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Sarah Castille: It’s All About the Story
Thursday, April 9th, 2015

Once upon a time a directionally impaired author got lost in her own city. Since she’d forgotten her phone, and her vehicle pre-dated the existence of onboard navigation, she was forced to resort to the age-old method of finding her way home: asking for directions.

She pulled up at an unremarkable, shoebox-shaped building in a commercial district at the far edge of town. Pen and paper in hand, she pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped into a land plucked from her wildest fantasy.

OK. Maybe it wasn’t quite her wildest fantasy, but for the sake of keeping this PG-13, we’ll pretend that it was.

No, friends. She did not behold unicorns and rainbows, rivers of chocolate, or lollipop trees. There were no castles, fairies or handsome princes on white horses. Nor were there big couches surrounded by piles of books and waiters bearing snacks so that books could be read start to finish without interruption.

However, there were fighters. Lots of ‘em. Enough for her to share with all her friends, if she had been the sharing type. Which she wasn’t.

So entranced was she by the sea of glistening pecs, hard abs, taut bottoms, and tight shorts, that she barely registered her surroundings. There may have been carpet on the floor. It may have been brown. The gym may have smelled strongly of stale sweat and the florescent lights above her head may have flickered, bathing the gym in a greenish glow. She also may have licked her  lips and tasted pure liquid desire. But who really cares about scenes and settings at times like these. Not her.

“Um…hi.” She spoke with the eloquence of an author who has mastered dialogue technique while wishing she had written herself some new clothes. Maybe not her husband’s plaid lumberjack shirt and those leggings that shrank two inches above her cankles the last time she put them in the wash, which, now that she thought about it was two years ago. And damnit. Sure those Birkenstocks were comfortable, but HELLO. PEDICURE. Overgrown toenails and chipped polish were just so passé.

Six shaved heads jerked up. Six tatted and ripped bodies turned in her direction. Twelve eyes (most in pairs) studied her from beneath the fringes of lashes.

She put one hand on her hidden muffin top, and one on her head, pretending to be toying with her hair while tugging out the pony tail holder and simultaneously smoothing the frizz.

“I’m lost.”

And just like that, she was sucked into the vortex of an alpha-male testosterone frenzy.

Woman. Alone. Lost. Dark. Needs. Help. Can’t. Resist. Must. Protect. Save. Woman.

Her fairy godmother appeared and she dropped twenty pounds, lost the grey and her clothes were magically transformed into skin-tight gym-wear that showed off her taut, honed body. The fighters attacked each other, trying to prove themselves worthy of helping her find her way home.

Soon (but not soon enough for her) only one fighter remained standing: the dominant alpha male. He stalked across the gym and pulled her against his hard, sweaty body. Then he leaned down and sealed his mouth over hers, claiming her with a punishing kiss that took her breath away (as punishing kisses from alpha males often do).

“Mine,” he growled.

And they lived happily ever after.

OK. Maybe it didn’t happen that way. Maybe a skinny teenager at the front desk let her use his phone to check out the best route to get home.

But, damn. It gave her a good idea for a series about sexy alpha male fighters and the women who capture their hearts.

And really, in the end, it’s all about the story.


FULL CONTACT, the third standalone book in my Redemption erotic fighter romance series, is available now, and Ray “The Predator” Black, the ultimate alpha male, is awaiting your pleasure.


Ray wraps his arms around me and holds me tight as if something terrible has happened and he doesn’t want to let me go.

Full Contact. This is how Ray speaks when his emotions overwhelm him. I melt into his stillness. His body is hot and hard, his breath warm on my neck. He smells of leather and sweat, sex and sin. Nothing can tear me away.

When you can’t resist the one person who could destroy you…

Sia O’Donnell can’t help but push the limits. She secretly attends every underground MMA fight featuring The Predator, the undisputed champion. When he stalks his prey in the ring, Sia is mesmerized. He is dominant and dangerous and every instinct tells her to run.

Every beautiful thing Ray “The Predator” touches he knows he’ll eventually destroy. Soft, sweet and innocent, Sia is the light to Ray’s darkness—and completely irresistible. From the moment he lays eyes on her, he knows he’s going to have to put his dark past behind him to win her body and soul.

The Redemption Series
Against the Ropes
In Your Corner
Full Contact


Except for the White Buffalo’s cover of “House of the Rising Sun” playing in the background, there is no sound except the rasp of Ray’s breath as his chest rises and falls under my hand. Although I’ve done shoulder and pec tattoos countless times, the intimacy of this position sends a shiver through my body. Longing grips me hard and fierce, and I scramble to regain some semblance of control. Maybe a little conversation.

“So, did you catch your bad guy?”

“No. Still after him.”

When I look up, Ray is watching me. He is so close I can see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow, the thickness of his lashes, his eyes deepening to an azure blue. I force myself to look into them and swallow hard. “Everything okay?”

Apparently not. Jaw tight, muscles quivering, he captures me with his glance. “Your hair.”

I give my head a slight shake and my ponytail swings back and forth. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Take it down.” He fingers a loose tendril beside my ear, his authoritative tone sending a wave of heat raging through me.

“I keep it up so it’s out of the way.”


“I’ll have to take off my gloves first, and then I’ll have to…” My words die in my throat when he strokes his hand over my hair, front to back. With one sharp jerk, he tugs out my ponytail holder and my hair tumbles around my shoulders.


Trembling, painfully and desperately aroused, I pick up the razor and shaving gel from my tray. “I…have to shave you.” My voice drops to a throaty whisper, and if that doesn’t tell him what he does to me, nothing will.

Another curt nod. But then he’s not a talkative type. I’ve never seen him hanging out with the other fighters after the gym closes for the night, and not once has he ever joined us for drinks after a fight.

Taking a deep breath, I steady my hand, then smooth the gel over his skin. But when I dip the razor, Ray tenses, his fist clenching and unclenching beside my hip.

A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “Don’t worry. I’ve never cut anyone. I’ll be gentle.”

“Man lives the life I’ve lived, he’s not used to gentle.”

Tilting my head to the side, I meet his gaze. “You never had anyone be gentle with you?”

“I usually scare the gentle ones away.”

“I can’t imagine why.” My hand relaxes and I stroke the razor across his skin. Stroke and dip. Stroke and dip. The rhythmic movement calms my fraught nerves, but with every touch, tension builds between us until it is almost a living, palpable thing. “You’re not so scary.” I tease the blade around his nipple and Ray sucks in a sharp breath.

“Sia—” He chokes off his words so I continue talking, keeping my voice low and even, soothing the savage beast trapped in my chair.

“I have to admit, in the ring, you’re pretty terrifying. You have so much power and yet you keep it so tightly leashed. But when you let it go”—I look up and my cheeks heat—“I think it’s thrilling. But you keep it in control. You never go too far. That’s where I see the beauty.”

Ray stares at me as if entranced, heaving his breaths, his gaze focused, intent. Even when Slim walks past to grab some supplies and then heads back to the private rooms, Ray doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Slim ink the butterfly too?” He leans forward and lightly touches the butterfly tat on my shoulder. I yank the razor away in case he becomes my first ever casualty.

“Yeah he did. I have one on the other shoulder too. Slim’s a real master. When he was finished with the roses and thorns, I felt like something was missing. I wanted hope and freedom. And yellow, because it’s my favorite color. He came up with the butterflies.”

“Would have thought black was your favorite color.” He gestures to my clothes. “You always wear black.”

“Yellow is my secret favorite color.” I give him a half smile. “Not many people know.”

Ray gives a grunt of satisfaction, and I feel a little tingle at the thought that I’ve pleased him. He traces the outline of the little butterfly and pleasure ripples through my body.

“Looks just like a butterfly I caught when I was a kid. I watched it for hours. Learned a hard lesson that day. I wanted to touch it and I was too rough. Must’ve broken its wing. When I let it go, it couldn’t fly.”

“You can touch me. I won’t break.”

His jaw tightens, and I curse myself for being so flippant about what was probably an upsetting moment in his childhood. What the hell is wrong with me? He shares an actual piece of personal information and I show no sympathy at all. Not only that, but now I’m begging for his attention.

After a few more strokes with the blade, I wash him off, then I spritz him with disinfectant. In my zeal, I spray not only the area to be inked, but the rest of his torso as well. Damn klutz side strikes again. “Sorry. Forgot to reduce the nozzle.” Grabbing a sterile cloth, I dry his chest then work my way over his rippled abdomen. His muscles quiver beneath my touch as I pat along the soft, dusky trail of hair, following it down to his belt. Imagining where it might go.

He tenses when I near his buckle and gives a strangled grunt. “S’good.”

My gaze drifts below his belt, to the bulge in his jeans. He is fully erect, his shaft straining against his fly. A naughty thrill of excitement shoots through my veins. He’s aroused because of me.

“Um…do you want to take a break before I apply the stencil?”

He shakes his head, then leans forward and sweeps his hand through my hair, letting the strands slide through his fingers. A sigh escapes my lips as delicious sensations sweep through my body. I am on fire. And although I’ve been with men before, I’ve never been immobilized by a single touch.

“So soft.” He runs his hand over my hair again, this time trailing his fingers along my shoulder. His thumb glides over my throat and he curls his hand around my neck. “So fucking delicate.”

I am burning. Consumed by fire. A burst of need drives a whimper up my throat, and I choke it back as his thumb circles the sensitive hollow at the base of my neck. Firm. Unyielding. Dominant. With one squeeze, he could break me. The way I was broken before. The way he broke the butterfly. And yet nothing could tear me away from this moment.

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4 comments to “Sarah Castille: It’s All About the Story”

  1. Debbie Watson
    · April 9th, 2015 at 7:06 am · Link

    Love this series!

  2. Pat Freely
    · April 9th, 2015 at 10:22 am · Link

    What pictures you paint. Thanks

  3. Sarah Castille
    · April 10th, 2015 at 3:06 am · Link

    Thanks very much for hosting me, Delilah. And thanks, Debbie and Pat for your comments.

  4. April Hollingworth
    · April 11th, 2015 at 4:07 am · Link

    Yes it is all about the story, and what a story, yum 🙂

Comments are closed.