Tag Archives: Romance

Liquid Friday with author Paige Matthews

This week we are featuring erotica author and a 2016 Golden Flogger award nominee Paige Matthews and her Rocker series: Double Cross. (Crossroads and Crossover).

But before we slide into these books lets find out what does Paige recommend to go with the books on a Friday Night?

I love “screaming orgasm.” Besides the name 🙂 I love Kahlua and Bailey’s and Vodka!  What’s screamingObetter then the 3 of them combined! Best served with a few girlfriends and take them shot by shot! Multiple orgasms are always good 🙂

Ingredients: 

  •  ½oz Vodka
  • ½oz Amaretto
  • ½oz Coffee liqueur (Tia Maria, Kahlua).
  • ½oz Irish cream  (Bailey’s)
  • 3oz Half & Half (50/50 Milk & Single Cream mix)

Preparation:

In a tall glass combine ice and ingredients. Shake profusely and pour over strainer into a glass with ice

So let us kick back and relax drinking this delicious cocktail as we dive full force into Paige Matthews’ books:

Crossroads: A Double Cross Novel

Everyone finds themselves at a crossroad in their life.
Caleb Cross is not your typical front man. He is not the bad boy, parting, love em and leave em persona, although his public image states otherwise. Being the lead singer of the popular rock band, Double Cross, there are a lot of things fans and the public do not know crossroadse-1about Caleb. Sure, Caleb likes to have a little fun now and again, but after a bad publicity stunt, he is determined to shed the ultra bad image.

Katherine “Kat” Summers is not a typical woman. Not a girl who gets star struck or easily impressed, Kat is content on being herself, who she is. Kat enjoys living in the moment, in both her personal and professional life. Her greatest moment-bedding rock star Caleb Cross, a secret she holds onto to this day.

When Kat’s company is hired by Caleb Cross to rebrand him, she finds herself testing everything she has known about herself and about her life. Trying to maintain who she is against what she begins to desire, proves to be difficult for Kat, especially when she sees Caleb as he truly is.

For Caleb, hiring a new publicist to help reshape his image was the easy part, but what he doesn’t count on is being reunited with the one girl that never wanted him more than a night. Caleb is forced to confront himself and Kat in order to learn what he truly wants and who is truly is.

Crossover: A Double Cross Novel

Secrets Can Destroy. Can they overcome theirs?

Faith Maguire has spent the last six years traveling the world in an attempt to forget the secrets that she hides. After finding her fiance cheating on her in Milan, Faith crossoverheads home to Fuquay Varina, NC to lick her wounds and take some time off-until she is offered a position documenting the upcoming tour for Double Cross.

Preparing for a new tour, Gabe Cross is not thrilled to be on the road. He much rather be living it up in Raleigh. Thinking back to the one person that left him a broken hearted man, Gabe prepares for another three months of drowning his sorrows and screwing her out of his mind- until she shows up on the tour.

Faced to confront the hurt and pain six years forgotten- Gabe and Faith must learn how to move on from their pasts in order to have a future, but will their secrets prevent them from having their second chance?

Excerpt:

Once inside the room, that familiar tension was back. We stood looking at each other again. I watched as he let go of the luggage and walked toward me. I stood frozen in my spot. His hands took my bag and placed it on the couch before circling around my waist. He pulled me close and I could feel his erection against my pelvis.

“You make me so angry! And in the next breath, I want to fuck you so bad,” he said as his lips grazed against mine. All rational thoughts left in that minute. My hands found their way to Gabe’s hips as he crushed his mouth down on mine. The feel of him against me made my body weak. It had been so long since we’d been together. My lips parted and allowed him deeper penetration of my mouth. Our tongues danced with one another.

Gabe’s hands ran up under my shirt pushing it off and over my head. I heard him growl as he pulled away. I ran my nails across his washboard abs. Before I knew it, I was pinned on the couch. Gabe had one knee between my legs as he took my mouth again.

“Faith…” he moaned against my lips.

“Gabriel…” I moaned back. We were lost in the moment that we didn’t hear the knocking on the door until it became a loud banging.

“Open up man! I know you are in there.” I could hear Jax yelling from the opposite side of the door. Gabe pulled back quickly and walked to the door, adjusting himself in the process. He bent down and picked up my shirt, throwing it at me. I threw it on as he opened the door.

“What?” The husky voice barked out.

“Have you seen my sis-“ Jax stopped mid sentence when he saw me.

“Right over there.” Gabe pointed in my direction.

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” He looked between the two of us.

“Nope.” Gabe grabbed his sunglasses and stormed off, leaving Jax and me alone.

I stood up and walked to my luggage.

“Are you sure I didn’t interrupt anything?” he asked me again.

“Nope,” I responded sounding like Gabe.

“Then why is your shirt inside out?” he laughed.

“Fuck you, Jax.”

About Me

What do you say about yourself? Aren’t we supposed to write these in third person? Oh well, here I go! I have been writing and reading since I was able to pick up a pen and read a book. I can’t even begin to list the amounts of book that I’ve devoured over the course of paigemy life; from the Babysitter’s Club to R.L.Stein to the classics and the novels of my degrees. I have spent countless hours between the covers of classics during my undergraduate and graduate degrees from Western Connecticut State University, resulting in a BA English: Comparative Literature and a MA English: Professional Writing.

Recently, I have been focusing both my writings and my readings in erotica, BDSM and contemporary romance. And no, Fifty Shades of Grey did not get me on the BDSM bandwagon. If anything it opened the idea up more to me, but alas I have my own opinions on the trilogy.

I am trying to focus my writings on the emotional aspects of the erotic world, the emotional bondage of BDSM. I am interested in what makes people want to be dominant or submissive, the connection, etc. But I do like to read about a good flogging and bondage story too, the smuttier the better.:)

I live in New England with a wonderful family that keeps me busy when I am not at my day job or writing. I hope you enjoy your stay.

 

Liquid Friday with Author and Host Eden Freed

Today we are featuring lite BDSM Erotica writer Eden Freed.

“First and foremost I would like to thank all the wonderful authors who have contributed to my blog so far.  I know many of you are having a blast at the #RWA16, I wish you success and lots of fun. You are all amazing and I could not have done this without you. For those readers who missed their posts, I’ll make it easier for you to catch up, just use the links below.”

belvedere“This week instead of just one featured cocktail I went with two.  Variations of both drinks often crisscross, so have a Hollywood Cocktail and a Raspberry Smash and think about our favorite starlet, Violet.  A couple of these gets me in the mood to continue her second adventure in the Acting the Part Series.”

Ingredients for Hollywood cocktail:

  • Strawberry / Lime Wedge for garnish.
  • Pineapple Juice
  • 1/2 oz Black Rasberry liqueur
  • 1 1/2 oz Vodka ( Belvedere or Chopin for the Top Shelf Crowd)

Preparation:

  • Fill glass with ice.
  • Pour vodka and liqueur to cocktail shaker with ice and shake well.
  • Strain into glass with ice
  • Garnish with lime and strawberry, serve and enjoy

Ingredients for Raspberry Smash (makes two):

  • 2 lime wedges
  • Sugar (for dipping)holl cock
  • 1/2 cup fresh raspberries
  • 6 tablespoons vodka
  • 4 teaspoons sugar
  • 1 1/2 cups ice cubes
  • 1/4 cup chilled Champagne

 

Run 1 lime wedge around rims of 2 old-fashioned glasses. Dip rims in sugar. Place both lime wedges, raspberries, vodka, and 4 teaspoons astisugar in cocktail shaker; using muddler or wooden spoon handle, smash fruit mixture. Add ice; shake 10 seconds. Divide between glasses (do not strain), top with Champagne, and serve.

“Can’t wait to release book two, but in the mean time, take a look at book one “Violet Blooms” and get ready for things to get shaken up.”

chopinWhile we’re chatting, lots of our favorite characters will be back to shake things up in book two. Be ready for a virtual rollercoaster ride, as Violet perfects her art and gives the performance of a lifetime.  Kick back and relax for a moment with these delicious beverages, and read up about  Violet Blooms. (now also available on iTunes)

A young aspiring actress, majoring in Theater Arts in her last semester of school, must overcome mediocrity and learn to take direction in time to be discovered by a talent scout VioletBloomsActingThePart1during her final performance. Her new acting coach decides to teach her direction through a non-conventional method: introduction to BDSM. Will Violet have what it takes to learn the art of role playing or will she end up on the “casting couch?”
Here is an excerpt from our book:

Excerpt:

Jericho Blythe sighed, “Chase was right. You are a handful.  Let’s go back to rule number one.”  He opened another file, Rules.  “Rule one.  Speak only when spoken to.  I can train you better than any actress to anticipate and respond to direction.  I give orders.  You take orders.  It will be like dancing.”  He put an arm around my waist and I gasped.  “I’ll lead and you’ll follow.  If your timing is right, it will be beautiful and if something is off I will offer correction until you achieve perfection.  Perfection is what a director will expect from you.  He will not tolerate excuses.”

My eyes widened. Some part of my idle brain woke up and understood what he was talking about.  I backed away from him.  This was more than I bargained for.  I shook my head no.

“Rule three,” Blythe said.

“No way. You thought I was, that I was…”  I started laughing.

Blythe looked furious. His blue green eyes got squinty and the corners of his mouth turned down a little before I saw him reach behind the counter for something and walk toward the couch.  DSC02921Looking at his serious face made me laugh even harder.  I grabbed my middle with one hand and covered my mouth with the other.  My eyes began to tear from trying to hold the laugh in but it didn’t last long.  The thought that I could be into that, whatever it was, kink, was more than my fragile mind could take.  In a moment, I was near hysterical with laughter.

He sat down on the round red leather couch and pulled me over his knee. Slowly, Blythe explained that my actions required punishment.  He asked for me to consent to punishment.  I thought the better of shaking my head no and a little voice inside jumped out and agreed.  Yes! Yes, please!

I felt him lift the back of my skirt up and tug my panties down. Crack!  I felt a sharp but brief pain on my rear and then his firm hand rubbing the sore spot.  It was electric.  I was melting into the sensation, melting into his strong warm hand on my tender skin.  I didn’t understand why, but instantly I loved it.  You’re crazy. What are you doing, Violet?  Wake up, stupid!

The shock of what I was feeling had me up to my feet, pulling up my panties, and heading out the door. What WAS I doing?  I wanted to stay and I wanted to run.  My body followed the latter suggestion.  Blythe didn’t shadow me even though I wanted him to.  I walked quickly past people clueless to what had happened only a moment ago.  Their eyes seemed focused and restrained, but I felt as wild and reckless as the night.  I was down the block at the crosswalk before I decided to turn around.  My feet carried me back to the shop as though I no longer had a will of my own.  My owns thoughts DSC03024frightened me and I felt my heart beat in a quick rhythm trying to get oxygen to the brain that was clearly working against me, against the very nature of my being.  How could I want more?

Blythe was typing on the keyboard, when I opened the door. He picked up his head long enough to smile at me.  I bit my lower lip, wondering what was next.  My heart was still racing and my cheeks felt warm.  I needed reassurance.  Mentally, I was torturing myself for my excitement over something I had been told countless times was wrong.

My own mother, Barbara, never even raised a hand to me. Any time I made a mistake or irritated her, I spent some ‘quality time’ in the corner while she sat there chatting on the computer with her latest internet flame. Come to think of it, I spent an awful lot of time in the corner, maybe too much time. As I stood there pondering the misgivings of my childhood, Blythe looked up and spoke.

“Remind me to shackle you next time before you are punished. Fight or flight response is normal but I want you to be as safe as possible.  Feeling any better?”

“Yes,” I said but my mind was racing.

“Yes, Master Blythe,” he said.

“Yes, Master Blythe,” I repeated, slowly, almost vacantly. He handed the iPad back to me.

“Read through the rules. We’ll talk shop later.  Make sure you understand the rules first,” he said but what did any of it really mean?  How could I even know?  There was a part of myself that I was just waking up to, a part I didn’t even know was there hiding under my skin like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Blythe was patient and waited for me to collect my thoughts. He stood there without any condescending looks or giggles.  I chewed on my lower lip confused and excited at the prospect of this new me I had found.

If you are interested you can get your copy from Amazon Kindle or  download with iBooks on your Mac or iOS device, and with iTunes on your computer.

To learn more about the author Eden Freed,  Just click here.

 

Liquid Friday with Author Taisha Demay

This week we are featuring erotic and romantic suspense novel author Taisha Demay.  She enjoys bringing complex and interesting characters to life on the page. Currently signed with Rhysworld Publishing she is the author of three books.

Through the Fire

Love, Truth and Consequences

And the upcoming: Love, Truth and Consequences: Playing Dirty

Taisha normally drinks her green tea, but when the occasion strikes you will find her enjoying a glass of Merlot.

wineMerlot comes from a dark blue-colored grape variety that can be used for both a blending grape and for varietal wines. As the grape ripens early it makes it popular to blend with Cabernet Sauvignon and is the second most popular grape variety in Bordeaux wine regions. It is also among the most popular wine grapes planted around the world due to its flexibility in wine type production.

Merlots differ in complexity and character, as well as wine type thus make excellent choices for the dinner table. The Cabernet-like Merlots go excellent with grilled meat, while softer and fruitier Merlots go great with salmon, mushrooms and greens.

So let us grab a glass of this delicious wine, kick back and relax while learning more about Taisha Demay’s  book: Love, Truth and Consequences,

Blurb:

New York CPA Holland Taylor wants revenge against her boss, Decimal Accounting Services CEO Carter Preston, a man she has damay1loved since the first day she laid eyes on him in the lobby of his company. But all that changes when she overhears him saying some unflattering things about her to another executive. Devastated Holland vows to teach him a lesson that he will never forget. Will her plan work or will it turn into something more than she had bargained for? Fall into the pages of Love, Truth and Consequences and let Author Taisha Demay show you what happens when you try to play a game that you may not really be ready for…

We can now read a little excerpt from Love, Truth and Consequences :

Later that evening Holland stopped in front of the mirror and gazed at her reflection seeing herself in a

magenta gown that clung intimately to her curves that Carter had chosen for her to wear. Somehow the person

that was staring back at her was entirely different from the woman she was three weeks ago. With her perfectly

made up face, her perfectly coiffed hair, she barely recognized herself. She had experienced so many new things

sexually with Carter, who opened her eyes to a world she probably would have never known. She would miss

being with him, knowing their time together would soon come to an end saddened her, she was going to miss

his touch, the way he made her body come alive like it’s never had before.

She recalled one evening when he’d spanked her. After telling her to remove her clothing, he smacked her

ass with his bare hand and told her to put her hands behind her back. She complied as he bound her hands with

jute rope, clenching it tight around her wrists. His hands stroking her hair, telling her he was not pleased how

she’d gone off to run several errands without permission.

“How many errands did you run?” He asked.

“Five,” she whispered, a soft tear tickled down her cheek. She felt his displeasure with her. He wounded her

heart. She knew she’d disobeyed him.

“You know you must be punished for that, don’t you?” He asked, his voice mesmerizing, soft, seductive.

“Yes,” she replied, half in fear, half in arousal.

He began spanking her ass with a riding crop. She shuddered at each hard blow, her skin turning a shade

of crimson. Striking her a few more times before leading her over to a chair then laying her over his lap to

continue the lesson in obedience, he had taken her further sexually than anyone had ever done before. She

had become someone she didn’t recognize, a weeping, pleading whimpering female who submitted her body

and soul for a brief time. No one had done that for her before. It was a culmination of two years of fantasies,

months of aching want, desperate to be treated like a precious gift.

About Taisha Demay:

Born in Jamaica Queens New York, Taisha DeMay is an Army Me.veteran, married to her childhood friend, the mother of two adult children and one grand daughter. An animal lover, she currently resides in North Carolina. Her love of writing stemmed from the love of books. An avid reader, her collection boasts of thousands of physical books as well as countless number of ebooks. You can find her on Facebook as well as Twitter and Instagram where you can learn what she’s up to.

You can find Taisha on the web at:

Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00YPOQX08

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ThroughtheFirebyAuthorTaishaDemay012

Facebook Blog: https://www.facebook.com/Elliesbookblog

Twitter: https://twitter.com/TaishaDemay012

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/Lovetaishademay

Google Plus: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+TaishaDemay

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14052151.Taisha_Demay

LinkedIn:https://www.linkedin.com/author-taisha-demay-302722bb

Email:  taishademay@gmail.com

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/ElliesBookShelf/

WordPress:   https://authortaishademayblog.wordpress.com/blog/

Cover Reveal for Jenn Nixon’s Mind: The Reckoning

Baldwin Bates has only wanted one thing since joining MIND, to take care of his friends and keep them all safe. While the MIND team is busy dealing with an emergence of psychic and alien activity, Bates takes his first solo assignment searching for a woman who claims to see the future, only to botch […]

via Cover Reveal for Jenn Nixon’s Mind: The Reckoning — fantasyandrealityblog

Liquid Friday with author Susan Shapiro

This week we are featuring New York Times bestselling author of ten books and an award-winning writing professor Susan Shapiro.

Susan’s favorite drink is the Republic of Tea, Honey Ginseng tea. Are you surprised?  Of course not!  A wonderful beverage, served iced on a hot summer day from the author of self help books like:  Lighting Up, How I Stopped Smoking, Drinking and Everything Else Except Sex (A Memoir). and co-author of Unhooked: How to Quit Anything.

Honey Ginseng Tea from  The republic of Tea:

A relaxing blend combines the ancient health properties of China teagreen tea with Panax ginseng and full blossom honey. This delicious, subtly sweet tea offers a peaceful sipping experience.
Steeping Instructions:
Steeping green tea is easy. Simply heat fresh, filtered water just short of boiling. Then pour water over tea and steep for 1-3 minutes ice-tea-pitcher-iced-jug-cold-iced-drink-lemon-mint-44879245(if using a tea bag) or 2-4 minutes (if using full-leaf tea.)

Ingredients:

China green tea, linden flowers, pollen eleuthero, Panax ginseng, natural flavor.

 

So lets grab a pitcher of this amazing Honey Ginseng tea, some ice and learn a bit about Susan’s newest book:  What’s Never Said.

It’s dangerous to search for an old flame you never got over. What if you find him-and he doesn’t remember you? In her captivating new novel, Susan Shapiro explores the perils of whats neverrevisiting past passion. Lila Penn leaves Wisconsin for graduate school in the big city, where she falls for her professor Daniel Wildman. Decades after their tangled link, she arranges a tête-à-tête in downtown Manhattan. But the shocking encounter blindsides Lila, causing her to question her memory-and sanity. Switching between Greenwich Village and Tel Aviv, the saga unravels the sexual secret that’s haunted Daniel and Lila for thirty years. PRAISE FOR SUSAN SHAPIRO: “Frank, darkly funny, entertaining…” -New York Times Book Review “A promiscuously readable guilty pleasure…” -Elle Magazine “Sly, candid, disarming…” -Pam Houston “Shapiro’s voice is so passionate and honest, it’s bewitching.” -Erica Jong “Irresistible energy, winning humor… breathtakingly frank honesty.” -Philip Lopate “Unputdownable.” -Gael Greenereal

Setup: In February 1981, in Greenwich Village, Lila Lerner, an innocent graduate N.Y.U. student from a Jewish Wisconsin family, is upset when the professor she adores ignores her on Valentine’s Day. So she has dinner with a Turkish classmate, Tarik, at the Cookery on University Place.

Excerpt:

When the wine came, Tarik took a sip and nodded for the waiter to pour

“Why did you get a bottle from ten years ago?” Lila asked, wondering if it was still good a decade later, and if you got a discount for old stuff.
“A friend and wine best when old,” he said, clicking her glass.
Lila was intrigued by his accent and the way he sometimes left out connectives.

“You prefer red or white?”

“Definitely red,” she said, not mentioning that the kind they drank at home was Manischewitz.

“After graduate degree, you move home?” Tarik asked.

“No. I’ll get a job and stay here. I love the Village.” Lila drank up. The taste was growing on her.

“Your family let you do this?” Tarik poured more.

Lila shrugged. “Why not?”

“Dangerous alone. Before you marry…”

Lila finished her glass. “I might never get married.”

“Woman writer needs husband,” he insisted.

“Tell that to Sylvia Plath.” She poured a tall one she finished quickly.

He looked confused. “She had husband and two babies young.”

“Yeah, then her husband’s affairs ruined their family,” Lila said. “She would have been better off unmarried and childless. Like Emily Dickinson. Jane Austen. Elizabeth Bishop.”

“You don’t mean.” Tarik shook his head. “Something wrong with woman who doesn’t want to be wife and mother.”

“What do you mean by wrong?”

“Broken. Damaged. Not normal. Crazy,” he listed. “How you say — disturbed.”

“Why the f— would you say something so ignorant?” she asked, emboldened by the wine.

“Speak quietly,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not attractive for ladies to swear.”

“F— you!” she said louder, standing up.

He stood up too, his eyes jumpy, horrified. “Sit down,” he whispered.

Lila did not sit down. She marched out the door. She’d never walked out on a guy at dinner before. It felt totally cool, like she was the poet version of Gloria Steinem. Until she realized that she was overdressed and alone at 9 p.m. on the Saturday night of Valentine’s Day in a city of couples on dates. How humiliating.

Lila started to cry, heading back to her dorm to hide under the covers. Instead she went to Washington Square Park. Sitting on a bench, she lit her roommate Sari’s present: a red joint. Nobody noticed Lila amid the transvestites, hippies and students gathered around the fire-eater — even in freezing cold. A scraggly regular said, “Hey pretty clothes, what ya doin’ back here?”

“Dumped my date,” she said, handing him the joint. They shared it as a guitar player sang Joni Mitchell’s “Free Man in Paris.” She hummed along, tingly, dizzy, starving.

Remembering the $20 her mother sent her for Valentine’s Day, Lila decided to take herself out to dinner at Dojo. She changed into the flats hidden in her purse and waded through the hordes of bohemians and homeless men hanging out on decrepit St. Mark’s Place. It smelled of burning incense and the hot dog truck on the corner.

Lila marveled at the seedy bodega, dive bar, graffiti-lined record shop and tattoo parlor she passed. More crazy characters strolled this jam-packed East Village intersection than she’d seen in nineteen years in her hometown of Baraboo — population 10,000. She was awed by the downtown graffiti artists and foreign women selling used blouses and coffeemakers on the sidewalk — not noticing it was twenty degrees out.

All the oddballs were decked out as if Valentine’s Day was Halloween — girls in gowns with vampire capes, men in dresses, high heels and makeup. Everybody carried bizarre objects: antique chairs, bagpipes, a boa constrictor. She felt like she was floating, escaping from prison to live in this exciting drug-filled carnival.

At her favorite bookstore, St. Mark’s Bookshop, she treated herself to a poetry collection, Louise Glück’s “Descending Figure,” on sale for $2. Crossing the street, she sat inside at Dojo and read the angry female Jewish poet’s words, craving chicken yakimeshi. Sari had turned her on to this dive and awesome $4 meal. When Lila got her paycheck, she’d treat herself to this special dish. The only thing Lila didn’t like was the sliced onions. She’d pick them out one by one, putting a pile on the side.

Right after she ordered, she had a revelation. She stopped the waitress and said, “Excuse me, miss. I have a question. Can I get my yakimeshi without onions?”

“Sure, hon. No problem,” the waitress said.

Lila was amazed. Forget all her male Svengalis trying to teach her wisdom. She’d just learned the most important lesson on her own: You could order the world without onions! Just as it came, she saw Sari walking by through the window. She was alone too. What happened to her date Lenu? Lila ran outside and called out to her. “I left Tarik at the Cookery and smoked your joint alone in the park.”

“Lenu bangs me four times last night, then blows me off Valentine’s Day. It’s a stupid motherf—ing Hallmark holiday,” Sari muttered, then started crying.

Lila held out her arms, which Sari fell into. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come hang out with me.” Lila led her inside.

Sari sat down at her table, blowing her nose with Lila’s napkin. Then she stuck her fingers in the yakimeshi, picking out chicken and some carrots, plunking them in her mouth.

“Tastes different,” Sari said.

“I special ordered it,” Lila told her. “You can just order life without the onions!”

“Nice metaphor,” Sari said.

“Right? I know!” Lila cracked up, then asked the waitress for another fork, thinking she wound up with the exact right person she loved most on Valentine’s Day after all.

 

That was really good!  If you enjoyed what you read, we have another excerpt for you:

Scene: Lila Penn is standing in line at Barnes & Noble, nervously excited to see her old professor — and former flame — Daniel Wildman, who just a won a Pulitzer Prize. She whats neverhasn’t seen him in three decades. She knows it’s risky to be there, since they’re both married, and Lila never really got over him.

Excerpt:

Jittery all day, Lila had left work early to get her hair done, having her highlights frosted ash blond, her original color. She’d put on the black silk dress and Prada high heels she’d bought at Bergdorf’s. As the line winding around the huge bookstore crept closer, she scanned all the college kids in jeans and sweatshirts, feeling overdressed. She should have worn Levi’s and loafers, to look like seeing Daniel again was no big deal. Handing him the envelope in her purse felt too dangerous.

Even half-obscured by a pillar, his chiseled face was regal. He was powerful before the grand audience, more self-assured than he used to be. As she reached the head of the line, the clerk, who’d been marking names on Post-Its to show the author what to sign, had disappeared. Lila stood before Daniel, separated only by the thin table. Her hand sweated as she held out his slender book, feeling elated, a grad student again, younger, completely unveiled.

“Thanks for coming.” Unlike the last time they’d been this close, he was serene and sober.

“My pleasure. You killed,” tumbled out of her mouth, as if she were still his coed.

“Thanks.” He looked up at her. “To whom should I inscribe it?”

“To me,” Lila said.

He tilted his pen on the page, glanced up sideways and asked, “Your name?”

What? He didn’t know? Her breath stuck in her throat as he stared at her blankly. He was near seventy now. Was his eyesight failing?

“Sign it to Lila Penn.” She stared at him, waiting for her name and face to jar his recollection.

“One N or two?” he asked in a monotone.

“Two N’s,” she answered, dumbfounded, pushing her hair behind her ear. He didn’t know how to spell her married name? She felt flushed and frazzled. Maybe he’d inherited what he’d called “the forgetting disease” that had afflicted his father.

“With that last name, I hope you’re not a writer,” he said, looking pleased with his quip, the same cheesy joke every other idiot made.

“No, I’m a teacher.” She inverted their connection, trying to trick him into a reaction. But it was a lie. She’d recently been asked to teach a class, but still hadn’t responded.

“Okay, thanks for buying my book,” he said by rote.

Her eyes fell on his inscription: “To Lila Penn, All the Best. Daniel Wildman.” As if she were any stranger. Her forehead was hot, her heart knotting up in her chest.

Had he seduced so many students he couldn’t even recall who she was? She must have overblown their relationship in her head. Could she be the one whose memory was addled? Lila’s best friend Sari had insisted she had a distorted self-image. The teenage girl next in line, who had a pirate tattoo on her arm and a metal ring piercing her lower left lip, hovered right behind her, staring. Lila felt ashamed, as if she were just exposed as a pathetic hanger-on, an imposter.

“My maiden name is Lerner.” Lila blinked back tears, not believing he’d erased her. The whole room blurred.

“My wife kept hers,” he said smoothly, no recognition in his eyes. Then he reached his hand out for Lip Ring’s book and opened it. “Who am I signing it to?” he asked the youthful interloper, flashing the same polite grin, finished with Lila.

“To my mother, Mary Jonas. She studied with you a million years ago.”

“I know Mary! You look like her.” He laughed aloud, the big, hearty full-bodied laugh Lila used to love. “Must have been at least two million. Do you have a name too?”

Lila caught her reflection in the framed store poster, focusing on the faint marionette lines around her mouth, mortified to suddenly realize she’d lost her youth and beauty. She usually still saw herself as attractive. Yet she was obviously no longer a head-turner, the woman Daniel had called “his luscious muse.” Had she changed that much? The older suitor who’d adored her, exalted her looks more than any other male she’d known, had no idea who she was. But Daniel, you were the one who accepted me, discovered me, drew stars in the margins of my rough drafts.

She shouldn’t have lied to her husband about coming. She slinked to the register, fumbling for her wallet, so flustered his book fell to the floor. The rule: If you drop a book, kiss it, sacred like the Torah echoed from her childhood. She crouched down and quickly scooped it up, humiliated, invisible. As she went to pay, Lila spied the envelope she brought in the pocket of her purse, but it was too late to give to him. She had clearly overestimated her effect on him, her place in his romantic lexicon.

Out of all the conflicting scenarios she’d envisioned for almost thirty years, Lila had never once imagined that Daniel Wildman wouldn’t remember.

 

And for the first time ever, we can also indulge a bit in the story behind the story. In an article published in New York magazine Susan Shapiro reveals a bit more:

The Line Between Professor and Predator Isn’t Always So Clear

By

“Are you okay?” I asked my 22-year-old smart, pretty student Debbie last spring during office hours. She often susanhad questions about class or the ambitious book she was working on. But tonight she’d rushed over — still in a minidress, high heels, heavy eyeliner, and lipstick — upset about a bad experience she’d just had with a famous older novelist now teaching at my alma mater, whom she’d befriended on Facebook. “What happened?” I asked, worried.

She nervously combed her long, dark hair behind her ears. “He wanted me to be his date for this fancy award ceremony tonight. I was excited, got all dressed up. It was fun. But then he asked me to go home with him. Gross. I said no way.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. I got the hell out of there. It was creepy. There was another girl there he was flirting with.”

All the harassment, sexual-assault, roofie, and rape cases in colleges across the country were not distant news. Many of my students had shared similar sordid encounters, which scared me. I’d sent several distraught women to school authorities, to the police to report crimes, to therapists, and to editors who’d published their stories. Because I was a female professor and outspoken women’s-rights advocate who’d championed Debbie’s work, I knew she wanted me to be angry on her behalf, toe the conventional feminist line, take her side, see her as an innocent victim, and call the guy a harasser — or worse. Yet this time, I couldn’t.   

“I’m confused,” I said. “Why go on a date if you weren’t attracted to him?”

“I admire his writing. And I hoped he’d blurb my book,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I was going to bed with him.”

“Of course not,” I told her. “Yet his proposition — and taking no for an answer — sounds fair.  We don’t have to vilify every man on the planet with a functioning libido.”

“Wow,” she said. “You’re taking this so personally.”

She was right. It wasn’t her actions that troubled me. I feared I’d done what I was accusing Debbie of doing when I was her age. She didn’t know that I’d had an affair with an older professor and tried to make him the villain. The truth turned out to be more complex.

Decades earlier, as an overeager graduate student in Manhattan, I’d dressed up for orientation, excited to introduce myself to the head of my program — a brilliant,  acclaimed author.

“It’s such an honor to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Planning to finish your PhD by the end of the mixer?” he quipped. He must have seen my application and knew that I was only 20, having skipped two grades.

“Why? Are you threatened by fast women?” I’d asked, not catching my double entendre.  

“Maybe I am,” he said, smiling, pulling his hand free from my grip.

He was about twice my age and academically dashing in his beige jacket and corduroys. I’d admired his dark, hilarious books, which seemed like Philip Roth put to poetry.

I was a tall, thin-skinned Michigan girl with a big mouth, a big appetite, and big feet. Although my conservative parents didn’t know what a master’s in creative writing was, they’d reluctantly let me sell my orange Cutlass to help fund three terms in the big city. The minute I got to Greenwich Village, I never wanted to leave. I dreamed of becoming a famous author with bylines in magazines and books, just like my professor.

Showing up to his every office hour, I’d hand him stacks of poems I’d been revising until four in the morning.

“Just one,” he’d say, then unleash his full, throaty laugh.  

I morphed into a downtown New Yorker. I lost weight, donned thick, black eyeliner, low-cut, tight black clothes, and spiked black boots. My professor noticed, I could tell. At a holiday party at his apartment, he stood close to me, pointed to my heels, and joked, “You’re trying to tower over me.” I removed them to help clean up afterward. Then we sat on the wooden floor of his dusty one-bedroom, drinking cheap Chardonnay from paper cups, me barefoot, chattering anxiously.

“You talk too much, too loud, too quickly,” he cut me off. Noticing me blush, he said, “Don’t be nervous, we’re not having an affair or anything.”

I wondered if I wanted to. Did he ever think of me outside of class, the way I thought of him?  From his work I knew he was single, straight, and lonely. I wasn’t sure if the spark I felt between us was my imagination.

“Will you look at my latest rewrite?” I begged, taking a revised poem from my purse.

He pulled out a pen and marked my page with squiggles and arrows. “You have too many words, not enough music.” I loved how honestly he critiqued me, our intellectual and erotic energy entangling.

“I think I’m falling for you,” I blurted out, avoiding his eyes.  

He cracked up. Humiliated, I couldn’t hold back my tears.

“I’m sorry.” His voice grew softer. “It’s just that everybody falls for the person who fixes their work.”

“That’s not why,” I insisted.  

“Listen, I would never date a student,” he said. I was crushed. Until he added, “If only I weren’t your teacher.” Hope!

After that, he invited me to book events, introducing me to his colleagues as “a talented newcomer,” elevating me socially — and creatively. Having his ear and his eyes on my work felt  magical, mystical, enthralling. I was honored when he asked what I thought of his first drafts, thrilled when he took my suggestion to retitle a poem.

Before I completed my degree, he recommended me for a coveted position at The New Yorker,  which I took, finishing my thesis by night. I told myself I’d landed the full-time gig because I’d aced their editorial test and hit it off with my fascinating female boss, who’d been there since World War II. But without my professor’s referral, I may have landed next to my classmate as an assistant at Soap Opera Digest.

That May, I graduated and decided to stay in New York. Released from the confines of  academia, my former professor took me to dinner. At a local Chinese dive, he told me how beautiful I was. Finally we kissed. Our connection intensified. It was awkward and scary, but switching from protégée to girlfriend made me feel special. His crowd embraced me. Friends my age were a little skeptical, perhaps because I’d disappeared into his much more intellectually stimulating world. He was the oldest, wisest man I’d ever dated. He said I was the only student he’d ever touched. I believed him.

Yet the fantasy of having my professor fall for me was more exhilarating than the reality. With our feelings for each other no longer illicit, I found I was more comfortable in his classroom than his bedroom. Hearing him kvetch about his lower-back pain and receding hair was a turnoff. He  didn’t like that the job he’d found me became my priority. He rolled his eyes when I exalted Gloria Steinem and analyzed different waves of feminism. I tired of him correcting my grammar and making fun of me when I read tabloids or watched TV talk shows. I nicknamed him “Henry Higgins.” He called my new short haircut “too butch.”

“You’re too controlling,” I argued. I’d once imagined us as Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. Were we closer to Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes?

I started smoking, toking, and drinking, all of which bothered him. He recommended I see a therapist. I refused, insisting he’d been on the couch so long, I got analyzed by osmosis.

Rushing home from a meeting one day, he announced that he’d been awarded a one-year fellowship in Israel and wanted me to accompany him. Although I was flattered, I couldn’t afford it, I confessed.

“I’ll pay for everything.”

“I already have a job that you got me. I can’t gallivant around as an appendage to a boyfriend.”

“We can get married,” he said.

Two female students I knew had wed their former professors. Yet I felt rushed and overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to get married. Or whether I was in love with him or the idea of him. Rather than take vows so young, I was yearning more for a mentor, a father figure. “I’m nowhere near ready for this,” I told him, honestly.   

Wounded by my cold response, he took off, refusing to return my calls. He was mortified. While I’d put the brakes on a serious commitment, I hadn’t meant to end everything. I was confused. If he saw me in our shared neighborhood, he’d rush to cross the street. I felt guilty and grief-stricken. Yet completely ghosting me — not even returning a phone call — seemed cruel.  Wasn’t he supposed to be the mature one? I’d never felt more alone or vulnerable. Breakups were bad enough, but I was afraid this split would exile me from my newfound colleagues and the literati crowd.  

Indeed, when I later became a teacher, two students reported that he’d badmouthed me, telling them not to take my class, claiming I had no idea what I was talking about. I couldn’t believe he’d publicly maligned me. I felt powerless and persecuted by an angry ex who could ruin my reputation. Freaked out, I finally did call a shrink. She reassured me that nobody would take his word over mine at this point. Then she asked what had originally drawn me to my professor. I said, “He had this great apartment overstuffed with books, and brilliant writer friends, and smart editors publishing his work …”

“So you didn’t want to marry him, you wanted to be him?” she asked.

I nodded yes, awed by the distinction.

Amid debates of older men harassing, seducing, and manipulating female students and subordinates, it was tempting to see myself as the innocent prey and injured party, another  young, impressionable protégée manipulated  by a powerful man. Yet as easy as that narrative would be on my ego, it wouldn’t be psychologically accurate.  

I realized this after my husband, a scriptwriter, spoke to my writing class about TV and film. The next day, an envelope came from one of my undergrads. Assuming she’d dropped off a late assignment, I opened it, taken aback to find her sexy headshots, body shots, and a note to my husband about how brilliant his talk had been and how she’d love to buy him a beer to discuss career options in “our biz.”

“She just wants me to help her get a job on Saturday Night Live,” he tried to reassure me.

She was sharp and talented. Yet from the vantage point of being her writing professor and his wife, it seemed to me she was blatantly flaunting her sexuality to further her career. It reminded me of the way my student Debbie had posted half-naked pictures of herself on social media,  probably what had lured the acclaimed novelist. She felt I was being prudish. I thought I was being protective.  

I wasn’t always so conservative, of course. We each harness whatever power we have to get ahead, whether overtly or subconsciously. I’d once been a hot 22-year-old using my looks to fuel my ambition. Yet here I was, wishing my students would own their roles in this clichéd, coquettish game while I hadn’t been honest either. I suddenly saw how I’d deceived myself years earlier. If my professor was drawn to my youth and beauty, I’d been enticed by his experience and status, which I wound up usurping. It was a trade-off I’d chosen, a barter that launched me, benefitting me most in the long-run.

Seeing him at a crowded soirée not long ago, our eyes met. I went over to say hello. He pretended not to remember who I was, turning away as I approached. I was shocked. Then I wondered if he’d intentionally shunned me because he was still angry. I was actually flattered to think I could elicit so much emotion all these years later.

Had he spoken to me that night, I would have thanked him. He had, after all, improved my life, teaching me to be an incisive reader and critic. He’d helped me land an awesome first job in the city. He’d inspired me to write books and teach, demystifying the process. I might have even apologized, not sure if I’d been immature back then or just a typically self-involved single player in my 20s.

Now, after two decades in a happy union, I’ve learned I can be a feminist who loves men and marriage. This involves not lumping all men into the enemy camp, or labeling someone “sexist” or “predatory” just because they express desire.  

In retrospect, my professor was not a Svengali seducing an innocent rube — or  a skirt chaser abusing his position, like other infamous men in the news. I was never victimized. He was a gentleman who’d postponed our romance until I was no longer in his class. I’d been a consenting adult who’d actually initiated the relationship. I’d wanted him, went for him, got him — and his connections. When he’d pushed for more, I set the limits I needed to, and not all that gently. Then I published a book telling my side of the story.

Ultimately, he might have been more of a victim than I was.

See the original article in NY Magazine.

 

About Susan:

susan2Susan Shapiro, an award-winning writing professor, freelances for The New York Times, New York Magazine, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, L.A. Times, Newsweek, Elle, Esquire & Oprah.com. She’s the New York Times bestselling author of 10 books, including the acclaimed memoirs Lighting Up,Only as Good as Your Word, and Five Men Who Broke My Heart, the coauthored nonfiction booksUnhooked and The Bosnia List , and the novel What’s Never Said. She and her husband, a TV/film writer, live in Greenwich Village, where she teaches her popular “instant gratification takes too long” classes at the New School, NYU and in private workshops & seminars. You can follow her on Twitter at @susanshapironet or reach her at ProfSue123@gmail.com.

 

Liquid Friday with Author Lisette Kristensen

This week we are featuring Dark Erotica author Lisette Kristensen. Her favorite cocktail is the Sidecar.

Ingredients:

  • 3/4 ounce Cointreau
  • 3/4 ounce lemon juicesidecar 2
  • 1 1/2 ounces cognac
  • cocktail glass

Sidecar Instructions:

Shake well with cracked ice, then strain into a chilled cocktail glass that has had its outside rim rubbed with lemon juice and dipped in sugar.
The Wondrich Take:

The Sidecar is often singled out as the only good cocktail to come sidecar 1out of the long national nightmare that was Prohibition. And when you’re sipping one, you almost think it was all worth it. The luminous, golden-straw color, the perfectly controlled sweetness, the jazzy high notes of the citrus against the steady bass of the brandy. This is a drink whose suavité is beyond question — it’s the Warren Beatty of modern mixology. It’s so easy, in fact, to be seduced by this clever old roué that a word of caution would not be out of place here. These gents have a way of stealing up on you and — bimmo! (was thinking bimbo!!) Next thing you know it’s 8:43 on Monday morning and you’re sitting in the backseat of a taxi idling in front of your place of employ. In your skivvies.

 

So lets try this beverage, kick back and relax while reading about secondLisette’s  newest book: Facade’s Surrender (book 3 of the Dark Desire series) to be release on June 11th!  Hey! that’s tomorrow!

 

 

Here is an excerpt from Book 3:  Facade’s Surrender.

“She laid on the table panting, soaked in sweat and cum. Jocelyn lifted her head and there were two men right before with gorged unused cocks. She didn’t hold back the wicked grin. Both were handsome men, swarthy and dark. She took them to be middle eastern. Long hair, menacing dark eyes, with bodies well sculpted.  They weren’t as big, but their cocks were gorgeous.

firstThey gave her no time to react, both men dove at her. She laughed as their hands grappled with her body. One laid out over the table, his cock rose like a spear, she wanted to suck it but they had other plans.  Strong hands lifted her up and put her ass onto the man laying beneath her.  The other man stood before her, his eyes raked her body with such obvious lust, Jocelyn almost came on the spot.

She had an idea what they wanted, and she was crazed with lust. Rising off the one man, straddling his cock, while fingers wrapped to it. His moans deepened as she stroked it, pulling the head to caress her puckered dark star. She stared at the other man, cocking her leaking pussy at him. The man below got the hint and his strong fingers pulled down on her hips.  Jocelyn freed his prick and let him impale her ass.

Her cries echoed over the room, she held nothing back when his thick shaft filled her ass.  She trembled, spasm’s roamed through her body. Jocelyn was out of control with this dark burning need. She leaned back, spreading her legs, hooking her heels to the edge of the table. One of them crawled on top of her. Her arms wrapped to his neck.   Her pussy swollen from the early abuse, dripped with anticipation of being fucked again.

When he planted that cock into her, she moaned wildly. Two cocks filled her, they rubbed together like fire sticks and she wasted no time bursting into flames. The both found that rhythm, cocks fucking her in unison.  Hands from underneath grabbed at her tits, squeezing them viciously, tearing at her nipples. The other man focused on fucking her hard. Each thrust rode deep into her.  His crown punched at her core, bringing a heightened pleasure to race through her.

Jocelyn floated to the double hammering of cocks. Eyes rolled to the back of her head, letting every sensation of fingers, cocks take hold of her depraved psyche. She fucked back hard, the need to cum again roiled within her. Jocelyn found her deviant heaven, nothing thirdheld back. Her cries and begging for more filled the room.  The men grunted like beasts, sweat flushed over their bodies as the pace quickened.

A finger found her clit, she had no idea who it was, it didn’t matter. She screamed to the heavens when that thick coarse digit raked ruthlessly over her shivering pearl.  The cocks fucked her holes with a frenzy, Jocelyn no longer cared.  Burning sensations ripped across her, stars blinked across her eyes and that throbbing rush crashed down between legs.  She blew apart, shattered into a thousand shards of lust. Her body quaked and shuddered.”

Also available in this series are:

Book One, Unveiling Facade.  A short story setting the stage for Jocelyn’s future exploits.  UnveilingAvailable on Amazon and also on Smashwords.

 

 

 

Book Two, Facade’s Retribution.  Available on Kindle Unlimitedretribution

 

Book Three, Facade’s Surrender is now available at Smashwords at 99 cents. For Kindle users download the Mobi file. If you use Nook, Kobo or iBooks it will take a few days to arrive at those platforms.

Facade

 

About author Lisette Kristensen:  Lisette grew up in a home full of artistic types. Her brothers became professionals in painting and photography, while her father worked in TV and film. Reading had been a passion of hers, mostly historical fiction. It wasn’t until her father left laying around (bathroom no less) a trashy Nazi BDSM magazine that her desire to write kicked in. That moment changed her life and she dove headlong into the world of depraved/deviant erotica.

It took years before Lisette could put those stories that rambled in her darkest corridors to paper. Unveiling Facade is her first of many yet to come.

 

Liquid Friday With Author Di Storm

This week we are featuring Erotic Romance author Di Storm.  Lets hear from her directly about her favorite cocktail:

“My favorite cocktail is Long Island Ice Tea, until I  discover something new.”

Ingredients: Long Island Iced Tea - 1

  • ½ fluid ounce vodka
  • ½ fluid ounce rum
  • ½ fluid ounce gin
  • ½ fluid ounce tequila
  • ½ fluid ounce triple sec (orange-flavored liqueur)
  • 1 fluid ounce sweet and sour mix
  • 1 fluid ounce cola, or to taste
  • 1 lemon slice

Fill a cocktail shaker with ice. Pour vodka, rum, gin, tequila, triple longislandsec, and sour mix over ice; cover and shake. Pour cocktail into a Collins or hurricane glass; top with splash of cola for color. Garnish with a lemon slice.

 

Now that we heard from the author, lest grab a glass of this delicious sounding Long Island Ice Tea, kick back and relax while learning more about  Di Storm’s new release:  Yes Sir! available from  Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or directly from Green Ivy Publishing.

TEASER

A world of intrigue and deception. Underworld clubs with high-profile members. A powerful circle of friends, and strangers, who meet in select places where one must know the hidden path in

yessirEarly in her adult life, Jessika finds herself attracted to men who are more dominant: controlling, forceful, her superior. And somewhere down her path of exploring sensual feelings, it all falls into place—she needs a master, a man she can serve in every way. But the further she delves into the world of domination, the more she realizes a part of her is still empty.

Surprisingly, Jessika finds that missing ingredient in a man who is anything but dominant. He is a cockold—a man who finds eroticism in watching enjoy herself with others but knowing that she isn’t getting pleasure from him.

Yes, Sir is a journey of lost love, lost connections, and the struggle for self-control. Jessika finds herself experiencing drastic changes deep within. The reserved, quiet, and submissive person she once was—fading. She is becoming stronger, more vocal, and dominant, standing up for herself, and others. These changes create a roller coaster of conflict within, a transitioning woman who struggles with an ever-present and seemingly contradictory need to be controlled and mastered.

Yes, Sir is an erotic, sensual, and emotional journey, bringing you to places you did not believe truly existed—but they do!

About the Author

distormBio