I won’t bore you with economical, social and political details. I’ll leave these for another place and another time.

By the way, have you ever thought that the blood of someone famous, whose name inspires, even nowadays, a feeling of admiration or unease or dread may be flowing through your veins? No? I must admit that I haven’t either, ’til I wrote the novel Dracula’s Mistress and, come to think of it, Dracula’s blood may flow through my veins, too, as I am a native of his country.

If you go outside in the street, in the States, and ask at random, ordinary people passing by “Have you heard about Romania? “, you’ll be, most often, met by frowned eyebrows, confused looks or shrugging. Or even answers like: “Well, I don’t know… is it South America… or maybe Africa….”

Ask the same people “Have you heard about Dracula’s country?” A large smile will lighten the face of your interlocutor. “Oh, Dracula. Yes, yes, I heard about it. Somewhere in Europe. Transylvania.  Vampires.”

So, I’m glad to live in a country known to everyone, be it only because it’s linked to a name bearing negative connotations: creatures of the night, fangs, sucking the blood of maidens, crimes and horrors. Dracula is said to have drunk his victims’ blood, terrified his enemies and turned into a bat at will. The border between legend or history and figments of people’s imagination is difficult to perceive in his case.

Strong connections between the British Royal Family and Vlad the Impaler, the 15th century nobleman whose deeds inspired the vampire legend, are exploited now for advertising reasons. Books, movies, restaurants, T-shirts, fan clubs, toys, posters, wine…. So many products with this name Dracula. It’s a powerful brand and a source of inspiration for generations to come.

There are many people in Romania bothered by this analogy, Romania—Dracula’s country. I’m not. I’m proud to be one of his country people. And I chose to think about Dracula as a symbolic personality, a hero, a true leader, who used harsh, yet fair methods to reclaim the country from the corrupt and rich boyars. I wish there lived another man like him in his present-day country!

Anyway, words are never enough to describe the place. Beautiful landscapes with gorgeous mountains and mysterious ancient forests, clear rills coming down grassy slopes to meet the Danube.

Well, not to mention that there are enough elements in the Romanian mythology—ghosts, zombies, vampires—to be a real attraction for visitors. We have our paranormal, haunted places, too. If you want to know more about them, I invite you to visit my blog and the posts under the title: Mysterious Romania.

My best advice to you—come and visit Romania and you’ll see for yourselves how Dracula’s country really looks like. And to prevent getting bored while crossing the ocean, get a copy of  my novels Shadows of the Past or Till Life Do Us Part and read it. Otherwise you don’t know what you are missing! (The novel I mentioned at the beginning of the post, Dracula’s Mistress, will be released by the end of 2016, I hope)

Thank you, Delilah, for hosting me today!

Till Life Do Us Part

 Author: Carmen Stefanescu
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Genre:  Paranormal Romance
Mystery, Suspense, Reincarnation,

Release date: 9th June 2016

Barbara Heyer can hear voices of dead people. They whisper of their deaths, seek comfort for those left behind, and occasionally even warn her about future events. But when Barbara’s brother, Colin, is accused of murder, it will take more than her gift to prove his innocence.

Becoming smitten with the handsome investigator, Detective Patrick Fischer, is a serious complication given his assignment to her brother’s case. Barbara senses there is something far deeper—and perhaps much older—than the surface attraction between them. Could that be why she’s visited by a mysterious woman named Emma in her dreams? Could past life regression tie all the seemingly unconnected events together?

Barbara and Patrick must overcome heartache to find the truth to save Colin, and perhaps themselves.

Trailer for Till Life Do Us Part: https://youtu.be/UbuntlWISc0

Buy Links:

Short URL for Amazon:    https://goo.gl/H0dqkb
B&N http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/till-life-do-us-part-carmen-stefanescu/1123896837?ean=9781625263858

Short excerpt

“Detective, please, don’t  think I’m raving, but I have to ask. Do you know someone called Mabel?”

The man riveted Barbara with his dark blue eyes for a moment.

Barbara cringed inside. He’ll rebuke me.

The man passed a hand over his face and nodding, he answered, “Yes, I know a Mabel. My… my wife.”

“How long ago did she pass away?”

In a voice that was more than a little surprised he asked, “How on earth did you know she’s dead?”

“She’s here,” Barbara replied in a small voice.

His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. The steel in his voice was hard to miss. “What? What are you talking about?” He spun round and looked at the apparently empty space behind him.

Tell him I no longer suffer, Barbara heard Mabel’s voice.

Detective Fisher was still staring blankly around him.

“She wants me to tell you she no longer suffers. She hopes you’ve found in your heart the power to forgive her for committing suicide… for jumping off the bridge.”

The detective looked straight into Barbara’s eyes. The grief she saw in them was almost palpable.

About the Author

Carmen Stefanescu resides in Romania, the native country of the infamous vampire Count Dracula, but where, for about 50 years of communist dictatorship, just speaking about God, faith, reincarnation or paranormal phenomena could have led someone to great trouble – the psychiatric hospital if not to prison.

High school teacher of English and German in her native country, and mother of two daughters, Carmen Stefanescu survived the grim years of oppression, by escaping in a parallel world that of the books.

Several of her poems were successfully published in a collection of Contemporary English Poems, Muse Whispers vol.1 and Muse Whispers vol.2 by Midnight Edition Publication, in 2001 and 2002.

Her first novel, Shadows of the Past, was released in 2012 by Wild Child Publishing, USA.

Carmen joined the volunteer staff at Marketing For Romance Writers Author blog and is the coordinator of #Thursday13 posts.

Other books by Carmen Stefanescu:

Shadows of the Past – paranormal/light romance/light historical/light mystery

You can stalk the author here:
http://shadowspastmystery.blogspot.ro/
https://twitter.com/Carmen_Books
http://www.pinterest.com/carmens007/
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Carmen-Stefanescu-Books/499245716760283
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6624397.Carmen_Stefanescu
https://plus.google.com/117216040843648957646/posts
http://www.amazon.com/Carmen-Stefanescu/e/B00APVDGAA/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30115839-till-life-do-us-part
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16249401-shadows-of-the-past

When people learn I’m a romance writer, my answer to “what do you write?” always evokes a a wide – and I do mean wide – grin of surprise. I write inspirational romance, gothic romance and Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance. Inspirational and Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance?

Are you grinning?

Jokingly, but half-seriously, someone once asked, “What is Christian erotic romance? Safe braille sex? i.e. sex with your eyes closed and your panties on?” For some, Christian erotica or Christian erotic romance is the ultimate oxymoron. I might have been one of them if I hadn’t discovered translations of the writings of medieval mystics over thirty years ago. Hadewijch of Brabant and Beatrijs of Nazareth proved there is an equal sign between Christian and erotic. Their prayers and journal entries not only aroused and excited me, but inspired and drew me closer to the divine. They also confirmed what I’d always suspected: worshiping God is an ecstatic erotic experience. My suspicion had been born in my reading of the erotic poetry of the Old Testament found in Song of Solomon. Those ecstatic tropes were not a projection of my lustful imaginings in need of sublimation. Hallelujah! Medieval mystics and the Bible celebrate the erotic? So will I!

Fast forward to 2003 when I joined Romance Writers of America and started writing romance. The seeds planted by that hallelujah began to take root. Audre Lorde’s Uses of the Erotic: the Erotic as Power nurtured the fledgling plants. As I honed my craft, I wrestled with the following challenges: could I write fiction equally ecstatic, erotic and experiential as the non-fiction of those mystics? Could my romances celebrate love as arousing and spiritual as the poetry of Song of Solomon? Now One Breath Away has found a home at the Scarlet Rose line of the Wild Rose Press, I hope the answer is a resounding yes.

One Breath Away grew from a series of “what ifs” storming my imagination after I read a historical account of a woman surviving a hanging. In real life they simply hung her again, but what if she had been allowed to live? What if any time she became aroused, she experienced autoerotic asphyxiation because she climaxed when she was hung? What if this takes place in the 1870’s among African Americans surviving anti-Reconstruction backlash? What if she is a dark-skinned, plus-sized ex-slave? How could a woman like this after an experience like that overcome fear and find love? I knew the answer was yes, so the Christian erotic romance writer in me set out to give Mary Hamilton the HEA she needed at the heat level she deserved.

Sentenced to hang for a crime she didn’t commit, former slave Mary Hamilton was exonerated at literally the last gasp. She returns to Safe Haven, broken and resigned to live alone. Never having been courted, cuddled or spooned, Mary now fears any kind of physical intimacy when arousal forces her to relive the asphyxiation of her hanging. But then the handsome stranger who saved her shows up, stealing her breath from across the room and promising so much more.

Wealthy freeborn-Black Eban Thurman followed Mary to Safe Haven, believing a relationship with Mary was foretold by the stars. He must marry her to reclaim his family farm. But first he must help her heal, and to do that means revealing his own predilection for edgier sex.

Then just as Eban begins to win Mary’s trust, an enemy from the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…

Excerpt:

His smile turned up the heat in his gaze. Mary frowned, painfully aware the smell of her passion lingered in the air, despite the woolen barrier of her skirt.

He stepped forward so his hand-stitched boots stood toe-to-toe with Mary’s second-hand shoes. “Eban Thurman, at your service, Miss Hamilton. May I get you something to drink?”

At her service? The air congealed. Mary gasped, trying to suck in air too solid to inflate her lungs.

“No—no, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Her stutter mimicked the tremor between her thighs. She clasped her hands and planted them hard against her lap.

“It’s a really hot night.” He turned his hand palm up in a silent plea. “Perhaps you’d find a waltz more cooling.” He eased his fingers into her clenched hands. “May I beg the honor of this dance?”

“Beg?”

“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” He tilted his head, slanting his smile to the right. “Beg.”

“You don’t strike me as the begging type, Mr. Thurman.”

“To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” He tongue-swiped his full lips as if he’d just tasted something he wanted to taste again. “I know when it’s time to beg.”

She pursed her lips into a frown, fought back the urge to grovel and won. Barely.

The fingers around hers, clean and huge and strangely slender, hadn’t moved, hadn’t trembled. Their stillness aroused her. His stillness aroused her. Her lips quivered. She inhaled deeply against the surrender summoned by that tiny tremor.

Resist the devil and he will flee.

Silently she called upon the truth in this scripture for rescue.
The devil waited. She stared at the hand on hers, helpless against the appeal, the allure of temptation.

She swallowed hard, opened her mouth to say no, but her tongue refused to cooperate. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I—I can’t. I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” His lips bowed in a smile, full, broad, and hypnotizing. “I’m an excellent teacher and I bet you’re a fast learner.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Shall we?”

He really wanted to dance with her. She blinked, speechless. A warning voice protested.

Resist.

Her heart countered.

Surrender.

She firmed her lips, heaved a sigh then accepted his invitation. Felicity’s sputtered shock and Widow Hawthorne’s happy cackle accompanied them to the middle of the dance floor.

He placed his fingertips respectfully but firmly above the rise of her buttocks and held her in place against him. A tickle invaded the wool of her skirt where the tip of his middle finger rested at the head of her crack. Pleasure tripped up her spine and trickled between her thighs. But, from the recesses of remembered experience, a voice of caution persisted.

He wants something, Mary. Beware.

“Why—why do you want to dance with me?”

He smiled with the serpent slyness that probably charmed Eve. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“I might.”

He turned his head slightly. “Really? Your practiced calm says otherwise.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Practiced calm?”

“The face you present to the world until something touches your heart.” He gestured to his right. “Like when that baby there cried. Your expression changed to one of concern, then changed to one of contentment when his mother satisfied his hunger.”

Mary blew a breath through her mouth. This man was studying her. Really studying her. Should she be flattered or worried?

The one-two-three, one-two-three magic of the waltz began. He guided her in its dips and glides, through its rises and falls. The awkwardness attributed to her by past dance partners didn’t raise its ugly head. Her spirit lightened then soared until that still, small voice sounded the alarm.

You were fooled by another man and his fancy manners. Don’t be fooled by this one.

Hints of bay rum mingled with a manly scent against whose lure she struggled then lost. Once again her toilet water failed to hide the salty scent of her arousal.

Eban pinned her with a not-so-casual scrutiny. Could he smell her too? She tried but failed to read him. Dare she hope the ease in his smile meant he found it pleasing?

The other couples held their partners off with discreet and proper holds. Not Eban. Warmth radiated from the hand holding the small of her back hostage. The heat spread across her buttocks then seeped into places more private. He bent his elbow and gentled her forward so only their clasped hands separated them.

“Why, Miss Hamilton, I do believe you’re blushing.” His fingers held hers with a teasing yet possessive grip.

“I am not.” Her words shot out with a force she hadn’t intended. “I mean I don’t blush.”

“No?” A cheeky boyishness winked at her from eyes as dark as chocolate. He leaned down so his breath tickled her earlobe. “Not even if I kissed you behind your ear?”

She shrank back then stared up into the gaze showering her with attention. Her heart beat beneath her breast with a prisoner’s unease. An unease she knew well having once been a prisoner.

“You—you wouldn’t.”

His smile widened into a grin. “Only because I don’t want to embarrass you.”

The amusement in his voice coaxed forth a wet response that Mary clenched her vaginal muscles to stem. She swallowed repeatedly until she found her voice.

“You still haven’t answered me, sir. Of all the women here, why did you pick me?”

“Why not you?”

She blinked. Why not her? The answers swirled through her mind as easily as she and Eban swirled in this waltz.

Why not her?

Because she remained planted among the wallflowers by the time the musicians played the last song at every Safe Haven dance.

Because she learned to hang back at the call of “Ladies’ Choice,” forewarned of rejection by the grimaces caused by her approach.

Because unlike desperate-for-a-man Felicity, Mary refused to dance on her back in some dark field just so she wouldn’t be a woman who ain’t been asked.

Ain’t been asked to court. Ain’t been asked to spoon. Ain’t been asked to the altar. And never would be.

That’s why not her.

His calloused fingertips proved he worked manually for the wealth that purchased his custom-made attire. But, he didn’t speak like a field hand or common laborer. His speech testified to a level of education far above that of her Freedman’s Bureau learning.

“Why not you, Mary?”

“Because someone like you only looks at someone like me out of pity.”

Of course. His aunt put him up to this. Anger warmed Mary’s ears.

“Let me go.” She made to pull away. “I want to sit.”

“Please. Not before the music stops.” He timed his plea to the rhythm of the waltz. “I’ve waited all week for this moment.”

Mary gritted her teeth. Heart hurt joined her injured pride. She needed no one’s charity.

“That was cruel of you, sir. No one counts the days until they can ask me for a dance.” Tears pooled behind her closed eyelids. “Anyone in town could tell you that.”

The grip on her hand tightened, forcing her eyes open. The light in his gaze darkened. “Anyone who’d lie to me like that would be taking their life in their hands.” He leaned in so his mouth nuzzled her ear again. “And if you use that I’m-not-worthy tone of voice again, I’ll be forced to prove you wrong with a kiss.”

Alarm shuddered up Mary’s back. “Is—is that a threat?”

“A certainty.” He winked.

A chilly thrill replaced the alarm. She blew out a breath to steady herself. Threat or certainty, both treated her to a delicious revelation—she wanted that kiss. She eyed his lips, imagined their soft yet demanding press against hers. Once more the voice of caution repeated its warning.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Oh, to be forced to flee from such a devil as he. She sighed. What a wonderful problem to have.

*~*~*

Buy links:

Wild Rose Press, www.wildcatalog.thewildrosepress.com/all-erotic/4580-one-breath-away.html

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/One-Breath-Away-Michal-Scott-ebook/dp/B01L101Q6E/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1477136750&sr=8-1-fkmr0&keywords=one+breath+away+michael+scott

About the Author

A native New Yorker, Michal Scott is the pen name of Anna Taylor Sweringen, an ordained United Church of Christ and Presbyterian Church USA minister. Using the writings of the love mystics of Begijn for inspiration, Michal Scott writes Christian erotica and Christian erotic romance (i.e. erotica and erotic romance with a faith arc), hoping to build a bridge between the sacred and secular, spirituality and sexuality, erotica and Christ, her readers and a well-written spiritually-stimulating and erotically-arousing story. As an African American, she writes stories to give insight into the African American experience in the US. She has been writing romance seriously since joining Romance Writers of America in 2003 and had her first novel published in 2008. She writes inspirational romance as Anna Taylor and gothic romance as Anna M. Taylor. You can connect with Anna on Twitter @mscottauthor1 and learn more about her and her writing at her various websites: www.michalscott.webs.com, www.annamtaylor.webs.com and www.annataylor2678.webs.com.

I’ll let you in on a little-known secret—I did not set out to be a writer of erotic historical romance.

When I began my first book I intended the story to fall within the realm of traditional historical romance—a bit of spice sprinkled throughout an otherwise purely romantic tale. The original manuscript was laced with wonderfully trite euphemisms for various parts of the body…nubs, pebbles, pearls, etc. Oh, and just so we don’t ignore the manly parts…member, manhood and staff.

Alas, after months of sending out queries and receiving only silence or politely worded rejections in return, I decided to take a walk on the wild side. I added length and depth (so to speak) to the sex scenes and replaced most of the euphemisms (though not all because, let’s face it, there are only so many synonyms for certain body parts and some euphemisms are too perfect to pass up) with breasts, nipples, clitorises, cocks, shafts and the occasional erection and penis. Oh, and I added a bit of 19^th century British slang—my personal favorite being quim.

I did not add a menage a trois, bondage, or even a spanking scene to the book. It was straight lovemaking between a man and a woman without benefit of toys, gadgets, whips or cuffs. And only one instance of rough handling by my hero. To put it simply, the story was barely erotic and then only by the grace of a few added details and naughty words.

Armed with a sexier version of the original manuscript, I sent out another round of queries to publishers of erotic fiction. Much to my delight, I was soon under contract for a three book series with a publisher who shall remain nameless.

Thus Portrait of Passion was born. And soon afterward, died a slow, torturous death. Lost in the netherworld of historical romances that aren’t erotic enough to satisfy fans of the genre, yet a touch (to a cock or clitoris) too racy for readers with a preference for more traditional historicals.

By the time I recognized the abyss into which Portrait of Passion had plummeted, it was too late. I was under contract to write two more erotic historical romance novels to complete the series. I edged Widow’s Wicked Wish a tad nearer to the erotic side only in terms of the frequency of sexual encounters and a faint hint at the darker desires my heroine might enjoy in the not too distant future.

When I began the third book I decided to do more than take a little stroll on the wild side. Unraveling the Earl is a far more wicked and wanton tale, thanks to the heroine who is…well, wicked and wanton. Georgie’s past is littered with debauchery of all sorts, some of which trickles into her relationship with the hero of the story. There is a spanking scene, though it’s only two light taps instigated by the heroine during a light-hearted bit of role-playing. And she does wind up tied to a bedpost with a lavender ribbon, a scene which leads to all sorts of hilarity and mayhem. Oh, and she strips herself bare and diddles her goodies for her hero’s entertainment.

The antics of the heroine of Unraveling the Earl lead me to quite a dilemma, a crisis of conscience you might say.

You see, in preparation for the day the rights for my Idyllwild Series would revert to me, I re-read the first and second stories, marking naughty words and entire paragraphs and pages for deletion or revision in order to transform the stories from barely-erotic to slightly tamer sensual historical romance novels. And hopefully lift them from the abyss so that readers browsing for a historical romance might actually discover them, perhaps even read and enjoy them.

Then I started re-reading Unraveling the Earl.

And I came to the realization that there was no way to transform this tale into anything other than what it is—a story wandering the fine line between erotic and sensual historical romance. A tale of a woman with a past so far beyond checkered it more closely resembles a garish paisley print, an enlightened acceptance of all the many and varied ways men and women make love, and a desire to please her lover in all ways. Thus pleasing herself in the process, selfish bit of muslin that she is.

I love this story, I ate and slept and dreamed this story while writing it. I was tormented and taunted by Georgie’s secrets and motives and her refusal to stay on the path to redemption. I was charmed and enchanted by Henry’s need to peel away her many layers, to discover the inner workings of her mind and finally solve the puzzle that is her heart.

The story simply would not work without her licentiousness, without her willingness to prey upon Henry’s desires for her own selfish ends. If I deleted all the raunchy bits and pieces, the reader would never know Georgie, never see beyond her scheming and lying to the lost and heartbroken woman hiding behind it all, and never believe an inherently good and kind man like Henry could fall in love with her.

And so, I only made some minor revisions, gave all three stories fresh edits and beautiful new covers, and re-released them in the hope that readers would be willing to walk the fine line between erotic and sensual historical romance to discover my books. And that when they did, like Henry, they would fall in love with Georgie, just as she is.

“I was never good or clean or whole, my lord. I have always been wicked and broken and dirty. I am vengeful and covetous and impulsive and selfish, and I like that about myself. I like my murky morals and my stubborn streak and my dubious loyalty and my greedy desire to claim what I want, no matter the cost. I like it all and what’s more so do you.”      —Miss Georgie Buchanan 

The Earl of Hastings’ reputation as London’s greatest gift to the ladies has taken on a life of its own and he is only too happy to live up to in one Mayfair bedchamber after another. Until he encounters a lady more interested in poking around his country estate than sampling his lauded charms.

Georgiana Buchanan is a woman with murky morals, warped notions of right and wrong, a talent for dancing around the truth, and a penchant for attending weddings and funerals without invitation.

When Georgie catches Henry’s roving eye, she turns the tables on the arrogant scoundrel, introducing him to a world of sensual delights and unraveling his vaunted control before fleeing into the night.

Henry is determined to make the elusive Georgiana his mistress while the lady wants only to use his desire to further her own schemes. When they find themselves marooned at Idyllwild during a summer storm, they will both discover they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.

The great lummox was lounging at the table with a napkin tucked into the lapels of his brocade dressing gown when Georgie emerged from the bathing room. 

With a pheasant leg in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, Hastings looked up from the table with a lopsided smile that did queer things to her insides. Which infuriated her to no end.

She breezed by him in search of her gown only to come up short when she did not find it lying on the floor where she’d left it. Spinning about to face him, she battled to hold on to her temper. “Where are my clothes?”

“I sent them to be pressed,” he answered, ducking his head over his plate. “The servants will return them in the morning.”

She opened her mouth to demand that he fetch them back immediately. She could hardly sneak about his house naked. And she had no intention of remaining under his roof until morning.

But he was tucking into his dinner as if he hadn’t eaten in three days and drinking brandy like it was water.

Surely he would be snoring in his bed before long.

With that thought uppermost in her mind, Georgie marched to his dresser and rifled through the drawers until she found rows of pressed white shirts. Removing one, she pulled it over her head and rolled up the sleeves before turning to wander about the perimeter of the room. She extinguished every candle in the sconces that dotted the walls until the room was a patchwork of dark shadows and golden light from a handful of tapered candles spaced about the room.

Two orgasms, a little food, a quantity of brandy and a darkened room ought to put the lord to sleep.

Georgie joined Hastings at the table, dropping into the empty chair with a sigh.

“Sure and that was poorly done, my lord,” she admonished, lifting the lid of a silver platter to find an entire roast pheasant, less the leg his lordship was currently devouring, swimming in a congealing sauce of some sort.

“Why did you run off?” he asked. “I had every intention of seeing to your pleasure just as soon as I’d regained my wits.”

Seeing to her pleasure? Was it possible the man did not realize she’d climaxed the moment he’d breached her body?

If the cocky lord couldn’t recognize a woman in the throes of a rollicking good release nor pull out before reaching his own, he most assuredly did not deserve the reputation he’d somehow earned. Nor did he deserve to be enlightened. In fact he deserved to be tormented a bit.

“No need,” she assured him, dropping the lid with a clatter. “I saw to it myself.”

Hastings made a choking sound and she darted a quick glance his way as she lifted another lid. He was staring at her from comically round eyes, a flush spreading over his cheeks.

“You saw to your own pleasure?” he croaked out. “Just now? In my bathing room?”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, her temper falling away at the look of astonishment on his face. She peered into the second platter. Shaved beef on toast swimming in gravy. “Did you want to watch?”

“Sweet mercy,” he murmured.

“Does one of these dishes contain vegetables?”

“Would you allow me to watch you…” He waved his hand about, dripping sauce on the tablecloth.

“Bring myself to climax?” she finished for him, finally finding a porcelain dish filled with potatoes and white beans in butter.

“That is a sight I would truly love to see.”

“I imagine one woman diddles herself much like the next.” Georgie heaped potatoes and beans onto her plate before slathering butter on two thick slices of bread.

Lord Hastings watched her, both elbows propped on the table, his fowl forgotten in his hand.

“Or perhaps not,” she reconsidered, delighted by his wonder despite her intention to remain untouched by his boyish charm. “Perhaps some women use the right hand while others use the left.”

“Which do you use?”

“The right. The left is for tweaking my titties.”

Hastings dropped the pheasant leg onto his plate and fell back against his chair with a groan.

Georgie let him stew on that while she dug into her meal, discovering with the first bite that she was quite ravenous.

And why not? She’d been pacing the warped boards of her rented rooms for the better part of three days with her stomach in knots, undone by the news that the Countess of Hastings had passed away.

“You’ve beautiful breasts,” the earl said some minutes later.

Looking up from her plate she eyed him suspiciously, not at all certain he wasn’t toying with her.

“Truly,” he assured her with a grin. “Quite the loveliest titties I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” she replied on a huff of laughter.

“Your nipples are like ripe berries,” he continued, his eyes dropping to her chest.

Georgie looked down, not the least bit surprised to see the sensitive buds clearly visible beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. Under their combined regard, her nipples hardened and lengthened, pressing against the fabric. Heat pooled between her legs and it was all she could do not to squirm in her seat.

She might have erred when she’d decided to torture the man for his transgressions, most specifically spending his seed in her body and failing to recognize the gift of her climax. The diddling of her quim and fondling of her nipples likely weren’t subjects destined to put the earl to sleep.

“Eat your dinner, my lord,” she murmured, plucking up another piece of bread and heaping butter on it.

“Henry,” he corrected, apparently not inclined to adhere to her gentle command. “I’d much rather eat your berries.

“Does that sort of nonsense customarily work for you?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Nonsense?”

“Eat your berries,” she mimicked. “Play my pipe. Has that ever worked for you?”

“I seem to recall you on your knees before me not too long ago,” he pointed out with a chuckle.

“It wasn’t because you’d compared your prick to a pipe, of that you can be certain,” she replied, amused by his arrogance.

“I don’t give a fig as to the why of it,” he said.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” she agreed knowing full well he’d be less than pleased if he knew the true reason she’d fallen to her knees before him.

*~*~*

Amazon Link for Unraveling the Earl:  https://www.amazon.com/Unraveling-Earl-Idyllwild-Book-3-ebook/dp/B01ICNOTBW/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Author Bio

Lynne Barron always wanted to be a writer, if only she could decide what to write. Every Creative Writing teacher and college professor advised her to write about what you know. But what did she know? She knew she enjoyed reading romance novels whenever she could find the time between studying, working and raising her son as a single mother. She knew quite a bit about women’s lives in the Regency and Victorian era from years spent bouncing back and forth between European History and English Literature as a major in college. She knew precious little about romance except to know it was more than a card and a dozen red roses on Valentine’s Day. Then she met her wonderfully romantic husband and finally she knew. Passion, Love and Romance. And she began to write. Lynne lives in Florida with her husband, son and a menagerie of rescued pets.

My Website Link: http://www.lynnebarron.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LynneBarronRomanceAuthor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/lynnebarron06
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Lynne-Barron/e/B00IQS82DU/

Hey, everyone! I’m so glad to be back on Delilah’s blog today to talk about my newest release, Cowboy Karma. It’s the fourth book in my Cowboy Cocktail novella series, starring a tight-knit group of lovelorn cowboys and the smart, feisty women who fall for them.

Cowboy Karma is a high-heat romance starring Lucky Garcia, a handsome rodeo cowboy who enjoys a blazing one-night stand with the one who got away. Harmony Santos, fresh from a nasty breakup, thinks Lucky’s just a rebound. But something about the sexy underdog gets under her skin and soon, she can’t wait to get lucky again…

To celebrate the release of Cowboy Karma, I’m offering a few giveaways. The grand prize is digital copies of books 1, 2, and 3 in the Cowboy Cocktail series plus a “lucky” horseshoe necklace from one of my favorite jewelry makers, Seoul Little. See below to play!

Thank you for reading!

Cowboy Karma

Who needs luck when you can get Lucky?

Cowboy Cocktail, Book 4

When Harmony Santos’s boyfriend dumps her on her birthday, she doesn’t get mad. She gets lucky…with a mysterious cowboy whose bedroom eyes and rough edges bring out her inner bad girl. But when their one-night rodeo turns into more than a rebound, Harmony worries her heart hasn’t healed enough to take on someone new—even if that someone is as sweet as he is sexy.

Tie-down roper Lucky Garcia can’t believe his good fortune. A shot at national finals and now this—his longtime crush, in his arms at last. The more time he spends with Harmony, the harder he falls for her. But financial demands and family responsibilities take him further and further away from her—as does his secret fear she hasn’t quite gotten over her dickhead ex.

Behind closed doors, Lucky and Harmony are filthy perfection. But when reality comes knocking, the star-crossed lovers must decide: walk away intact, or risk it all for a chance at happiness.

Get ready for rope tricks, spanking, self-pleasure, and a smoking-hot cowboy who puts the big D in Dominant.

WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

“Wow, Lucky is sweet, kind, loyal, sexy and adventurous in the bedroom! I was so hooked into this story I couldn’t put the book down!”
—Goodreads review, 5 stars

“I loved the story of second chance love and how even an unexpected encounter, on one of the worst days of your life, can offer you a chance at a happy ever after. This is the second Mia Hopkins book I’ve read and I’m already a big fan of her stories.”
—Goodreads review, 5 stars

“A beautiful story of two very different people who are actually so very much alike, and the passion and desire they ignite by simply being in each other’s presence…”
—Goodreads review, 5 stars

“Mia has an excellent voice for her characters…Everyone should be so lucky in love.”
—Goodreads review, 5 stars

BUY THE BOOK (print + digital)
 Amazon | Kindle Unlimited | Goodreads

EXCERPT

He knocked. Trembling, almost too horny to see straight, she forced herself to stand still for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Thirty seconds passed. She opened the door.

Lucky looked up under the brim of his hat. Staring at him, she untied her robe and held it open. His dark gaze slid down her naked body and back up to her face. If someone had walked by in the hallway, they would’ve gotten an eyeful. Lucky sure did.

Two big steps and he was inside her apartment. He slammed the door behind him.

“You crazy motherfucker,” she whispered.

He said nothing, grabbed her, and pulled her hard against him. His clothes and hands were cool against her bare skin. But when he kissed her, his lips were scorching. She took his face in her hands. Feverish. His mouth tasted like coffee and cinnamon gum. When his tongue found hers, she caught his true flavor, the taste of his body. Salt. Sex.

Locked in a ravenous kiss, he lifted her high off the ground, and she wrapped her legs around his lean hips. On fire, she took off his hat and dropped it on the ground. He bit her bottom lip gently. She moaned. She dug her hands into his thick hair and pulled his head back so that she could kiss his neck, just where the soft hair of his beard ended and his rough, stubbled skin began. As Harmony covered his throat with hungry, openmouthed kisses, Lucky carried her to the sofa and sat down.

She straddled his steel-hard thighs. He pulled back and looked at her with those hooded eyes. He was breathing hard. Staring down at her naked body, he ran his fingers through her hair and grazed a line from her temple to her jaw with his rough knuckles. Then he did something that no man had ever done to her. He rested his big hand on her neck. He didn’t grab or choke her, but the sensation of his palm and fingers on her throat made Harmony’s heart beat madly. Her pussy grew even wetter.

He noticed her reaction and looked her in the eye. “Do you like this?”

She nodded, mesmerized.

“How about a little harder?” He tightened his hold slightly, pressing down on the sides of her neck, but not her throat. “Like that? Do you like that?”

Harmony gasped and grabbed his forearm. “Yes.”

How did he do this to her? He’d been in her apartment for two minutes and already he’d taught her something new about her body. He leaned forward and kissed her so softly, she turned to liquid in his grip. “Have you played rough before?”

“Not really,” she whispered. His forearm was solid muscle in her hands. “Only with you.”

He grinned. “You mean the other night? I wasn’t rough with you. But”—he kissed her lips again—“I can be. Tonight. If that’s what you want.” His eyes glittered. “Is that what you want, Harmony?”

Her pulse beat wildly against his fingers. “Yes.”

GIVEAWAY

To celebrate the release of Cowboy Karma, I’m running a Rafflecopter giveaway for the following prizes. Please click here to enter. Good luck!

1 GRAND PRIZE
Digital copies of books 1-3 in the Cowboy Cocktail series plus a “lucky” gold horseshoe necklace from Seoul Little

5 RUNNERS UP
Digital copy of book 3 in the Cowboy Cocktail series, Cowboy Player

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mia Hopkins writes lush romances starring fun, sexy characters who love to get down and dirty. She’s a sucker for working class heroes, brainy heroines and wisecracking best friends. Connect with her on Twitter @miahopkinsxoxo or visit her website at miahopkinsauthor.com.

Warning: This blog post will wax philosophical and deep.

I was watching one of those weight loss shows—you know the ones—and one of the people mentioned food represented love for them.

As someone who has been known to make love to a Bacon Egg and Cheese McGriddle on occasion, I could totally relate, but the thought gave me pause.

If food represents love—or one form of love—to our psyches, what other forms of love are there? And as someone who’s been on a diet since I was twelve, I was pondering this for less than philosophical reasons, unless one considers carb counting a philosophical pursuit.

And one does not.

ANYWAY…

I decided to make a conscious effort to open my eyes and LOOK at the world, searching for these other esoteric forms of love.

My first efforts were pedestrian in the extreme—sunshine, flowers, whiskers on kittens and whatnot, but then one day as I was driving in the car and listening to the radio, I had an epiphany.

The song I was listening to touched me.

Really touched me, deep inside, skewering me with delight.

And I realized…this was love.

This was something that FED MY SOUL.

It made me happier.

Perhaps even happier than a Bacon Egg and Cheese McGriddle (but it’s tough to say, because I was also eating one of those at the time).

This song was love. Pure and simple. The melody, the delicious harmonies, the confluence of voice and instrument as they came together and swelled and told a beautiful story moved me. Lifted me up to some spiritual realm and made my spirit fly.

We will ignore for the moment that the song was about an extremely talented singer who had apparently “just killed a man” and sometimes wished he’d “never been born at all,” and we will focus on the most important thing: How it made me feel.

Ecstatic.

Not the murder or the dismal fact that now he’d “gone and thrown it all away” but the purity of the music and the undeniable love the creators put into the work.

Even now, decades after Freddie Mercury’s death, that song still breathes. Still lives, still inspires teens to bang heads in the car on a Friday night.

Such love, threaded into creation is there for all of use to reach out and grasp—whether we are the creator or the recipient of the work…or both. It’s there to feed our souls in movies, songs, art, architecture, gardens…and books.

Ah, books.

Have you ever read one that stayed with you? One that made you cry? Laugh? Snarl in fury?

That author did her (or his) job. Created that book from love and with love…for you.

I’ve written over 50 books and my hope is that each one is a powerful reflection of that love. Love I have for the story, love I have for the craft and most importantly, love I have for my readers.

There’s something magic in the act of creation. I’ve always known it, felt it. I just wasn’t able to name it, to truly understand it until now.

That magic is love.

And a little bit of bacon doesn’t hurt.

Sabrina York writes sexy snarky romances in all subgenres. Her most recent release, the second book in the stand alone Stripped Down Cowboys series, is Cowboy to Command, the story of a former SEAL with a secret and a stubborn woman with a plan. This heartwarming and hysterical cowboy romp is available now: https://www.amazon.com/Cowboy-Command-Stripped-Down-Sabrina-ebook/dp/B01B2EAJKS/

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