Guest Blogger: Sommer Marsden

by | Nov 8, 2012 | | 3 Comments

Somebody to Love

One of my favorite things to write is a character who feels unloved. Or worse—unloveable. I’ve written a few. Weird for someone who has always felt loved enormously.

My lion shifter Tryg feels very unloveable. He has every right given his history—people leaving him. Some for reasons that could be helped, some for reasons that could not. It doesn’t help that is pride—his supposed family—pretty much shuns him due to his personal nature. It’s a terrible thing to be discarded for something like who you choose to love.

No wonder he’s gruff and keeps most folks at arm’s length. Even lovers.

Until Luke. A drifter who turns out to be Tryg’s lion hearted. The one who can tame the raging beast within. Lion Hearted were talked about around the campfire when Tryg was young. They were mythical. Not real. Certainly nothing an enforcer lion like him would ever waste any time contemplating at length…or even thinking of at all.

So imagine his surprise when his own lion hearted guy shows up. A tiny bit shy, a lot sweet, a good heart and yeah…a body. A body that makes Tryg feel things he never thought he’d get to feel.

Oh yes, friend, this book was fun to write. I hope you’ll check it out and see why even though this is only book 1 of my Divination Falls series, I’m so far beyond hooked on this place and its residents it’s comical.

XOXO

Sommer

*****

Lion Hearted

By Sommer Marsden

EXCERPT copyright 2012

‘Here’s your whisky, Tryg,’ Matthew said. He slid the shot glass across the scarred bar top.

‘What kind?’

‘Rot gut, what other kind do you drink?’

Tryg grunted, almost smiled, and tossed back the amber liquid. ‘How about another?’

‘You up for trouble tonight?’ Matthew looked wary, holding the whisky bottle but not pouring. What kind of bartender didn’t pour?

‘Me? Never.’ Tryg fingered the scar that bisected his eyebrow and barely avoided his left eyelid. He realised Matthew was watching, and quickly dropped his hand. ‘I’m fine, Matt. Just pour.’

‘Word is –’

‘Word is none of your business and it’s just hearsay so … Maybe you should just pour and not worry about rumours.’

Matthew pressed his lips together, nodded, poured. ‘Fine. But any problems from you, Bolo, and you’ll be banned from my bar.’

‘Got it,’ Tryg said. ‘And don’t call me Bolo.’

Matt shrugged. ‘It’s your name, as far as I heard until you started drinking here. Damn, Tryg, I thought it was your name.’

‘A bolo is a knife,’ Tryg said.

‘And you’re an enforcer.’

‘Go away.’

Matthew grinned and went to fill another order. That had been close. Tryg had been itching to clock him to teach him some manners. But he wouldn’t do that.

We thought it might be good for you to have a break from the pride …

He shook off the echoes in his head and downed the glass of whisky. About 600 more and he might feel better. He might even get his drunk on. Tryg set his glass down with a bang and Matt looked up. He was annoyed.

‘So let him be annoyed,’ he growled.

Someone bumped into him and he practically roared, the urge to shift rippling under his skin and along his spine. This was not the day to provoke him. When your pride wants to send you away for “a break” you’re pretty much over. Especially if you’re supposed to be the muscle. Again he touched his scar and it made him angrier when he realised he was doing it. Whoever was behind him had better be ready.

‘What the fuck is your problem? You can’t see where you’re –’

Something made him bite off his words. Maybe it was the flash of fear in the man’s bright blue eyes or the nervous duck of the head that caused sandy blond hair to fall across his brow. Tryg bit back another roar because he found himself even more annoyed that he found the kid attractive.

‘Move,’ he growled.

The kid moved. Tryg called him a kid because he might be 25 to Tryg’s 32. Might.

Their shoulders brushed as he tried to push past, and he felt a comingling of instincts. The urge to lash out and hurt immediately contradicted by the urge to protect. What the hell?

‘Sorry,’ the kid said.

Again, he wanted to hit him and kiss him. Tryg shook his head and moved away. He needed some air. Maybe he’d had too much to drink.

Or not enough brain cells in your damn head…

He forced his way through the small bar. As he passed the first booth he heard Ozric. ‘What the fuck? You’re still here?’

‘You’re not on the road yet, Bolo?’ someone else piped in.

Tryg tried to drown out the voices. These were the guys who’d gotten him to the point of being asked to take an indefinite road trip. Ozric and his crew had issues with Tryg. Issues about his ways, his job, and who he chose to fuck.

‘Just keep going. Just keep walking,’ he told himself. He wanted to return to his pride after his mission was complete and be welcome. Even if his pride included assholes like Ozric and Ronnie and Dane.

‘We don’t need your kind anyway.’ This time it was Ronnie who spoke. He was short and sort of out of shape. Were they forced to live in their animal forms, he’d be the first to succumb to starvation and die. He was a shit hunter and a worse person. ‘It’s not like you help expand our numbers.’ He snorted, hefted a beer, looking smug and amused.

That was when Tryg snapped, his body rippling from the surge of adrenaline and rage. The toxic soup of hormones that ushered in a shift boiled under his skin and he felt his feet turn to rush the group instead of keep on a steady course toward the door.

The roar ripped up and out of him, but he heard it more than felt it. His fingers clenched, then went warm from his joints softening to reconfigure. He felt a canine tooth slide against his tongue and tasted blood. It was fine. He wanted to taste blood.

‘Remember what I said, Bolo!’ Matt called from the bar. Tryg caught a flash of his wide eyes and his fingers delving under the bar where a dart gun was kept. One shot from that thing and almost any shifter in the bar went down like 50 pounds of shit in a 10-pound sack. The only creature to ever manage to stay conscious had been a visiting shifter –a Kodiak bear.

The Bolo reference only made him angrier and he moved fast. Faster than was normal even for him. His nails had just bitten into the soft wood of the table, ready to tear the top off and maybe use it to beat the fuck out of the morons sitting there – but then a hand settled on his shoulder.

Two things happened. His brain said “attack”. His body said “relax”.

What the hell?

He turned to find that boy. Those water blue eyes wide but intent. ‘Easy,’ the kid said.

Tryg considered taking a swing anyway. Attempted to tell his brain to raise his fist to clock this kid and teach him a lesson. His body betrayed him. Under all the confusion, that made him nervous.

‘Are you insane?’ Tryg rumbled, but felt his muscles relax further, his claws contract, his muzzle reform. He felt a loosening in his solar plexus and a syrupy kind of peace.

Maybe Matt had hit him with that tranq gun, after all.

*****

Lion HeartedTryg Avondale is the muscle for his pride, and when he’s called upon to hunt down two missing teens, he sees the job for what it is – a chance to give his pride a break from him and his “nature”. Tryg is a gay lion and it’s not something his “family” seems to embrace.
He takes with him Luke Dorchester – an empath and the perfect travel companion. Luke can feel and soothe every emotion that coils deep inside Tryg, and the sex between them is the hottest Tryg has ever known. Tryg has no intention of letting his emotions go any further when it comes to this brand new man. But he also has zero intention of letting him go. What follows is a road trip from campground to campground, hot nights in hotel rooms and close encounters spent together as they follow the scent of the two abducted shifters. A scent that takes them to Divination Falls, a haven for shifters and associated magical folk; a place where an old evil will surface and Tryg will learn just how far his love for lion-hearted Luke must take him.

Available from:

Amazon UK
Amazon US

Coming to all other vendors January 2013!

*****

Sommer Marsden’s been called “…one of the top storytellers in the erotica genre” (Violet Blue), “Unapologetic” (Alison Tyler), “…the whirling dervish of erotica” (Craig J. Sorensen),and “Erotica royalty…” (Lucy Felthouse).

Her erotic novels include Boys Next Door, Restless Spirit, Big Bad, Wanderlust and Learning to Drown. Sommer currently writes erotica and erotic romance for HarperCollins (Mischief Books), Xcite Books, eXcessica, Ellora’s Cave, Pretty Things Press, and Resplendence Publishing. The wine-swigging, dachshund-owning, wannabe runner author writes work that runs the gamut from bondage to zombies to humor.

Sommer’s short works can be found in well over one hundred (and counting) erotic anthologies. Her short stories have also been included numerous adult and romance magazines–both in print and online. Visit sommermarsden.blogspot.com to see what’s up and drop her a line.

New Release: On the Rocks by Elizabeth Morgan

by | Nov 3, 2012 | | 0 Comments

On The RocksOn The Rocks
(The Edge Erotica Series)

BLURB:

On the Rocks is the hottest club on South Padre Island, and Meghan’s new workplace.

If the warped mermaid uniform isn’t enough, the fact that she can’t stop thinking about the club’s singer, Zenzie, is. Everything about the female gets Meghan hot, but when she finally gets her shot with the temptress, it turns out Zenzie isn’t as perfect, or as human, as Meghan thought.

BUY LINKS:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
All Romance eBooks
Decadent Publishing

~ * ~

EXCERPT:

Her warm breath skated down my neck causing a shiver to curl around my spine. She straightened then slid her hands through my hair. My eyelids fluttered at the feel of her fingertips stroking over my temples and along my hairline.

“I saw you watching us.”

I stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“Do you like watching?” She retrieved a few items from the vanity table, twisted two sections of my hair, and pushed the hair clips into place. “It’s all right. You can tell me, Meghan.”

My body tightened at the husky way she said my name. The knot between my legs pulsed under her piercing stare. I had no idea how, or even why she managed to get under my skin, but God, I wanted her.

“I’m not a pervert or anything.”

“I know you’re not.” She slid a chain of small red flowers into the black mass of my hair.

“I just heard a noise. I guess my curiosity got the best of me.” I shifted on my seat. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I liked you watching.”

My nails dug into my knees as her hands moved down my throat. Her skin like satin—her touch, soft. She ran her fingertips over the top of my breasts.

“I would have asked you to join us, if you hadn’t run.” Her gaze caught mine again while she slid her hand inside my skin-tone bra. “Will you run now, or will you do what we both know you want to do?”

~ * ~

BIO:

Elizabeth lives in a small country village in Cheshire, England, with two cats. You will always find her on the computer, blasting music and writing away. She started life wanting to be an actress because she loved performing. She enjoyed nothing more than being able to make people laugh, to distract them from reality for a few hours. She studied Musical Theatre in college, but during her second year, her mind started to overflow with ideas for scripts and she began writing plays. Slowly over the following three years, she was writing more and more, channeling her imagination into more detailed manuscripts…

Here she is, years later, hiding away like a hermit, writing like crazy and loving every minute of it.

Where to find Elizabeth Online:

Website: www.e-morgan.com
Blog: www.xxxxmyworldxxxx.blogspot.com
Twitter: @EMorgan2010
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ElizabethMorgan
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Elizabeth-Morgan/e/B006WR1WLQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1351550906&sr=1-2-ent
Blog: (Shared with Dianna Hardy): http://notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/

Guest Blogger: Jilly Boyd

by | Oct 30, 2012 | | 0 Comments

I would like to start by both thanking and apologizing to Lucy for ever letting me take over her blog!

Right. My name is Jillian, of the house of Boyd. Which I like to imagine is a massive palace, towering ominously over London, but is actually a small and lovely flat in the heart of Essex.

I write erotic fiction, poetry of all shapes and sizes and a blog, called Lady Laid Bare. I’ve been writing for over a year and a half now, which is basically peanuts compared to geniuses like Ian Rankin and Neil Gaiman. Then again, neither Misters Rankin nor Gaiman write erotic fiction.

Erotica is a genre that I’m still getting used to. When I started writing it, I had literally no clue what I was on about. I was a sprightly young virginal thing and all my knowledge of sex scenes came from osmosis. I remember sitting on my bed, writing what I thought was going to be my bestseller debut, with a copy of an erotica anthology in my hands, just copying bits and pieces. I thought it came out really well, and I was dead chuffed about the result.

Yeah, it was a bit crappers, like you might have suspected.

Looking back, my attitudes have changed massively. I had the desire to write, but no idea of anything relating to the craft. I had the urge to write, but not the urge to actually bother with picking up a pen and getting on with it.

When I first coined on to erotica, I felt a bit scared. Erotica was a genre that I associated with Mills and Boon and words like “throbbing member”. I didn’t want to write all of that! I wanted to write things I would like, things that would get me going.

But then I started reading. I got in the know. And I started meeting people, wonderful writers who were so skilled that their passion turned me on. I wanted to get to stepping and write something good!

It took me months to get into the habit of writing and writing a lot, and to be honest, I’m still learning. But you really will not achieve anything if you do nothing.

That would be my first tip to all of you budding writers. Pick up a pen and get on with it. Taking about being a writer and daydreaming about holding your Man Booker prize is all good and well, but it’s never going to come to you if you just keep doing sod all. Write, I say! Even if it’s absolute bullcrap, write your little socks off. The only way to do it is to do it!

My second tip are these wise words from my friend Andrew Shaffer : “18 months is peanuts.”

He said it to me after I lamented about being at the graft for over 18 months with little result. After thinking about it, it kicked me in to touch massively. 18 months does not a writer make. Especially if you are like me and you’ve basically spent 18 months pillocking about thinking “This is excellent” and then giving up entirely.

Live, eat, drink, breathe, write. It should be your motto! You will get results if you have patience.

My third tip would be to do research. Read the books you want to read, read the articles you want to read. Freewrite. Experiment. Make good art, as Neil Gaiman once said. Only when you feel like you’re walking down Oxford Street completely bare-naked, vulnerable to the world, will you know you’re doing it right.

Fourthly, get over your shame of writing sex! If you’re anything like me and you struggle with even thinking about the word “penis”, let alone writing it, this helps. Read a lot of erotica. Talk sex, walk sex. Only when you actually stop giggling when you’re describing something like oral are you able to write erotica.

And fifthly, for gods sakes, enjoy. Enjoy the process, enjoy the art you make, enjoy the maddening mindfuck that is being a writer. Because it is lovely, it is amazing and it will set you free.

It is now mid September. I’ve been writing for nineteen long, lovely and utterly bonkers months. And I want to write more. I want to write until my hands bleed and my fingers just give out from the effort. Because writing is what keeps me going.

Let writing be a good thing in your life.

Make good art.

http://barenakedlady.wordpress.com/

Guest Blog: Cindy Spencer Pape

by | Oct 29, 2012 | | 7 Comments

Moonlight & Mechanicals, A Gaslight Chronicles novel by Cindy Spencer Pape

First of all, I’d like to thank Lucy for having me here today. Secondly, I’d like to chat about a little something that comes up in several of my steampunk books: condom use.

Whether you find that protection interferes with the fantasy in a romance novel or not, sometimes I think we do our readers and our characters a service by showing them being cautious. Condoms in the mid-nineteenth century in England were more common than you might think. In fact, condoms go back a lot further than you may have guessed. I’ve researched this more extensively than I ever thought I’d need to, and here is a little synopsis of what I’ve learned.

The first written reference to what we now call a condom was by an Italian scientist named Fallopio (yes, as in Fallopian tubes) in 1564. He claimed to have “invented” a device to prevent the spread of venereal disease. The description isn’t very detailed, but apparently it was a linen sheath that fit over the glans. He actually tested it on 1100 men and none of them became infected. So the condom for disease prevention isn’t a recent phenomenon. Another doctor published something similar in 1597. From there forward, there’s a pretty clear record of condom use and innovation. They’re mentioned in a French play from 1655, maybe in the correspondence of two French noblewomen from the late 1600s and quite extensively in the memoirs of the legendary Giacomo Casanova, published in 1797. The famous lover didn’t much like them and there’s an engraving in the book of he and a friend inflating them like balloons to entertain a pair of ladies, thus starting a proud tradition carried out by high school boys to this day. The word condom dates in print to 1706, in a poem, but the origins of the word remain a mystery. Legend says that a Dr. Condom introduced them to Charles II of England as a means of preventing additional illegitimate offspring, but no support of this has ever been found, and it’s now assumed to be a myth.

By the late 1700s you could find prophylactics made of hand sewn goat, sheep, or cow intestine, tanned fish skin, oiled silk, or even very fine leather. Some covered the whole penis, others were caps or “capottes” that just covered the glans, and most had a drawstring at the base to hold them in place. Condom technology really took off in the 1800s. They had great names like cundums, French Letters, French Preservatives, Male Safes, English Armor, and “Patent Circular Protector.” Early experiments with rubber were fairly unsuccessful, until Goodyear and Hancock (separately) in about 1844 invented the vulcanization process. The new technique allowed for much more durable protection, though the resulting condoms were thicker than those made of skin. They were also designed to be washed out and reused until the rubber started to crumble. The first advertisement for rubber condoms appeared in the New York Times in 1861, so we know they were widely available by then. In 1873, the Comstock Act prohibited the sale of contraceptives by mail in theUS, so for many years, they became harder to get with relative anonymity. The reservoir tip was added in 1901, and a method for making them without seams was discovered inGermany in 1912. In 1930 the latex condom was introduced, thus creating the rubber we know today.

 

Below is a little snippet from “Moonlight & Mechanicals.” I hope you can see what I mean about the protection fitting into and even being a part of the story.

“I didn’t get to the chemist.” His breath was shallow and choppy as he peeled away the rest of her clothes. When she stood there in nothing but stockings and garters, he groaned.

“In the drawer beside the bed. I stole some from the boys’ bathroom.” Her hand moved down to a garter and he growled.

“Leave those.” He’d remember the sight of her in just her stockings for the rest of his life. Now he wondered just how experimental his little firebrand could be. “Put your hands on the bureau and face the mirror.”

Her eyes widened, but she did as he said, leaning over the dresser with her delectable bottom pointed at him. It was all he could do not to spend then and there. With haste, he withdrew a French letter from the drawer and tied the sheepskin sheath over his penis. Then he stalked up to Wink.

“Watch the mirror.” He lowered his mouth to the side of her throat, sucking lightly on the spot where he’d marked her the day before. She quivered under his touch, moaning when he used his hands on her breasts. He watched over her shoulder, entranced by the sight of his darker fingers trailing over her fair skin and peach nipples. “You have freckles on your shoulders.” He hadn’t noticed those in his dimly lit room the night before.

She didn’t respond. He could see her fight to keep her eyes open as her arousal deepened.

He ran one hand down her flat belly to her mons. “Spread your legs a little and lean on the bureau more.”

She complied instantly, her backside brushing against his erection. Liam tested her, found her wet and ready for him. He positioned himself at her entrance and pressed inside.

“Oh.” Her eyes flew open and she met his gaze in the mirror. “That’s…nice.”

The angle allowed for deeper penetration and Liam nodded. He kissed her neck again, and used his fingers on her clitoris as he stroked in and out. It wasn’t long before she cried out his name and convulsed around him, her tight muscles milking his erection. His own climax speared through him and he shuddered helplessly as he poured himself into her heat.

*****

Moonlight and MechanicalsLondon, 1859

Engineer Winifred “Wink” Hadrian has been in love with Inspector Liam McCullough for years, but is beginning to lose hope when he swears to be a lifelong bachelor. Faced with a proposal from a Knight of the Round Table and one of her closest friends, Wink reluctantly agrees to consider him instead.

Because of his dark werewolf past, Liam tries to keep his distance, but can’t say no when Wink asks him to help find her friend’s missing son. They soon discover that London’s poorest are disappearing at an alarming rate, after encounters with mysterious “mechanical” men. Even more alarming is the connection the missing people may have with a conspiracy against the Queen.

Fighting against time—and their escalating feelings for each other—Wink and Liam must work together to find the missing people and save the monarchy before it’s too late…

Available from:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Barnes & Noble

*****

About the Author:

Award-winning author of over forty popular books and novellas in paranormal, historical, and erotic romance, Cindy Spencer Pape is an avid reader. According to The Romance Studio, her plots are “full of twist and turns that keep the reader poised at the edge of their seat.” Joyfully Reviewed said, her “colorful characters and plot building surprises kept me spellbound,” and Romantic Times Magazine says her “characters are appealing, and passionate sex leads to a satisfying romance.”

Cindy firmly believes in happily-ever-after. Married for more than twenty-five years to her own, sometimes-kilted hero, she lives in southern Michigan with him and two college-age sons, along with an ever-changing menagerie of pets.  Cindy has been, among other things, a banker, a teacher, and an elected politician, but mostly an environmental educator, though now she is lucky enough to write full-time. Her degrees in zoology and animal behavior almost help her comprehend the three male humans who share her household.

http://www.cindyspencerpape.com
Blog: http://cindyspencerpape.blogspot.com/
Newsletter group: http://yhoo.it/ni7PHo
Twitter: http://twitter.com/CindySPape
Facebook: http://on.fb.me/gjbLLC

Guest Blog: Justine Elyot

by | Oct 26, 2012 | | 2 Comments

His House of SubmissionCountry House

There’s something about a country house, isn’t there? Especially when it comes to erotica. So many of my favourite stories take place in remote ancestral piles that I could almost classify it as a fetish.

I’ve indulged this taste of mine in my new Mischief novella, His House of Submission. Jasper’s house full of antique furniture, set in lavish grounds, makes for a perfect bubble away from the real world – a fantasy place where he and Sarah, the graduate student he has hired to catalogue his collections of artefacts, can play to their heart’s content, away from prying eyes. (Or can they?)

I’m a lover of rolling lawns, overgrown walled gardens, gravel paths and statuary outside. Inside I like a huge central staircase, wood panelling, writing desks and four poster beds. All of these are in evidence at Jasper’s house. I wish I could live there. With Jasper.

Here’s an excerpt:

‘What room are you working in at the moment?’ he asked.

‘The, uh, the one with the piano.’

‘The drawing room,’ he corrected me. ‘I’ll be in the study. Come and wait outside in, shall we say, two hours? That’ll give me enough time to devise something suitable.’

Instant shivers. Something suitable.

‘Run along then, Sarah,’ he said with a ghoulish smile. ‘We mustn’t neglect our work, must we?’

But I’m afraid I did neglect my work.

Over and over again I came to with a start, some ornament or other in my hand, after drifting into reverie. If I carried on like that, something was going to get broken. And then what might be my fate? I kept going to the door and looking around it, towards the study, listening. Sometimes I could hear his voice, faintly, making telephone calls, or the tap of a keyboard.

While he worked, he was thinking of me. Thinking of what was to be done with me, for my shameless behaviour with his property.

And while I worked, I was thinking of him. Thinking of how he compelled and disturbed and attracted and repelled me. I had never met a man who could do all those things simultaneously before. Perhaps there was no other man in the world who could.

The hands of all the antique clocks made their slow forward progress through time until the two hours had elapsed and I put down my clipboard and pencil, patted down my skirt and left the room.

I could keep walking, walk to the front door, walk to the car, get in the car, drive away.

But I stopped at the study door and lifted my hand and…

I heard his chair creak.

I knocked.

He didn’t reply.

I knocked again.

‘Come in.’

The study was a glorious room and his desk was one of my favourite pieces in the whole house. Mahogany with brass handles and a green leather writing area in the shape of a cross, on top of which his computer looked somewhat incongruous. He should be writing longhand with parchment and ink. There was a raised gallery at the back of the desk, along which were perched a procession of film awards, the Palme d’Or in pride of place.

I breathed in the beeswax and stillness, letting it calm my jangling nerves.

‘Sarah,’ he said, sitting back in his oxblood leather chair. ‘Now we come to the real test.’

‘Do we?’

He opened a drawer and brought out the strop. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, staring at it.

 

Uh oh! What happens next? Well, here’s the blurb and a buy link:

He’s a collector with some kinky interests on the side. She’s here to catalogue his possessions. But will she end up being one of them?

Sarah turns up at Jasper Jay’s country house thinking she has been hired to make an inventory of his large collection of historical artefacts. But when she and her lover, Will, are caught by the boss sneaking a peek at some of his more private pieces, she starts to suspect an ulterior motive. Alone with Jasper Jay in his secluded manor, Sarah finds herself enthralled by the enigmatic collector, especially given the intimate interest she shares with him. Pretty soon, they’re entangled in an intense relationship of domination and submission that excludes the rest of the world. Until it intrudes, in the form of a vengeful Will, bent on exposing everything his erstwhile boss has worked so hard to keep secret.

Available at Amazon etc. and via Mischief Books website: http://www.mischiefbooks.com/books/his-house-submission/

Guest Blogger: Nephylim

by | Oct 24, 2012 | | 1 Comment

INTRODUCTION

The very first story I published online was about vampires who turned out to be angels. I have always seen a connection between vampires and fallen angels and I’ve explored it quite a bit in my writing.

In these stories you’ll find a vampire and an angel but there is no connection and whether or not this angel is fallen depends, I guess, on the way you look at it. He’s definitely an insatiable monster but he’s still fighting on the side of the angels in the ultimate war of good and evil.

As well as vampires, I’ve had a fascination for paranormal beings of all kinds, especially shifters. The shifter in my collection is a werewolf. He’s in a bit of a mess emotionally and I’ve concentrated on that, rather than the  usual tormented soul of the monster thing. He’s definitely tormented but it’s the hormones.

There has always been a connection in mythology, I think, between vampires and werewolves and they have often been spoken of in the same sentence. They go together like nuns and bishops, vicars and tarts, apple pie and cream. I wonder why? There’s not much of a similarity. Apart from the fact they eat people.  Vampires can’t walk under the sun (NO not because they sparkle), but werewolves can. Werewolves only change at full moon, vampires can at will. Werewolves are mangy animals, vampires sexy and sophisticated.

I think the reason they are put together is because they appeal to our higher and lower instincts. Yes, the appeal is sexual, of course it is. Why else would we flock to see man/animals tear people apart? Because they’re sexy. The violence is sexy. The anticipation is sexy. And I don’t need to explain in what ways vampires are sexy… do I?

Vampires, I think, appeal to our sense of the aesthetic. Eternally young and beautiful. Refines ladies and gentlemen who drink wine from crystal goblets and wear beautiful suits and flowing gowns. The men are all slightly effeminate, with pale skin and long hair and the women are femme fatales. Sex on a plate.

Werewolves, on the other hand are animals, plain and simple. They appeal to our more base and carnal desires. The ones that want to be thrown on a bed and ravished. Hot breath on our bodies, huge penises thrust between our legs and the sense of danger that the teeth nipping our skin might just tear out our throats.

Anyway, that’s me. I’m a very sensuous and rather Freudian person. Everything boils down to sex in the end.

DESCRIPTION

Aster is a vampire looking for someone. When he finds Kia his plan is to fuck him and drain him, but Kia has other ideas. Recognising Aster as the man he’s been waiting for, he turns the tide and seduces him, shocking him with secrets from the past. Together, they enter into an encounter that blows their minds and changes their lives forever.

Lucien is a werewolf. He’s always known he’s different. Definitely not an Alpha like his father. More akin to the bitches than the muscular Beta’s or lithe hunters he finds himself drawn to. When the enigmatic lone wolf arrives, with his pure white hair and ice blue eyes, Lucien is lost at first glance. After a burning hot dream he finally submits to the dominant male destined to be his mate for life.

Dema and Meri’el are an unlikely coupling. In the final war against good and evil they find themselves on opposing sides. Dema the demon and Meri’el the son of the King of Angels. Drugging each other with their bodies they unleash the primal fury of their true natures and rock the foundations of the earth and the heavens.

Grey doesn’t believe in curses. When he uncovers a cavern deep under the mountain feared by the villagers as a faery tomb, he scoffs at the superstition, until he meets a stranger who lures him into the wood. A steamy encounter in a forest glade has him wondering if being cursed is such a bad thing after all.

Shay is mourning the death of his soul mate, tormented by the fact he’d never told him how much he loved him. A knife in the back in a dark alley steals his chance to finally prove his commitment, until ghostly whisper in the same alley leads to a night of passion and the second chance both men crave, to finally find peace.

EXCERPT

And then… wolves do not mate gently. We do not know how. One minute he’s licking me gently, and the next he’s leaping off me, turning me onto my stomach and sliding his claws into my hips. I struggle and howl but, before I can do much I feel his weight on my back and then…

He thrusts into me, deeply and powerfully. I howl again, throwing back my head and releasing the frustrations of eighteen years’ self-inflicted celibacy. My teeth descend, my claws raise a cloud of feathers from the bed and my tail whips his face as he pumps, hard and fast. My dick, swinging beneath me sends sparks into my head where it brushes the bedclothes, and his claws penetrating and retracting from the flesh of my hips only heightens the experience.

 

BLURB

Five stories of the paranormal, designed to thrill and tease the senses and to challenge all you’ve ever been told about the creatures that go Hump in the Night.

 

BUY LINKS

All Romance http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-humpinthenight-786310-144.html

Amazon (UK)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hump-Night-Gay-Erotica-ebook/dp/B007Y7IC9S/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1336126590&sr=1-1

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Hump-Night-Gay-Erotica-ebook/dp/B007Y7IC9S/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1336126590&sr=1-1

Apple  http://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/hump-in-the-night/id524978900?mt=11

 

BIO

Nephylim was born into a poor mining family in the South Wales Valleys. Until she was 16, the toilet was at the bottom of the garden and the bath hung on the wall. Her refrigerator was a stone slab in the pantry and there was a black lead fireplace in the kitchen. They look lovely in a museum but aren’t so much fun to clean.

Nephylim has always been a storyteller. As a child, she’d make up stories for her nieces, nephews and cousin and they’d explore the imaginary worlds she created, in play.

Later in life, Nephylim became the storyteller for a re enactment group who travelled widely, giving a taste of life in the Iron Age. As well as having an opportunity to run around hitting people with a sword, she had an opportunity to tell stories of all kinds, sometimes of her own making, to all kinds of people. The criticism was sometimes harsh, especially from the children, but the reward enormous.

It was here she began to appreciate the power of stories and the primal need to hear them. In ancient times, the wandering bard was the only source of news, and the storyteller the heart of the village, keeping the lore and the magic alive. Although much of the magic has been lost, the stories still provide a link to the part of us that still wants to believe that it’s still there, somewhere.

In present times, Nephylim lives in a terraced house in the valleys with her son and her two cats. Her daughter has deserted her for the big city, but they’re still close. The part of her that needs to earn money is a lawyer, but the deepest, and most important part of her is a storyteller and artist, and always will be.

 

GENERAL LINKS

Goodreads – http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4462803.Nephylim

Blog – http://Nephylim-author.blogspot.co.uk

Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/Nephylim.author

 

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