Let Your Imagination Soar- A #Halloween #Writing #Prompt- Contribute Your #Sexy #Flash #Fiction- #SFF

In honor of Halloween,  I think we should have some fun, we romance readers can really enjoy.

Here are the rules- they're simple:

In the comments section below, write some #sexy #flash #fiction based on the picture.  It can be as long or as short as you like but involving the scene you see.  Can be any genre as long as it is paranormal in nature.

It can be as cross genre and bendy, combination you like such as scifi/paranormal/historical/time travel/erotic/comedy/fantasy/shifter/vampire or whatever else you can think of.

You must be 18 years old or older to participate.

Write your story and tag it is as #SFF #Halloween.  Be Creative and Have Fun!

Here's your inspiration!

I can't wait to read it!

Cover Reveal- The House of Fox by SJ Smith. A Paranormal Erotic Comedy

Dare you enter The House of Fox? – Cover reveal! 

SJ Smith, author of Peeper, is back to entertain us with another hilarious novel. The House of Fox is a strictly adult paranormal comedy, and definitely not one for the faint hearted or easily offended. It is available to pre-order from the 1st of June with the release date of 30th June.

If you haven’t read SJ Smith before you are in for a treat as he twists the genre rules to create something truly unique.

The House of Fox blurb:

After a drunken night on the town, four friends awake to find themselves in the House of Fox, the ultimate brothel in the universe, where every sordid fantasy becomes reality.

But all is not as it seems. The House of Fox harbors many dark secrets, and factions are plotting against one another.

The four newcomers must choose their friends carefully, and take care not to lose their minds on the thrill ride of perversion that will carry them to the ends of the Earth and beyond.

The Great Voyeur in the Sky is watching . . .

Author bio:

SJ Smith is the writer of the novels Leisure and Peeper, as well as several short stories. He is happily married and lives in a small town in North Wales, and when he isn’t busy pedaling smut, he enjoys watching rugby or disappearing on a narrow boat to escape the rat race for a while.

You can find SJ through his website at www.sjsmithrants.blogspot.co.uk

The House of Fox Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30061110-the-house-of-fox

Other links:

SJ Smith Twitter: @sjsmithauthor

SJ Smith Facebook: www.facebook.com/SJ-Smith-426405650840664

Sinful Press website: www.sinfulpress.co.uk

Sinful Press Twitter: @SinfulPress

Sinful Press Facebook: www.facebook.com/sinfulpressuk 

Sneak Peek Sunday- From My Untitled BDSM Series; A Contemporary Multicultural Erotic Menage Romance.

Excerpt From Untitled BDSM Contemporary Menage WIP-


Wyatt put the SUV's gear in park and stepped out his vehicle.  Out of habit, he locked it though it armed itself automatically.  Strolling towards the door, he glanced at the drive in front of him and saw only one car parked there, Zurie's charcoal gray Mercedes sedan.  

Entering through the side door, he locked it behind him.  Too many years in the DEA made him too aware of life's dangers.

“Zurie!” He set his keys on the kitchen counter and took off his coat.  He needed her closeness, her touch.
  
“Yeah?” she replied close by.

He drew her into a hug and then a kiss.  Her sweet taste melted away the tension in his shoulders and neck.

“Sweetheart what's wrong?”  Her gaze was warm and endearing.  He loved her so much.  He needed to give her the world but didn't know how.

“Nothing,” he said brushing her hair away from her face.  Her buff colored skin reminded him of a smooth souffle, golden creamy and perfect.  

“Where's Henry?” He opened the fridge.  Nothing seemed appetizing not even the left over pot roast.  He grabbed a vitamin water instead.  

A soft pair of arms wrapped around him as he felt a nose nuzzle his back.  

“I guess we'll both be in wheelchairs before you learn to open up to me,” she said her voice muffled by the crumpled cloth of his shirt.

He shut the refrigerator door and quickly embraced her.  

“What?  I tell you stuff.” Surrounded by her touch love filled him.  His heart fluttered and nerves tingled, causing a soothing sensation to flood his entire body.  “For instance, I tell you that I love you.”

“And I love you too.  That's why I'm going to ask how your visit with Master Jonathan went.”

“Fine,” he said planting himself on a bar stool adjacent to the center island.  Their kitchen though small in comparison to the house where Henry stayed made him feel cozy, reminding him of the house where he grew up in Baltimore.  

Zurie even had whimsical touch like his mom, with her choice items such as playful salt and pepper shakers in the shape of doves, held together on a stand between an olive branch.  

“And?”

“And,” he hesitated, drank from the bottle and set it aside, “there are some things we need to talk about.  Of which we can't until Henry gets here.  Where is he?”

“Out playing basketball with Skip.”

Wyatt's mouth went dry.  Skip Allen was a friend and fellow classmate of Henry's graduating in the top of his class at George Washington law school alongside Henry, and his alma mater.  Henry and Charles or Skip to his friends, were long running buddies on and off campus among Maryland's elite on account of Henry's family connections and Skip's money. Never comfortable with their relationship, Wyatt held his tongue on account of his past dealings with the opposite sex.  He suspicion of their relationship being more than friends at one point was never confirmed but he left it up to the sanctity of their love to keeping the past in the past.  Besides Henry knew better then to acknowledge it.  

“He said he'd back right about now,” Zurie said glancing at the clock.  

Wyatt remained silent and pulled out his cell phone.  He could hang with his friends anytime, but he needed him here now.  A loud thump outside, soon followed by the rustle of the lock at the side door.  

“Zurie baby, could you please tell Wyatt to stop lockin' me out,” Henry said closing the door behind him.  “It never looks good for a black man to be hanging around a house like this fumbling for something even though I have keys.”

“Sorry, old habits,” Wyatt replied.

Henry dropped his bag on the floor in front of them.  He wore a blue jersey and shorts trimmed in gold, GW's name emblazoned upon it . 

“Oh.”  Sweat dribbled down his face and neck.  His carved arms glistened with moisture further evidence of the game, he just played.  

“Did you win?” Zurie asked.

He greeted her with a wet kiss.  “It was a draw.  I need more floor time.”

“I suppose if you practice enough, the Suns will let you on their team,” she said smirking.  

“Baby they got a spot waiting for me.”  He approached Wyatt and leaned forward.  

Wyatt kissed him sweetly on the lips.  “You need a shower.”  He needed that.  Every ounce of him, loved his husband.

“Tell me something I don't know,” Henry said grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser.  “What's up?  Spill it.” 

He wiped his face, forehead and the top of his head. The hair was cut so low he appeared almost bald.   
Wyatt chuckled.  “What makes you think, I've got something to say?”

“Cause you have a tell.  You always do.  It's the look you get in your eyes when your holding back something.  And when it's really bad your forehead crinkles along with your brow.  It means you're worried and you're stuck and you don't know how to get it out.  So just spill it.  Get it out.”

He was right as usual.  That was the problem with being with someone for so long, they learned you and they tended to know you better than you knew yourself.  “We're moving.”

“Come again?” Henry replied.

“I said we're moving.”  It was best just to get it out in the open.  Now that it was in the air, he felt it hanging there.

“Why?” Zurie asked looking concerned.

“It's time.”

Henry's lips turned upward.  He balled up the used paper towel and tossed it into the trash. “The reason being?” he asked grabbing another.  He finished drying his face now exposing his flawless chocolate brown complexion.  

“You know living here was never meant to be long term,” Wyatt said suddenly feeling the sorrow of having to uproot his wife and husband once again.  But it had to be done.  Especially if they planned on having kids.    

Henry, compressed his lips and tensed his jaw.  Pacing, he asked, “What is it this time?”

Wyatt frowned.  “Why you say that way? You act like every ten minutes we're up and packing our bags.”

More Sneak Peeks Here

Loving Sarah, A BDSM Contemporary Erotic Menage Romance by Julie Shelton

Blurb:

Eight years ago Jesse Colter fled his small town, leaving behind eighteen-year-old Sarah Marshall, broken-hearted and devastated.  Now a retired Navy SEAL, he’s back and he wants only one thing—Sarah Marshall—preferably bound, naked, and on her knees before him.

She has never forgotten Jesse.  He’s been the object of all her sexual fantasies since she was fifteen, as well as the star of nightly dreams that have become increasingly erotic over the years.  So when he suddenly reappears in her life, she is torn.  Can she trust him not to hurt her, or will he once again break her heart?  Warily, she agrees to let him introduce her to his world—the world of bondage, Domination, and erotic slavery.  When he also introduces her to his best friend, Adam Sinclair, Sarah faces a daunting future of sexual submission to two powerful alpha males.

But Sarah faces an even bigger challenge.  Someone is stalking her.  Is it the old enemy who’s just been released from prison?  Or is it someone else from her past who is determined to destroy any chance she has at happiness?  Can Adam’s and Jesse’s love protect her?  Or will her world explode in a cataclysm of betrayal and violence that will destroy them all?



Excerpt:

“Greedy little sub,” Adam chuckled.  He manipulated her slick, swollen pussy lips, sliding them back and forth until one of the frozen red grapes popped from its dewy prison.  It sat, glistening lewdly, nestled between her sopping wet lips like some obscene sex organ.  “Do not come,” he instructed quietly, working his tongue beneath the grape and sliding it all the way up her slit.  He flicked it rapidly across her frazzled clit before pulling the small fruit into his mouth and chewing noisily.

She was gasping like a beached fish, desperately trying to hold off her climax.

“Do not come,” he repeated, squeezing another grape free and looking at it for a long moment before taking it into his mouth.  

“God, you taste delicious,” he murmured, sliding his tongue back and forth along the length of her slit, just barely touching that nerve-ridden nubbin of flesh that was the center of both her pleasure and her torment.  “Like sunshine and flowers and sweet, sweet cream.”

She lay there, shuddering and twitching as he tunneled his tongue into the depths of her
cunt, releasing two more grapes and sending her body spiraling up, up, up toward the orgasm that hovered so tantalizingly out of reach.  The orgasm she so desperately craved, yet knew she must not have.  The one she fought with every trembling muscle in her body.

Adam pushed her right up to the edge.  Then stopped.

He straightened, watching her entire body shudder helplessly as yet another orgasm retreated.  He reveled in the power her submission gave him.  Power to control, to direct, to manipulate.  Power to render her helpless against her body’s own dark needs even as he drove her to the ultimate in sexual pleasure.  

“You do not have permission to come,” he reminded her as, one by one, he pulled more round red globes into his mouth.  He released her pussy lips and stood up to allow Jesse to take his place.

A sob heaved from her lungs as she frantically fought her body’s brutal need to climax.
Jesse spread her labia apart with his thumbs, revealing her entire slit from her clenching ass hole at the bottom to the portal of her vagina and her clit at the very top.  Her flesh was pink and swollen and dripping with the cream of her arousal.  By now the remaining grapes were held firmly in place within her vaginal walls.  Jesse rubbed his nose along her cleft, lapping his tongue at her dripping entrance, making her shudder and squirm.  

Placing his palm over her mound, he pressed down.  “Push,” he said and a grape popped out onto his tongue.

He bit into the crisp flesh and was rewarded with a burst of tart sweetness that blended with Sarah’s own unique flavor, making it the most delicious treat he’d ever eaten.  He ate all the remaining grapes, taking his time to dig each one out, finger-fucking her, building her arousal to a fever pitch.  

By the time he finished the last one, she was moaning and writhing and burning with the need to come.  “Please, Jesse,” she begged, her voice hoarse with passion.  “Please….”

“Please what?” he asked perversely, grinning as he slowly circled his finger around  her clit, manipulating the surrounding flesh without actually touching the pearl itself, keeping her teetering on the edge, frantic and desperate.

It was pure torture and she gritted her teeth and stiffened her muscles in a losing effort to
keep her climax at bay.  She knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.  “Please let me come,” she begged.

“I don’t know.”  Jesse tilted his head, appearing to consider.  As he did so, he began tapping his thumb repeatedly against her clit, increasing her suffering a hundred-fold.

Oh.  My.  God!  The breath shuddered from her lungs.  Her muscles clenched so tight she feared she‘d never get them to relax again.  She squirmed as her need to climax threatened to swallow her alive.  

“Whaddya think, Adam?  Has she earned the right to come?”
Sarah’s beseeching gaze flew to her other tormenter, who gave her a sly smile as he reached for her clamped breasts.  “Yeah.  She’s been a pretty good girl.”

“Then come for us, Sarah,”  Jesse toggled her clit, Adam released the clips on her nipples, and she let out a shriek as her orgasm hit her with the force of an avalanche, blasting through her, leveling everything in its path.  

Her back arched into a rigid bow as pleasure clenched her muscles so tight, she thought she heard bones snapping.  And while she was still screaming and jerking about wildly, Jesse stood and unzipped his jeans, freeing his iron-hard cock.  Grabbing her hips, he thrust into her, stroking savagely in and out until she came again, her muscles clamping around him so tightly his eyes crossed.

And again she came, with tremors so violent they rivaled a magnitude 10 earthquake,
even as Jesse spilled his seed deep inside her.  He pulled out and Adam took his place until he, too, climaxed, emptying himself inside her still-convulsing cunt.  He remained deeply buried, rocking his hips hard against her, letting the long, liquid pulls of her inner muscles milk every last drop of come from his pumping cock.  There was so much it splatted onto the floor in thick, milky blobs.  Finally, with a hoarse cry, he pulled out, staggering backwards to collapse into the chair behind him, his hand still stroking his dwindling cock, wet and slick with the combination of all their juices.

Sarah flopped back on the table, jerking like a spastic marionette, totally spent, wondering desperately where all the oxygen had gone.

She was dimly aware of Jesse scooping her up off the table and flopping into the nearest chair with her straddling his lap, holding her close, crooning softly in her ear.  His voice came at her from a great distance, gradually fading until there was nothing but silence.  She had passed out.


BUY LINKS FOR LOVING SARAH

Amazon:  http://amzn.to/18BMwQe

Barnes & Noble:  http://bit.ly/1bv0Pmt

Siren-Bookstrand:  http://bit.ly/IOPGpE

Kobobooks:  http://bit.ly/19Pmv0z

GooglePlay:  http://bit.ly/1g4GSYk

Bio

Julie has always loved stories, both reading and writing them, ever since she was old enough to hold a book in her hands.  One of her favorite childhood activities was smuggling books under the covers to read by flashlight after she was supposed to be asleep.

A career as a children’s librarian eventually led to her dream career as a freelance storyteller and puppeteer, a business she operated successfully for twenty-five years.  

During that time she created and wrote all the original material for Kidstuff, a monthly language arts newsletter full of poems, songs, puppet and flannel-board stories, finger plays, and other resource material for early childhood educators.  For that endeavor she won the prestigious EDPRESS Award for the best educational newsletter of 1982.  Her 288-page book, Puppets, Poems and Songs was a major resource.  She has also written other resource materials for librarians and preschool and early elementary teachers.

Julie lives in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia.  Now widowed and retired, she once again has time to devote to her two favorite things—reading and writing—especially her new love, erotic romances with strong heroines, hunky alpha-male heroes, and lots of smokin’ hot sex. (y)

Julie's Links

Amazon author page:  http://amzn.to/IEAADL

Website:  http://bit.ly/Nn2gPE

Facebook author page:  http://on.fb.me/19nGsh2

LinkedIn Profile:  http://linkd.in/1gYBG9p

Must Love Breeches; An Oh So Hot Time Travel Erotic M/F Romance By Angela Quarles

HOW FAR WOULD YOU TRAVEL FOR LOVE?

"A fresh, charming new voice" – New York Times bestselling author Tessa Dare



Blurb:

Isabelle Rochon, a thoroughly modern American working at the British Museum, has finally met the man of her dreams. There's one problem: he lives in another century. 

When a mysterious artifact zaps Isabelle to pre-Victorian London, a thief steals it, stranding her in a place where nobody's heard of toilet paper or women's lib. Now she must find the artifact, navigate the pitfalls of a stiffly polite London, keep her origins a secret, and, oh, resist her growing attraction to Lord Montagu, the Vicious Viscount so hot, he curls her toes. 

But when he asks her to pose as his fiancée for his scheme of revenge, his now constant presence overthrows her equilibrium and kicks in her old insecurities. Why does he have to be so damn hunky, compelling and, well, Drool-Worthy? This is not what she needs. She’d carved off part of herself for another man before and is determined never to make that same mistake again. Staying would be the ultimate follow-the-boyfriend move. In the end, she must decide when her true home lies.


Excerpt

A reenactment ball was the perfect setting for romance. Or not.

Isabelle Rochon fidgeted in her oddly shaped, but oh-so-accurate, ball gown, surrounded by women who'd sacrificed historical authenticity for sex appeal. Red carpet ball gowns in the nineteenth century, really? Once again she was the dorky kid participating in dress-up day at school when everyone else had magically decided it was lame.

“Gah. I feel like a green robot with strange battle armor.” Isabelle pointed to her dark green dress, the shoulders flaring out almost to a point, exaggerating their width. “What were the fashionistas in 1834 thinking?”

“I have no bloody idea.” Jocelyn squeezed the poof of fabric at her shoulder. “These huge-ass sleeves are ridiculous.”

“Ah, screw it, we’re having fun, right? I’m not going to self-sabotage the ball. Not after all the time I spent obsessing over my costume.”

“And obsessing over the etiquette rules.”

“That too.” Besides, how fun was it to learn Jocelyn shared her obsession with guys in period clothes and bodice-ripper romances?

Isabelle eyed a guy strolling past in tight-fitting, buff-colored pantaloons. She pitched her voice to be heard over the string quartet. "Hmm. How about the clothes on that daring derriere?"

Jocelyn sucked on her olive and plopped the empty stir stick into her martini. "Oh, yes. Definitely a breech-ripper."

Isabelle choked on her Bellini, the champagne fizz tickling her throat and nose. This was the first opportunity they'd had to socialize outside work, so she treated this moment delicately, afraid to puncture the mood. No need to point out he sported pantaloons, not breeches.
She should ease up on the drink. She didn't want to get plastered at the Thirty-fourth Annual Prancing Through History Reenactment Ball. Especially since her new colleagues would be around. And her boss. She needed to impress him.

"Look lively," Jocelyn said, her voice low, with a dollop of teasing. "Here comes the office hottie."

She'd been cultivating a mild crush on Andrew since starting her new job at the British Museum six months ago. The whole situation was perfect. A guy in the same field would respect her interests, wouldn’t expect her to give up her profession for a relationship. He was safe. If it worked out, great, if not, no biggie. She was happy, finally, with how her life was working out.

She'd pictured him in period clothing before, looking resplendent.
He did.

"Hi, Andrew." Her voice came out a little too high. Jeez, could she sound any more like a lovesick fool? She always did this around gorgeous men—went ga-ga like she couldn’t rub two brain cells together. She gazed around the Duke of Chelmsford's newly renovated ballroom and pretended her breath hadn’t quickened and her body hadn’t heated at the sight of Andrew.

"Hello, Isabelle. Jocelyn." Andrew nodded. His smile felt like a gift for her alone.
Her pulse throbbed. He'd sought her out. Play it cool. Say something witty. "So, uh, having fun yet?" 

Having fun yet?

Something, or someone, in the crowd hogged his attention. She followed his gaze until she found it. Or rather him. Their boss at the bar.

Andrew faced her and the remnants of calculation on his hot-as-heck features disappeared behind his over-bright grin.

He leaned closer.

The artificial tang of his cologne drifted her way. She wrinkled her nose. 

"Well done on the Whittaker exhibit. Finding that journal was a bit of a coup. It'll be a fine addition to the exhibit, once it's built."

He'd noticed. She'd worked damn hard. "Thank you." Why couldn't Brits find her Southern accent as sexy as she found theirs?

"Glad you came across the pond to work with us. That find should put you in the running for the promotion."

Good. The promotion would mean she could stay in London. Well, it would make staying easier. No matter what, she was determined to remain.

"Of course, you'll have to beat me out."

Cold clarity hit her stomach like accidentally gulping a glass of iced gin instead of iced water, jolting her from her usual foray into Incoherent Land around attractive guys. "You're applying too?" Of course he was.

"Without a doubt. Career changer and all. I'm a shoo-in. Sure you still want to apply?"
Could she scrub the smug look off his face? She settled for the less satisfactory, but more controlled, "Yes."

Now catching her boss' attention was more important than ever. Besides wanting to escape into another era, she'd also hoped her costume would impress him. She glanced at the wet bar. Drat. Where had her boss gone?

Andrew slipped his hand around her elbow, pulling her closer. "How about we ditch this party and grab a pint? You and me." He ignored Jocelyn, who stared back and forth between them.

It all made sense—his sudden interest after dismissing her for months, the calculation she’d caught when he’d turned back—he thought he’d intimidate and charm her into giving up the position.

She yanked her arm free, saying, "Fat chance, you smarmy horndog," which cut through the room because, of course, the music had just ended.

Jocelyn snorted her drink, eyes watering, and coughed, fighting to catch her breath. For a moment, her coughing was the only sound punctuating the silence.
The curious eyes of the onlookers made Isabelle feel like a huge moat had sprung up around her. The moat of Beware, All Ye Who Enter—Idiot in the Center. If one of those eyes were her boss…

Andrew trotted out his grin, the one that used to make her insides hum. "Thought we had a connection. No?" He backed away, hands up, eyes locked with hers in a you’re-such-a-fool stare, his heels snapping on the marble floor with each backward step.

 "Cheers, then, babe. May the best man win." He nodded and sauntered off.

Jocelyn, bless her, completely ignored the Moat of Embarrassment and stepped to Isabelle’s side. “How had we never noticed what an ass he was?”

“Probably because we were too busy drooling?”

“There is that.”

“Seriously, I should just go pound my head against the nearest vertical object and repeat one hundred times, ‘When will I learn?’” 

“Just be careful not to poke out your eye with those lethal shoulder sleeves.”

“Ha.” But Jocelyn’s dry humor softened Isabelle’s mood. "Can’t believe he expects me to just roll over. I have to get the promotion, I need the security. No way am I going to sacrifice my dream to be with a guy, I don't care how hot he is."

Never again would she let a jerk encased in a good-looking skin influence her life. Been there. Done that. Have the gold-stitched Fool’s cap.


Buy Links


Kobo:  http://bit.ly/MLBkobo

ARe:  http://bit.ly/1rXAZmw

Itunes:  http://bit.ly/1rXKylc

Google Play:  http://bit.ly/MLBGoogle

Goodreads:  http://bit.ly/MLBGR

Must Love Breeches board on Pinterest:  http://bit.ly/1qCPKcy

Official Book Page:  http://bit.ly/MLBBook


Bio:
Angela is a geek girl romance writer. What makes her romances geeky? Whether it's fan girling over Ada Lovelace by having her as a secondary character in Must Love Breeches, or outright geek references with geek types in my romantic comedy with paranormal elements, Beer and Groping in Las Vegas, or going all Southern steampunk in Steam Me Up, Rawley, she like to have fun with her romances and hopes her readers do too.

Angela works at an independent bookstore and lives in an historic house in the beautiful and quirky town of Mobile, AL. When she's not writing, she enjoys the usual stuff like gardening, reading, hanging out, eating, drinking, chasing squirrels out of the walls and creating the occasional knitted scarf. She's had a varied career, including website programming and directing a small local history museum, and has discovered that writing allows her to explore all her interests.

She's an admitted geek and is proud to be among the few but mighty Browncoats who watched Firefly the first night it aired. She was introduced to the wonderful world of science fiction by her father, by way of watching reruns of the original Star Trek in her tweens and later giving her a copy of Walter M. Miller Jr's A Canticle for Leibowitz as a teenager. She hasn't looked back since.

She has a B.A. in Anthropology and International Studies with a minor in German from Emory University, and a Masters in Heritage Preservation from Georgia State University. She was an exchange student to Finland in high school and studied abroad in Vienna one summer in college.

Website: http://bit.ly/VMFK00

Blog: http://bit.ly/WkQbXG

Join my mailing list: http://bit.ly/1sde3Qi

Paranormal Unbound, the group blog I belong to: http://bit.ly/1sdaIRa

Twitter: http://bit.ly/Se5gQ0

Facebook: http://on.fb.me/VMFT3L

Pinterest: http://bit.ly/1qRhgHQ

Midnight Caller; A Sizzling Historical M/F Interracial Erotic Romance by Haley Whitehall

The heart wants what the heart wants.

After all, we all want what we can't have ... Emma Bennett wants an African American man. In Louisville, Kentucky right after the Civil War this is a scandalous and dangerous idea. Dare she go after the man who makes her swoon?

In my historical romance a black man and a white woman cross the line and have a night of fiery passion. But just how far across the line should they take it?

Life without love is painful, but in 1865 forbidden fruit can be deadly. When a wealthy widow decides to enjoy her new-found freedom, she puts more than her reputation on the line. An unwanted suitor means to have her, or no one will. From sizzling sex to life-threatening danger, the intrigue will keep you turning the pages of the sizzling romance Midnight Caller.


Blurb:

When Emma Bennett’s husband dies in a carriage accident in 1865, she is released from her loveless, controlling marriage. Now she has a chance to find happiness and raise a family. But before she begins courting again she wants to experience her freedom. At the advice of the leading socialite in town, she takes a black lover to fulfill her sexual needs. His raw, masculine power awakens feelings she didn’t know existed. After the first touch she craves more.


Frederick works as a roustabout by day and moonlights as a prostitute. He knows better than to fall in love with his white client, but Emma enchants him the first time he calls on her. To keep them both safe, he works hard to put up barriers. Unfortunately, he can’t protect Emma from the slimy Mr. Hawthorne, who wants her as his bride. Frederick vows to keep her safe even if his forbidden love costs him his life.

Excerpt:

A dark, handsome man sat on her bed and she wasn’t about to waste another minute. Stepping closer, she thrust out her chest—her bosom eye level with him. “Please help me undress.” More confidence worked into her voice.

Frederick reached up with his long arms and carefully undid the first button, his fingers brushing the base of her throat. The buttons went all the way down the front of her dress. When he unhooked the buttons covering her chest, she drew a sharp breath. The heat traveling through the cloth made her nipples peak.

He moved with unhurried grace, so careful as if he was afraid his strong fingers would tear the fabric. He lingered a second longer than necessary before moving to the lower buttons. Her pulse sped. She had never experienced such tender attention before. The thrill wound its way through all her nerves to her mound.

Frederick slipped off the bed and onto his knees. His fingers worked on the last buttons. When his gaze fell between her thighs, she moistened. The lust in his eyes spoke to her body like nothing had before. He wanted her.

She relished the thought, savoring it like a piece of chocolate.

For the first time in her life she felt like a woman worthy of love. She had never felt wanted before. She yearned to form a connection with him. She reached out and grabbed his sturdy shoulders. He placed a kiss on the back of each of her hands. She tingled where his lips touched.

After working her arms free, she let him pull the dress all the way down until the garment puddled at her feet. He eyed her petticoats hungrily, but hesitated.

His restraint increased the adrenaline pulsing through her veins. She held the power. He was there to serve her.

“You may take down my petticoats.”
Frederick did as he was told. Now standing in nothing but her white silk camisole and drawers, she shivered, not from cold, but from excitement.

She hadn’t bothered with the confining corset this morning. The impropriety gave her an unprecedented rush. She spent the whole day in the house anticipating this moment.

Frederick reached down and took the bottom of the camisole in both hands. Emma nodded and he slowly pulled the chemise off over her head, revealing her light skin a little at a time.
When he touched her drawers, she quivered. He pulled her drawers down quickly and she stepped out. His touch was so intimate she longed to have him roam his hands over all her curves. He was older than her—perhaps twenty-five and his expression told her he was eager to proceed. He knew much more about carnal pleasures than she did. She would enjoy the experience.

He stood there, taking in her beauty. His six-foot-three frame slightly bowed, all his attention on her. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Her insides twisted and she felt a conscious blush. Hopefully he liked what he saw.

“What would you like me to do now, ma’am?” Frederick asked in a husky voice.

Emma pointed to his trousers. “Finish undressing.”

----


Buy Links:

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Author Bio and Links: 

Haley Whitehall lives in Washington State where she enjoys all four seasons and the surrounding wildlife. She writes historicals set in the 19th century U.S. When she is not researching or writing, she plays with her cats, watches the Western and History Channels, and goes antiquing. She is hoping to build a time machine so she can go in search of her prince charming. A good book, a cup of coffee, and a view of the mountains make her happy.

Haley Whitehall lives in Washington State where she enjoys all four seasons and the surrounding wildlife. She writes historicals set in the 19th century U.S. When she is not researching or writing, she plays with her cats, watches the Western and History Channels, and goes antiquing. She is hoping to build a time machine so she can go in search of her prince charming. A good book, a cup of coffee, and a view of the mountains make her happy.


Website:  http://haleywhitehall.com/ 


Twitter:  http://twitter.com/HaleyWhitehall


Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/LightonHistory 


Goodreads: 

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5752677.Haley_Whitehall 



Blog:  http://haleywhitehall.com/blog

Seeing Red by E.L. Esch; A Gripping and Sensual, Contemporary Erotic M/M Romance.

Blurb:

What would you do if you lost five years of freedom? If everything you'd ever known was torn away from you, all because the one person you counted on to save you didn't come through?

This is the cruel reality for Gabriel “Red” Thatcher, convicted at age nineteen for the murder of his father. Now twenty-five and eight months out of prison, Red has nothing to his name and no one to help him. He is carrying close to him a rage hotter than white flames. Had his sister just testified on his behalf in court, he could have been spared the horrible things that happened to him in the doghouse. Things that'll make him never look at intimacy the same way again.

Red can't take swallowing his bitter rage alone anymore. Unable to kill the growing loneliness and ire with time, he heads into the Flower District in search of a gay bar to drown his sorrows. There he meets the bubbly, easy-on-the-eyes Silo Winters.

When Red learns that Silo did three years in prison for an accidental oil fire, he brings Silo home, not so much for a wild romp as to relieve his aching loneliness. Besides if anyone will understand Red's pain it'll be Silo, who's gone through some of the same horrors he has. However, he definitely doesn't count on Silo becoming so much more than a sexy shoulder to lean on. Now, if only Red can learn to let him in.



Excerpt:

The Flower District was named for what many men lost there—that moment when the lily white of a pure man’s soul turned red with his first taste of carnal lust. This was not my case, however. I’d lost the purity of having an untouched body years ago, and to a man I didn’t even love…or want. 

I sat in the district’s most renowned bar, Divano Messia. I could practically feel eyes cruising over me, but I paid them no mind. I felt bad for the first guy who’d offer to buy me a drink, because I was that one-in-a-million man who wasn’t looking to get laid in a place meant for people looking to get laid. I just wanted to be left alone and drink. 

Despite this, I let my gaze wander. I hadn’t gotten any in more than eight months, so I let myself have some eye candy at least. Those times in prison didn’t count. I didn’t exactly find the idea of being forced against some concrete wall by a man I hardly knew a good time. If I wanted, I could have one of these men on my arm in an hour’s time, but because of the past, because of prison, I didn’t. I would never take a one-night stand—that was the promise I’d made to myself eight months ago on my first day outside my prison cell, my first day of freedom. 

Besides, I didn’t have much money to buy a guy a drink. All I had in my wallet today was a twenty, enough for two drinks at most and, if I was lucky, a taxi ride home. 

I looked down at my reflection in the bar top and sneered. The twenty wasn’t even mine. I hadn’t been able to find work since I’d gotten out of the doghouse, and it stung worse than a rough first time that the money I did have I was leeching off of my sister. I had been for eight months for rent, food, and now alcohol. But as much as I hated being out on the town using my sister’s money, I desperately needed the booze, because if I penned through another to-be-ignored job application sober, I knew I’d blow a gasket. 

Thus I ordered the driest cocktail Messia served—a Stinger. It hurt my throat to swallow it, but I sucked up the burn and smacked my lips. It wouldn’t get me drunk, but twenty bucks wouldn’t anyway, so at least I could take my mind off all the shit going on in my life by scalding my tongue. 

When I grimaced at my second sip of the cocktail, a man a few seats away from me laughed. I looked up at him, but he wasn’t looking back. I wondered if he’d even been laughing at me as I profiled his average build and cleanly shaven skull. What attracted my attention the most about him were his ice-blue eyes. I only caught a glimpse when he turned to look behind him, but they were astounding. A pale winter blue, almost stark white, just like icicles reflecting the color of the sky. I could almost smell the clean air and feel the frigid chill of winter when I saw them. 

Realizing I was staring, I lowered my eyes. Then I caught sight of an array of black bars on the underside of the man’s wrist. A barcode… I gazed back up at his shaven skull and understood, and that’s when he looked at me. 

He smiled. His teeth were straight and perfect, though strangely not quite as white as his eyes. 

I turned my gaze away, finding his tattoo again and staring. He must’ve noticed, because he folded his arms to conceal it when I brought my gaze up to his face. 

Now it could have just been a meaningless tattoo. I’d heard of teens getting barcode tats just so they could scan themselves at stores. He could’ve been inked just for shits and giggles, but I didn’t think so. The way he hid his tattoo from me when he caught me staring…the seemingly pained look in his eyes when he’d folded his arms…his ink was personal. Too personal to have been done for kicks. After all, lots of guys who’d been in prison got tats of their prisoner ID. I knew—I was one of them. Only I didn’t do it to make myself look like some badass, or to brand myself as a rebellious stray lamb. I did it to remind myself that no matter how rough life got, I’d been through worse. Much, much worse… 

“Silo Winters.” The tattooed man called across the bar. “That’s my name. Yours?” 

“Red…” A large part of me didn’t want to talk to him, because I knew what he was after. A larger part of me realized from the ink on his wrist that he might have been through the same type of hell I had in prison, and that he, like me, could possibly want a shoulder to lean on to get away from it all. But I wasn’t about to kid myself. This was the Flower District’s most popular gay bar, after all. 

“Red, like the crayon color?” He rose from his seat and took the one next to me instead. 

“I guess.” I sipped my drink again and cringed. 

“Why drink it if you don’t like it?” Silo set his elbow on the bar and his chin atop his palm. 

“Because I want to.” I drank again, noticing the way he kept eying my cocktail. 

“Care to offer me one?” He grinned at me stupidly, with his lips crooked and his eyes squeezed shut. 

And though I kind of found it cute, I shook my head and said, “No.” 

That quieted him for a minute. 

“Well, I won’t make you woo me, if that’s not your thing. How about you just take me home and we skip the formalities?” 

Talk about coming on too strong. Part of me was a bit disappointed this man had ended up just like the rest, mostly because I yearned to hear the story behind the tattoo on his wrist. I looked for it again. Realizing it was hidden, I scratched my own instead. 

“Sorry, I’m not looking for anything like that.” I promptly asked the bartender for my bill, and then again for my change when he gave it to me. 

“I won’t rob you or anything.” Silo stared at me as I rose from my seat, an odd pleading look in his bluish-white eyes. 

“Sorry.” I set a dollar on the bar and left, feeling those icicle eyes burning into my back as I stood up to head out the door. 

“Hey wait, sugar.” 

Against my better judgment, I turned back to face Silo. “What?” 

“I’m not offended by a rejection.” He laughed. “Stay. Drink. That’s why you came, isn’t it?” 

I narrowed my eyes. He was right. Besides, I’d only finished half my cocktail. “Fine…” I slowly took my seat again. 

“So what’s got ya sucking down a throat-stinging drink like that, sweetheart?” Silo asked. 

I hadn’t thought he’d continue talking to me, but as long as he didn’t make any more passes at me, I didn’t mind. 

“Life,” I grumbled. 

“Hah! That’s what’s got me here too, sweetheart.” I hadn’t intended to sit with him and talk. After all, I couldn’t give him the night of fun that he wanted. But the moment I saw him, his beautiful icicle-blue eyes captured me. They demanded my attention every time I looked at him. And when I’d felt them on my back as I’d turned to leave the bar, I’d sensed them looking beyond the surface of my skin and down into my core. That was one of the reasons I’d sat back down at the bar. That and my insatiable curiosity about the barcode tattoo on the underside of his wrist. Mostly, though, it was the look of quiet understanding in Silo’s eyes when I caught him staring at my similarly tattooed wrist. 

Before I knew it, we’d been talking for hours, mostly about things that had no meaning, like our favorite bars in the Flower District. Silo was a huge flirt and hit on me more often than not, but nothing serious. He always laughed when he dropped some cheesy line or batted his eyelashes, almost as if he were emphasizing that it was all a joke. At intervals he still seriously asked me to take him home, and—because of my personal principles—I declined. 

“Crayon…” Silo said suddenly. He tapped the side of my martini glass with a terribly chewed nail. The ping echoed around the bar, lost in the conversations of other men. “Do you come here every night? I’ve never really seen you around here.” He smiled. 

I shook my head. “No.” 

Silo grinned and settled his cheek against the palm of his hand. “I see.” 

I could see the barcode tattooed on the underside of his wrist again with the way he was sitting, and my curiosity flared up once more. 

Now normally I would in no way bring up prison, because if I did, the conversation was bound to route back to me and what’d I’d done to get locked up. Normally I avoided the topic like the plague, but here I was with a man who may have gone through that very same hell and all I wanted to talk about was prison since I’d met him, because for the first time in eight months, I’d found someone whose gaze didn’t develop that repelling glare when it passed over the barcode inked into my wrist. And just knowing someone like that existed made my soul cry out to him as a fellow comrade-in-arms. If I was wrong about it all—about him and his past being just like me and mine—then oh well. I would take that chance, because eight months of having no one to talk to were driving me crazy. If I did turn out to be wrong about him, then he’d simply become just another stranger judging me silently with his pale, wintery eyes. 

So as casually as I could, trying to show Silo I wouldn’t care no matter how he answered, I asked, “So I’ve noticed you’ve got a barcode tat. Shits and giggles, or have ya done time?” while tapping my ink. 

“You finally asked, huh? I wondered who would be the first.” Silo chuckled, almost spat as he raised his head and looked at my face. He shucked off his leather jacket and pointed to a fleshy red burn on the right side of his neck. 

“Three years.” Silo craned his neck as if to give me a better view. “Trespassing. Apparently I’m dumb enough to cause an oil fire right in front of my own face.” 

I scratched my wrist. “You didn’t?” 

“Fucking tank fell off the truck. Driver started the vehicle and then…” Silo clenched his fist before my face and then stretched his fingers wide. “Boom. Luckily it was a small tank, but there I was, a twenty-three-year-old nitwit proving the size of my balls to a couple of drunk college buddies. A convenient excuse. They convicted me on the cigarette I’d thrown to the ground minutes before the tank just rolled off the truck and started a fire. I’d tossed the stupid thing right next to the truck’s tire too, and of course there were no witnesses of it being an accident. My college friends had bailed on me, afraid of getting caught. Bullshit. I just got out a month ago.” Silo held up his hand and ordered a Balalaika when the bartender was within earshot. 

The bar master exchanged a nod with Silo, turning to find his mixer. When Silo received his drink, he sipped it daintily, his anger seeming to have already cooled. “Ah, that’s good. I missed this damn place.” 

“Amen to that.” I held up my drink in a hypothetical toast. 

Silo sipped his cocktail with a finesse that matched the catlike grace with which he handled the glass. As he brought the glass away from his lips, he smiled sadly at the barcode tattooed on the underside of his wrist. “You have one too, huh?” He gestured at my similarly placed ink. “What do you think possesses us to remind ourselves of the shit we went through in there?” 

I laughed, merely because I was happy to understand what he meant. “That it only gets better?” I snorted. “Or worse.” I examined my ink and shook my head. After what had been done to me in that hellhole, I could only pray that things couldn’t possibly get worse. “So were you one of those dudes who couldn’t stand the blood, Silo?” 

“Pft, no. Tattoos don’t hurt that much. I actually thought about getting another.” He stopped to take a drink of his cocktail. “Funny.” He grinned. “You didn’t say anything about my name being weird. Most people would’ve brought it up by now.” 

I shrugged. “What would I say? My name’s a crayon color.” I paused, thinking long and hard about saying what I wanted to say next. I passed my eyes over Silo’s figure openly. “I’d rather mention something about that fine body.” 

Silo sputtered into his drink and ended up swallowing more laughter than cocktail. “Oh, you’re finally coming around, huh?” 

No, he was wrong. I wasn’t looking for any more empty sex in my life. I glanced at Silo and silently apologized for hitting on him, because I hardly had any intention of having yet another forced, emotionless romp. But that nagging fellowship I felt between Silo and me was just too strong to ignore. Maybe his relentless flirting had simply taken its toll on me, because I actually wanted to take him home now just to be close to him, the man who neither judged nor feared me. 

So when I simply shrugged, I hoped Silo knew how I felt. 

“Don’t come on to me half-assed.” Silo smiled despite his words. He took a swig of his cocktail, twiddling his thumbs around the stem of his glass when he set it back down on the bar. “If you don’t find me attractive, I can go back to the end of the bar.” 

“N-no!” I stuttered. “I meant what I said—you do have a nice body. I just—” 

“You ever been fucked in prison, Crayon?” He looked me up and down and shook his head. “You look too built to have been bullied like I was.” He snickered, almost like his words didn’t carry the horrors of his past. 

The question hit me so suddenly that my mouth went dry. I almost felt like he knew what was going through my head, as if his ice-blue eyes were reading me. So it was true, then—he’d gone through the same shit as me and more in prison, and that was when I knew for sure that I wanted to take him home with me. Because, like I’d hoped, he wasn’t judging me. He understood. 

I regarded Silo’s quiet trepidation with care, knowing I was treading on eggshells now. Little did he know, he was doing the same. 

“No,” I lied. 

Copyright © E.L. Esch


Behind the Book:

Seeing Red is an adult romance GLBT (M/M) contemporary fiction work that I am very proud to release. I started it when I was going through some rough stuff, so I wanted to create a main character with a darker history. In the end, the story didn't end up coming out nearly as gritty as I'd thought it would, and I find that to be a good thing.

I loved creating the character "Red" and his almost complete opposite, Silo Winters. It was fun to have two characters with such different personalities. Red's a bit of a hardass, while Silo is mellow and just goes with the flow. On more than one occasion Silo's carefree nature pisses Red off, but again, that's just Red being a Debbie Downer.

The story is very near and dear to me, as is everything I write. I love my boys as if I'd met them on the street and we were good friends.


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