. As men, we objectify women as sex objects. Wrong or right, we do. We can’t really help it. Everywhere you look, there are pictures, videos, sounds, art and all forms of media showing us the “perfect” female form. It’s not hard to understand why Sports Illustrated Magazine’s bestselling edition is their annual swimsuit issue.
Well, women objectify men as well. The medium is usually different, but it’s the same thing. And you know what? It’s okay to fantasize. I dread a world where fantasizing is not allowed or even discouraged. I don’t know about you, but I read to escape the real world and enter one where my fantasies are entertained. I know I’m not alone in this.
Okay, so by understanding the hero is supposed to be fantastical and surreal, the male author can let go of trying to relate to him on a real world level. This is the time to crank up your testosterone and inject it into your hero. Where real men can’t be massive bulks of muscle, deadly and dangerous, suave and sophisticated, successful and wealthy, and articulate and intelligent, all at the same time, your hero can and should. Now, step two.
Understanding the mechanics of the Romance genre is really just as simple as any other genre. Every genus of fiction has its rules. From Space Opera to Chick Lit and from Epic Fantasy to Cozy Mystery, there are defined elements that must be present. As a male author, these are no different if you were a female author, so just learn those requirements and you’re well on your way.
That leaves what I found to be the stumbling block. The emotional conflict. Another confession: I didn’t even understand what an emotional conflict was until recently. By pure accident, my books had them and thus, they sold to publishers. But I didn’t put them there on purpose. Talk about lucky.
Anyway. This critical element to the Romance Novel, I think, is the biggest obstacle for male authors. You see, we process emotions differently than women. It’s simply how men and women are hard-wired. Women are from Venus and men are from Mars, right? We’re writing for women and so we have to formulate an outsider’s interpretation of “Emotional Conflict.”
It’s difficult to describe how I personally deal with this issue without sounding cheap or demeaning, but essentially, I fake it. I honestly don’t think it’s possible for a man to feel emotions the same as a woman does and vice versa. Since I cannot feel the emotions the same way, I have to concentrate on the parts I can relate to and formulate a basic understanding.
I do know several authors who claim to perfectly understand the opposite sex, but—with all due respect—it doesn’t show in their writing. Several authors are very good at “faking it” and manage beautifully written stories and scenes from the opposite sex’s point of view. That takes talent and is rare. Amazon is crunch full of romance books where I can tell you, the author hasn’t clue one how men think. Hehehe.
The best compliment I’ve ever received was being told my female perspective was better than most female author’s the reviewer had read. I attained that compliment by tripling my concentration when dealing with my heroines and the emotional conflicts entwined within the plots of my stories. It was not easy and it is something I still do and will always struggle with by the very fact I am not female. My fragile male brain just can’t completely wrap around the female mind. Hehehe.
That was a compliment, in case it was read wrong.
But this brings me back to point number one and why it doesn’t matter if the hero is an authentic human male. He shouldn’t be. On the flip side of the coin however, the heroine must be genuine right down to her toes. This is why a male author has to understand the aspects of the genre that, in a word, are alien to the male thought pattern.
There it is in a nutshell. Obviously, every writer handles the aspects of writing differently and the “rules” really are simply guidelines. But I caution the male author when attempting their hand at romance, don’t skip the basics and pay extra attention to the aspects that make romance one of the most successful fiction genres of all time.
Now, let me give out a great big hug and thank you to Delilah for hosting me here today. I hope at the very least you all found me entertaining. I won’t be here all week, but do try the veal.
Check the comments of yesterday’s blog for the three winners names!
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Y’all know I love cowboys. Every shape, size, nice chest and six-pack to go with it, so I guess I’ll post a little about my coming release. I don’t have a buy link yet, but I do have a HAWT cover!
It will be available in the next couple of weeks. So be on the look out for the buy link coming soon!
Mesa Arraguso writes about hot cowboys for a living. Being a romance writer has it perks and its drawbacks. She spends a lot of time alone in front of her computer, but she gets to fantasize about incredibly hot men wearing cowboy boots and Stetsons. While visiting San Antonio, Texas for a writer’s conference, she finds herself stranded on the back roads of Bandera only to be rescued by one of the most gorgeous men she’s ever encountered, be it fantasy or for real.
Joel Young is a cowboy. From the top of his Stetson to the tip of his dirty cowboy boots, he’s cowboy through and through. Along with rescuing women when they do silly things like running out of gas miles from town on a dirt road, he spends his days herding cattle, fixing fences and breaking horses.
Can one handsome cowboy and a city-girl from LA find common ground is the Hill Country long enough to see beyond a quick fling?
As the water began rising rapidly she realized she needed to get the hell out of her car before it was washed away. In the distance she could make out several larger rocks. “If I can get on top of them, I should be safe from the rush. Of course, that means I’ll be out in the rain getting soaked.” Fear rose, threatening to choke her with the lump in her throat. She rubbed her arms trying to calm the chills while deciding what to do. She really didn’t have much choice. Water ran in rivulets down the windshield. Lightning continued to flash and thunder rolled over the area. She sucked in a large breath as she bit her lip.
A moment later a tap, tap, tap on her window startled her out of her thoughts. She jumped and screamed as a face appeared near her door. Blue eyes with long lashes stared back beneath a black cowboy hat. Black hair ruffled slightly with the wind.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
“You need to get this car out of the water. You’ll be washed away. It’s rising fast.”
“I can’t. I’m out of gas.”
“Open the door.”
“Hell, no. Do I look crazy to you?” she asked, her voice shrill with terror.
“Trust me. If I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t be out in this shit trying to find women to abduct. I’m going to help you, but you need to get out of the car first before we’re both swept away.”
Mesa bit her lip. Should she trust him?
“All right.” She eased open the door to find the water almost reached the bottom of the car. The cowboy pulled the door the rest of the way as she grabbed her purse.
“We have to hurry,” he said, offering her a hand to help her from the car. “Let me help you. This water is rushing pretty fast.”
A red horse stood patiently several feet away with its head down, riding out the storm the only way horses knew how. A cowboy on a real horse out here in the middle of nowhere? Surely, it’s safe. I mean serial killers don’t ride horses, right?
He winced as she dabbed again. It had to hurt, she knew but all she could think about was kissing those full lips. She wanted to see his eyes dark with desire. Feel his hands on her bare flesh. Have those lips on other places of her body like her breasts, her nipples, or her clit.
“You okay?” he whispered, glancing up through those impossibly long eyelashes.
“Yeah.” Her heart pounded behind her ribcage.
“Your pulse is fluttering.”
“Why?” His voice continued in a soft, coaxing tone reminding her of how he spoke to the horse while she gave birth to her colt.
“It’s nothing, Joel.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
She closed her eyes and licked her lips. God, do I ever want you to kiss me. More than my next breath. More than a winning lottery ticket. More than…
The next thing she knew, he had twisted her around so she lay flat on the bed with him hovering over her. He bent down and brushed his lips against hers so softly she wasn’t sure if he’d actually kissed her.
“You shouldn’t be doing this.”
He kissed her again, this time with his tongue softly brushing her lips as if to ask for permission to deepen it. Her lips parted of their own accord without her even thinking beyond how his lips felt against hers. The dip of his tongue tore a moan from her mouth. She tangled her hands in the front of his western shirt, wanting nothing more than to remove the barrier between his skin and hers.
The fire burning in her gut prompted her to return kiss for kiss, touch for touch.
I hope you enjoyed the blurb and excerpt. This book is scheduled to be out the end of this month. Keep your eyes open to www.secretcravingspublishing.com for release information.