Saturday, December 31, 2011

New Year's Eve at the Galactia Ecstasy


Romance lovers, Happy New Year on the first day of 2012.

About seven thirty in the evening on this New Year's Eve, I glimpsed a shooting star while I was sky gazing, and admiring the planet Venus.

"Wish upon a star" immediately came to mind, sang through my mind. When I wrote my Otherworld flash scene several years ago, I asked myself then what I wished for most... if wishes came true for celebrating New Year's Eve.
~~~~~~

New Year’s Eve at the Galactia Ecstasy

The nearly backless gown of heavy satin flowed over Shestry’s body in long elegant lines. Feeling extraordinarily beautiful, she languidly arranged herself in front of the full length mirror. Her curves appeared to be streamlined by her evening gown, the rich deep color of burnt gold.

She smiled with sheer sensual enjoyment at her reflection.

“Sis, hoop-di-doo, you’re going to drive the gents c-r-a-z-y over the moon.”

Entering her lavish dressing room with his usual flair, Jaxter sauntered to his favorite lounge chair and settled himself.

“I’ll be thrilled with good dancing partners, if you must know. I’m not going as part of the cattle call to be some man’s wife. Or is that the ‘heifer call’ market? Regardless, you men can keep to your own lives and leave me out of them for a good while.” Moving toward her brother, Shestry swept up her glitter evening bag. “Is Alexa waiting for you at the supper club?”

“She’ll be swinging into my arms once we arrive. I just gave her the tinkle and heard her sweet voice.” Jaxter held up his wrist phone, his grin one of ‘let’s go make merry’.

“What’s the latest on the parents?” Shestry gave her fancy upswept hairdo a final pat, then let the natural sway of her body take over as she walked toward her personal portal.

“They’re going to let us kiddies play and dance the night away. They’re planning to join us an hour before midnight, sweets.” Rising with athletic grace, Jaxter adjusted his tux’s black silk bowtie, then followed after her.

In moments, they stood inside the welcoming foyer of the Galactia Ecstasy, a supper club arching high above one of their world’s largest cities. The posh glimmer of furnishings, in shades of amber, surrounded them as they glided toward the immense, bowl-shaped room that was composed of a central dance floor and two upper levels for dining, partying and viewing.

“Jaxter!”

Alexa’s excited squeal penetrated the celebratory atmosphere with arrow-like ease. The petite brunette, who owned a doll’s perfect figure, flew inside her brother’s open arm. Shrugging adorably and flirtatiously, she tilted her head all the way back, and smiled without an ounce of pretense at him. Her eyes glowed with intimacy. Alexa closed them, pursing her brilliant red lips for his kiss.

Jaxter obliged for several instants, then wrapped her close against his side. “See ya later, sis. That gleaming dance floor is pulling on the soles of our shoes like magnetic plasma.”

Shestry fondly gazed at them both and gave a nod. “Greetings, Alexa. See you two much later.”

Free to pursue her own evening delights, Shestry pivoted toward the second level entrance. Straightening her shoulders, she held her head high and let the gown’s design have its way with her walking stride with what she called her ‘elegant slink’.

***

Drauz halted in his tracks. He’d been seized in the same way the gravitational pull of a sun captured his galactic ship, an occasional problem. Only his gaze continued to move, following the gorgeous woman, as she swayed like a breeze-blown reed toward the exquisitely appointed ramp, that led up to the second level dining area.

The sumptuously curved, yet slender beauty with hair the color of gold, bronze and rubies combined, obviously belonged to this world. Still, she hitched his cock to a full-standing salute, despite having satiated himself with several women during the past few days.

Surprised by the power she wielded over him, Drauz swiftly stepped behind a splendid drape that sectioned off a gentlemen’s lounge. Glancing over his shoulder, he was relieved to see no one was about. Already his hand transformed to beast claws.

His desire for the woman had catapulted his sex hormones so fiercely and so fast, his body threatened to shift into his most primal nature. He was known as a Dragonlion on his world.

Slipping the tiny vial out of his pocket with his un-transformed hand, Drauz tipped it up and drained its contents. The natural potion would tamp down his libido, for now. As quickly as it had occurred, his beast claws disappeared and his hand returned.

Without thought he trailed after the woman, his predator instincts fully engaged. Her fragrance enchanted him, reminding him of the most potent and delectable spices. The moment he caught sight of her, close to an empty dining table, he strode in her direction.

She stood alone, casually leaning on the translucent rail, enjoying the dancers below. The extreme roundness of her ass was displayed to carnal perfection by the high sheen of the gown she wore. Drauz licked his chops and told his beastly cock to behave in a gentlemanly fashion.

He could tell by the feminine language of her body and by her scent, she expected a man to woo and win her with more than his exceptional prowess between her thighs. A low roar of need rumbled up from the core of his being. He didn’t let it out.

“Who are you?” she asked without turning around. Intentionally, she kept her posture dismissive and her gaze riveted on the dazzling whirl of dancers.

“The man who is about to plead for a dance, once your favored piece of music begins.”

She spun around then, and their gazes collided. His breath rushed inward, as did hers. Reaching back, she steadied herself by clutching the rail. Drauz knew it would be a mistake to touch her yet. He forced himself not to sweep her against him as both an act of passion and protection.

***

Ignoring her ridiculous pants of breath, Shestry stared into the black-golden eyes of a Magollov, a race she knew little about, that is, except the obvious. His stature was larger, his frame more muscular than the men of her world. The deep brown-gold coloring of his suede-like skin subtly glowed. His furred lion ears pricked forward with sexual interest. Though, he’d kept his long tasseled tail discreetly behind him.

‘Lovely, aristocratic mane you have’... those were the words that wanted to fly past her lips. Instead, Shestry spoke her second thoughts. “Are you able to dance with any manner of competence, and perhaps, a dash of style?”

A glint of amusement transformed his gaze from bold intensity to a wicked playfulness that appealed to her. “Should I demonstrate with another partner? Or will you trust my word?”

Shestry tilted her head, all too aware of his hypnotizing gaze, and all too aware that she sizzled as a woman inside. “Will I require another partner? Or do you posses the stamina to dance all night?”

“My stamina is yours for this New Year’s celebration.” His gaze roamed over her face, devouring every detail. Her nipples tightened when he briefly dipped his gaze to the swells of her breasts, revealed by the gown’s v-plunging neckline. “Shall I order us a sustaining platter of delicacies and a bottle of bubbly? Your preference, of course.”

“You are an adventure I would like to taste. Prove your worth on the dance floor and I am yours for this New Year’s celebration.”

***

She promised him nothing, not even her name. She offered only her devoted company for her world’s night of elegant revelry. Drauz knew that. He didn’t care. He’d keep his needs tamed for her. This woman with eyes like far-away, beckoning blue stars. With lips that invited his plunder. With pale golden skin that demanded the rough arousing strokes of his tongue.

He presented his arm. “But dance with me, and my worth I shall prove.”

***

Feeling as sensual as the satin of her gown, and as molten as the color, Shestry placed her hand on the Magollov’s handsomely carved arm. One night of dancing surrounded by the crystalline fantasy of the supper club, with a man who didn’t belong to her world, a man who could never belong to her. Why not ferociously enjoy?

With suave attentiveness, he escorted her toward the long spiraling ramp, and they moved downward. It was as if she tread on air. “May I feel the caress of your tail tassel on my face when we dance?”
~~~~~~

~ Have a Magickal and Miraculous New Year ~

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~

Happy New Year!



Hi, everyone. It's count down time to 2012. I'm posting my new cover and a subscriber's link   in case you decide to check out my Dreamcatcher Newsletter this month. My latest serialized novella begins at midnight tonight. Come on, don't be shy--Flirt.

Subscribe Here:

Happy New Year!!!

Gem
WEB /  FB  / Twitter

Thursday, December 29, 2011

13 Ways to Be a Humble Writer

Happy New Year!
Christmas is finally over and we're settling in for winter. A new year is at the entrance, nosing about, waiting for its chance to get in. I decided to share some humor I've learned over the past few years about being a writer. With tongue planted firmly in cheek, here we go...

1. Being humble is rule #1. Never tell anyone you wrote a book. It's okay to write it, but keep the news to yourself. If you wrote a good book, people will find it without you saying a word.

2. Don't post any information about your book online, especially on places such as Facebook, Twitter, Yahoo Groups, or blogs. If in doubt, see #1.

3. If someone wants to buy a copy of the book from you, sell it for no more than what it cost you to obtain. It's not humble to expect people to pay more than you did.

4. Cover art is not necessary. A book's quality should never be judged by its outside. "Never judge a book by its cover" is an axiom.

5. Do not set goals. A true writer only writes when inspired, therefore, goals are counterproductive.

6. Wait for inspiration. Be ready to write, but don't worry about muses or looking for inspiration outside yourself. True inspiration comes from within and should not be sought. When it's real, it will come.

7. Editing is for those who don't get it right the first time. Don't write anything down until you know it's correct. This will save you time and energy, not to mention paper, ink, and erasers.

8. If your computer is on, you should be writing. Remind yourself of this. Guilt can help you stay focused.

9. Games are counterproductive to writing. There is a school of thought that they are helpful by enabling you to relax. However, this can also lead to indulgence, and should be avoided by a hard-working writer.

10. Physical exercise requires time away from your desk. Avoid it.

11. It's all right to eat all your meals at your desk. Dinner or lunch with the family is time consuming.

12. Cleaning house is maid's work. Writers write. Stay at your desk.

13. Don't give advice on the web.

Gotten any really bad advice lately? Other than #12, I can't agree with anything posted here.

Happy New Year everyone. =^_^= Here's to success in 2012!
---
About the author
Kayelle Allen is a multi-published author who writes immortal characters, and is the creator of the Kin -- warriors who purr. Find Kayelle on the web:

Friday, December 23, 2011

Merry Christmas Everyone!

     Elizabeth looked  up at Noah, memorizing this moment for the rest of their lives. The wedding had been a magnificent affair, but she'd been so distracted by her desire to have it over, she could barely remember the trappings of the event. 
     Now they stood together, man and wife, waiting for the musicians to begin. Noah's face was flushed. She suspected he was nervous with half the county watching them. She squeezed his hand reminding him she was his partner now in all things.
      The first notes of the Bride & Groom Dance sounded, signaling  the beginning of the song and their committed relationship. Carefully, Noah turned her into his arms, holding her closer than Grandma Alice would approve. His voice was a rough parody of his usual gentle tone when he asked gruffly, "Shall we dance?"


Elizabeth's Waltz is a short story I've written in serialized form for my Dream Catcher Newsletter subscribers. The vignette is complete and at midnight tonight the downloadable file will be available for a limited time @ Gem's Place.


Happy Holidays, Everyone!

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Thursday, December 22, 2011

Thursday Thirteen: Defining Success

If I’ve learned one thing about success, it’s that there’s no surefire way to achieve it. It’s route is personal and for most of us, circuitous. It zigzags, double-backs and sometimes leads us down dead-ends. But it’s out there. Waiting for us – if we’re willing to take the risk and persevere.

Here’s what some famous people had to say about success:

  1. Sometimes in life you don't always feel like a winner, but that doesn't mean you're not a winner. -- Lady Gaga
  2. You always pass failure on the way to success. -- Mickey Rooney
  3. I couldn't wait for success, so I went ahead without it. -- Jonathan Winters
  4. Most people give up just when they're about to achieve success. They quit on the one yard line. They give up at the last minute of the game one foot from a winning touchdown. -- Ross Perot
  5. Success is how high you bounce when you hit bottom. -- George S. Patton
  6. Success is falling nine times and getting up ten. -- Jon Bon Jovi
  7. There is no point at which you can say, "Well, I'm successful now. I might as well take a nap.” -- Carrie Fisher.
  8. To guarantee success, act as if it were impossible to fail. -- Dorothea Brande
  9. Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go. -- William Feather
  10. How do you achieve success? Well, for one thing, you don't define it before you achieve it.  -- Robert Brault
  11. Some people succeed because they are destined to, but most people succeed because they are determined to.  -- Author Unknown
  12. Success and failure.  We think of them as opposites, but they're really not.  They're companions - the hero and the sidekick. -- Laurence Shames
  13. If at first you do succeed - try to hide your astonishment.  -- Author Unknown

 
 





 
 
  


Wednesday, December 21, 2011

What If You're Not in the Mood

What do you do when it's "The Holidays" and you are feeling like Scrooge? When it's like having writer's block for Christmas? How do you handle it when you feel like curling up and just snoozing through the season?

Surely I am not the only one who feels like Christmas is becoming all commercials and sales. I am even working toward "selling" a free class on blogging by reminding authors that many readers will have empty Kindles and Nooks to fill on Christmas morning. Am I adding to the overcommercialization of the holiday?

At what point do you reach saturation with the entire jingle-bell-rock background music and heave Santa off a cliff? =^_^=




No, I'm not depressed or a Scrooge. I'm enjoying this Christmas more than I have in the past. I have a 15 month old grandbaby to cuddle this year and I love seeing Christmas through his eyes. But I sense a kind of creeping de-fun-ization that threatens the joy of the season.

So, talk to me. Have you ever dealt with this? How do you handle it when your family is looking at you to provide the Ho Ho Ho and all you have is Ho Hum?

To encourage answers and comments, I'm offering a download of any single book on my backlist. I'll give away one download to every unique commenter (meaning different people), up to ten commenters.

That ought to put at least a few people in a festive mood for the holidays. Leave a comment, and then email me with Season in the subject, and tell me which of my books you want.

You can find my backlist here: http://kayelleallen.com/Books.html

Howliday Greetings from ShapeShifter Seductions


Howliday greetings, shapeshifter lovers.

The Winter Solstice, that magical time of year when the light returns, is now upon us. The Christmas season, a miraculous time of the year, will highlight the miracles that are about to play out in 2012. This prediction is directly from Volcano, my cherub hero in When a Good Angel Falls.


I wish one and all the merriest holiday season.
~~~~~~

...a real nice gift from Santa...

"Who gives an elf?" Srynna grumbled as she wriggled down the sooty narrow chimney. What a gig, leaving toys for good shapeshifter girls and boys -- actually gift certificates, good for any store in Talbot's Peak.

Yeah, holly jolly, this was Christmas eve hell. At around 110 pounds she could just see herself hoisting an enormous Santa Klaus bag while sneakily moving from house to house, unscented by keen-nosed predator types -- at least, the gift certificates were tucked close in a small waist pouch.

Sure she could morph to invisible for short periods of time, avoiding detection, but that didn't include a bulky bag. Frigging cold, on the verge of exhaustion, and with hunger sticking her belly to her backbone, Srynna wasn't in a merry, festive mood. It's not like most shifters expected Santa, and left out cookies and milk.

Thank the good Christmas fairy -- who she knew personally -- this was her last stop.

"Stuff the holly wreathe up your..." she muttered as she squirmed, and suppressed the urge to sneeze from the dust and soot.

How Dante had talked her into this... well, because as a half-human she'd needed the money, and the werewolf could be charm itself when he wanted. Plus, with the promise of a plum job at his newest club, the Midnight Stardust... Srynna just hadn't been able to refuse.

So, here she was nearly trapped, about to have a coughing fit, about to wake up a whole household full of --

Suddenly, Srynna plummeted downward. A scream exploded up her throat, but was somewhat muffled by the chimney. With a hard bruising thump, she landed square on her butt. An ember that hadn't completely died burned through her thin slippery breeches, and she shrieked in pain.

With survival in mind, Srynna slapped at her hind end until the smell of smoke lessened. She scrambled out of the fairly large hearth only to smack into something she couldn't see, something very furry. As it toppled, she tumbled over it, and realized it must be a giant stuffed toy.

Performing a flip to regain her feet and get the crap out of this den of possible horrors, as in her being featured for Christmas dinner, Srynna felt the needles of a real pine tree prick her face. Unable to stop her momentum, she crashed full-on into the huge, heavily decorated Christmas tree.

With a screech of pure panic, she wrestled the confining, needle-sharp boughs trying to make good her escape. The string of lights fought back, tangling around her like a ball of mating snakes. Simultaneously, the decorative bulbs pummeled her when they didn't break into painful shards.

Struggling harder to free herself, all Srynna got for her valiant effort was the mighty pine on top of her, the victor. Buried beneath the tree alive, and entombed by sizeable Christmas presents, she desperately tried to think of a way to escape this deck-the-halls hell.

Even if she could untangle herself, and crawl her way through the maze of heavy limbs, Srynna realized she couldn't vanish to save herself. Her energy was sapped.

Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. She'd allowed herself to hope her future would be brighter once she arrived in Talbot's Peak. Her kind, an ancient elf and human lineage, had barely avoided being eradicated once the age of machines had begun, and the old ways of magick faded.

Now that magick returned as the dominant force, her kind was still not welcome in most elfin communities. She'd been welcomed by Dante and his crew, and had even begun to feel as though she fit in... now...

With a strangled sob, Srynna twisted trying to ease her way out of the imprisoning light strings. Feeling a draft of air, she stilled. The tree rose as if hauled upward by the hand of a compassionate angel.

But she knew better. Feral eyes, bright as the Christmas tree lights if they'd been turned on, cut through the room's inky darkness. Their amber-emerald beam landed directly on her.

"Now that's what I call a real nice gift from Santa," a lazy deep voice drawled.

Despite her fluttering heartbeat, and the icy fear racing through her, Srynna snapped, "I am not a gift."

"Oh?" the obviously wolfen voice asked. She watched the tree settle against the fireplace mantle. Then those predator eyes slowly devoured her whole before she heard, "I beg to differ. You look like the perfect tasty gift to me," he paused and loosely folded his... were those brawny hunky arms? "Although, little elf, the trip down the chimney did take its toll on your pretty holiday wrapping."

"I told you I am not... never mind. If you would kindly get me out of these lights, I'll leave the gift certificate... and, and be on my way... on my merry way," she added, hoping 'in the spirit of the season' he would let her go.

"Dante didn't tell me he was sending such a fetching little elf. He only said not to mistake you for prey."

"How do you... I mean Dante told me he hadn't..." Srynna gulped hard. "This was supposed to be a secret Santa sort of thing."

"I work at the club. Overheard him recruiting you. But I missed the best part. Seeing you, little elf." He'd stressed 'seeing' in that turn-a-girl-on growly voice of his

"I'm not an el..." But why explain anything to the bare-chested, and from what else she could see in the darkness -- why explain anything to the eye-candy, overly handsome werewolf?

Yeah, so her ears were pointed. And, even if she was from an elfin lineage, being called an elf was worse than a curse word to her, given how often she and her kin had been ostracized. When all they'd wanted was a home, a place to be, and belong.

Suddenly bending toward her, he swept his gaze over her length. "Are you hurt?"

"Hurt," she burst out. "How could I be hurt? The chimney was too small, then widened and I fell 'hard' onto a live ember. Of course, I'm a dreadful mess. Hurt? After stumbling over that furry beast you call a toy, your Christmas tree tried to murder me..."

His mouth caught hers, his kiss so warm and enveloping, Srynna let herself kiss him back. Then, before she knew it, his lips deserted hers, and he was unwinding the light string, his touch tender and surprisingly efficient.

"Damn good thing, everyone else is at the grandparents. Your fall from grace, my cute Christmas elf, would have woken up the dead."

"Why? Are you zombie by night?" She'd fired wild with that silly zombie remark, but frazzled didn't even cover the state of her nerves.

"Sleep like a zombie sometimes." Gently, he unwound the last of light string from her ankle. "Don't think I'll be sleeping now." Clasping her waist with both hands, he swung her upward, and she dangled before him like a new toy. "You're bleeding," he stated the obvious.

Bristling, Srynna snarked, "That's what happens when you're the victim of a vicious Christmas tree attack."

As he continued to hold her before him with ease, inspecting her with his gaze, Srynna wondered just how strong the wolf beast was. She certainly felt like his prize doll.

"I'll take full responsibility for my rabid Christmas tree, little elf. Zhangar is my name, Srynna."

So Dante had told him her name. Just elf-ing great.

"Let's get you taken care of and cleaned up." His gaze met hers, flaring with what could only be described as ravenous, eat-her-up desire.

Oh, help me please... any good-hearted fairy.

"I don't want to be cleaned up. I want to leave. I'll just leave... leave the gift certificate and --"

"What kind of gentleman would I be? If I didn't take care of all your scrapes and bruises. Dante would have my furry hide," he added after a moment. Amusement definitely colored his tone. Not any fear of his alpha boss.

"I was feeling lonely," he continued, his voice gruffly sexy, "playing Santa and setting everything up. But I'm not complaining now because I want to unwrap my gift in private."

With that he spun her around, and lifted her higher. As she hung like his personal ornament, Srynna could palpably feel his gaze on her butt. And she knew he didn't only check her burned cheek.

"Thank you, Big Red Guy," he rasped.

The next thing she knew, he was pressing a soft kiss on the blistered area. Srynna stilled, stunned by the sudden turn of events. When he slowly, patiently licked her exposed flesh, she realized two things. He was healing her burn, and she'd never felt so wanton in her entire life.

With her breath coming out in needy bursts, Srynna grabbed hold of his hands with her much smaller ones. Her butt moved of its own volition closer to his mouth. "Oh, more," she panted out.
~~~~~~

~ Have a Magickal and Shapeshifting Winter Solstice ~

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~

Monday, December 19, 2011

And the winner is....

CONGRATS TO
STACEY SIFERD

the winner of
Stuff Your Stockings Christmas Blog Hop
Romance Writers Behaving Badly Gift Basket.
This basket includes: Rip Cord ebook from Jeanne St. James
PDF copy from Savanna Kougar’s backlist
Download of Alitus, Tales of the Chosen from Kayelle Allen
PDF download of Handcuffs & Silk from Mary Quast


Bound by Obsession from Christa Paige

$10 gift card to The Wild Rose Press from Becca Simone
A copy Perfect Strangers from Gem Sivad

Friday, December 16, 2011

Stuff Your Stockings Christmas Blog Hop 2011

Welcome to the Stuff Your Stocking Blog Hop. You probably just hopped in after enjoying some sweets from Rhian Cahill, the author of the delicious Coyote Hunger Series.

Now grab a Holiday beverage, sit back and relax... time to enjoy your time with Romance Writers Behaving Badly.

Remember to leave a comment for a chance to win
a Romance Writers Behaving Badly Gift Basket.
This basket includes:
Rip Cord ebook from Jeanne St. James
PDF copy from Savanna Kougar’s backlist
Download of Alitus, Tales of the Chosen from Kayelle Allen
PDF download of Handcuffs & Silk from Mary Quast
Bound by Obsession from Christa Paige
$10 gift card to The Wild Rose Press from Becca Simone
A copy Perfect Strangers from Gem Sivad



Enjoy some Romantic Interludes on your next stop of the Blog Hop.

Because of the season, there is one question romance writers hear often....
Are you naughty or are you nice?
Let's see what the authors of Romance Writers Behaving Badly have to say.


To quote the beautiful Mae West, "When I'm good, I'm very good. But when I'm bad, I'm better." I like to be naughty in a good way. Fill my Christmas stocking with silk scarves, chocolate, whipping cream and steamy sex I'll be happy all year. Or at least for a few hours until I need a nap.


Merry Christmas! ~ Author and Artist Mary Quast lives in a log home affectionately named "Camp Run-A-Muk" located in the woods of Michigan with her husband, three sons, and a collection of animal family members.When she’s not busy writing contemporary romance novels, novelettes, and short stories, Mary doles out sensual tips and yummy eye candy on her blog “Romantic Interludes”

~~~~~~

Naughty or nice... hmmm... I'm like the little girl with the curl... I can be very, very nice. But when I'm penning one of my erotic romances, I can be very, very naughty.

~ A Short Shapeshifter Erotic Romance for Christmas ~

Consumed by curiosity, Kaily gives herself to a mystery man for Christmas.

Will Dylan be able to resist her waiting naked, but gift-wrapped beneath his tree?

Excerpt ~

Chapter One:

Santa Baby, Waitin' Just for You

BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684456156431313506

Rarely reckless, Kaily flung off the negligee she'd first thought to wear. It landed in a red ephemeral heap beside the tastefully trimmed Christmas tree.

So what if she'd just broken into his house...well, she hadn't exactly broken in...more like she spied on him until she found out where he hid the extra key...lodged in a crack of the frame above the door of the Victorian mansion he'd resurrected from certain crumbling death, and now obviously treasured.

There was only one thing Kaily could see amiss in the traditional holiday atmosphere he'd created with the help of the town's local historical club -- a garish red ribbon. The long sash had a simple bow attached to one end, and practically shone despite the low lighting.
Kaily stared at the unexpected invitation.

Certainly, the river of red ribbon didn't belong on the floor as a decoration, and she couldn't see anywhere else it belonged...except wrapped around her.

Since she was giving herself to him as a gift for Christmas...well, why not?

Wildly inspired, Kaily plucked up what looked to be about three yards of ribbon. After strategically emphasizing her full breasts, she arranged it around her naked body. Naked that is, except for her gold ankle bracelet, her 'I want to seduce you earrings'...and a whimsical pair of faux-fur trimmed santa boots.

Heck, Kaily reasoned, if he was gay he might just chuckle a ho-ho-ho, and turn it all into big ole joke...and she'd turn her bare tail, and escape as quick as possible. If he wasn't gay, but didn't want to take what she was offering, Kaily hoped he would have a holly jolly laugh at her expense as he politely showed her to the door.

It was all too true, her curiosity raged out of control even causing her sleepless nights. The object of her desire had sauntered into Kaily's small town last December. He'd paid cash on the spot for the dilapidated but proud old Victorian mansion, according to Becky Starks the one realtor.

With a vengeance, and despite the winter weather, Sexy Strange Man as she'd thought of him then had set about restoring the mansion. He'd also made certain to gain the good will of everyone in town...well, almost everyone.

Nessie Jones, the town's librarian, didn't like Dylan. Of course, Nessie didn't like anyone anyway, for whatever reason she could find. The love of her life was books and a mystery man she claimed to be married to that no one ever saw.

Behind Dylan's back, Nessie always curled her lip and wrinkled her nose, as if his deodorant had failed in its job...which might be case, since he always smelled smoky and impossibly virile to Kaily.

Even though she did try to avoid him, because of her obsession with knowing more about him why make herself look like a prize-trussed fool in front of everyone by groping him with questions still, they were always running into each other, and Kaily always became turned-on, and positively inebriated by his scent.

Okay yes, Kaily admitted, now she did look good and trussed up, the way the length of red ribbon wound around her body. At least, by what she could see. There was a slice of her reflection in the tall narrow mirror near the fireplace mantle.

With the bow dangling from one hand, Kaily wondered if she should position it over her well-furred pussy not completely covered by the ribbon. Or maybe, the large showy bow should nestle between the swells of her breasts...or be placed like a centerpiece above her ample-enough cleavage.

"Ooooh...Santa baby, waitin' just for you," she crooned like the song, then pursed her lips in an attempt to look sexy.
~~~~~~

Blurb:

Kaily has been consumed by curiosity ever since Dylan suddenly appears in her small town. Surreptitiously, she watches the mystery man restore a rundown Victorian mansion, all while his charm and sincerity gain him the good will of most everyone. This is especially true when he volunteers to become the annual Santa Claus for the children at the town's park.


The problem for Kaily: No one really knows anything about Dylan's past or where he came from. With her attraction to him growing day by day, she becomes a driven woman. On a desperate whim, she gives herself to him as a Christmas present. Will Dylan be able to resist her waiting naked, but gift-wrapped beneath his tree?

~~~~~~

Now Available for 99 cents at ~ SMASHWORDS & AMAZON

Coming Soon to other ebook vendors.

~~~~~~

Have the merriest of holidays!

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~

~~~~~~

Naughty or nice? Hmmmm...I write steamy, historical westerns. Guess the readers will have to check out one of my books and decide. Pinch of Naughty is coming soon from Ellora's Cave. Quincy's Woman, Perfect Strangers and Five Card Stud are available now.

pinchofnaughty-3d.png image by Gemsivad
quincys-woman-3dsmalltransparent1.png image by GemsivadPSBookPage.png image by Gemsivad5cs-cover-3d.png image by Gemsivad


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Am I naughty? Or, am I nice?

This is an interesting question that requires deeper thought and a bit of evidence. An examination of sorts just might give us the answer.

First let me look at the following picture. Go right ahead and look too. You too can take Christa’s simple, two-step Naughty or Nice test.

(Pillow Fight)
Now, to determine one’s status as naughty or nice it is good to define what each means.

naughty (ˈnɔːtɪ)
— adj , -tier , -tiest
1. mischievous or disobedient; bad
2. mildly indecent; titillating

nice /naɪs/
— adj,
1. virtuous; respectable; decorous
2. suitable or proper

Since we have something to refer to now, let’s examine another picture….
(Beach Santas)

A few notable quotes might help for a reference point:

Let's be naughty and save Santa the trip.
Gary Allan

It is nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice.
John Templeton


(You are looking at the pictures again aren’t you?)

I know that my mind does not have any virtuous, respectable or proper thoughts in it, right now. So, that’s all the evidence I need to diagnose my present state of mind….

I’m NAUGHTY But…
I’m also NICE because I shared that lovely photo with you!

So who is with me in the naughty group?


May you have the naughtiest, nicest Christmas Day!
Christa www.christapaige.com



Thursday, December 15, 2011

13 Things About Snowmen

I've been entertaining children while parents go Christmas shopping, so I hope you'll pardon my sidestep into the land of goofy one-liners about Snowmen. =^_^= These were adorable, and I found some images that go right along with them. My favorite is the last. Ah, if only that worked for people, too.

1. What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?
Frostbite.
2. How do you know when there is a snowman in your bed?
You wake up wet. 

3. What does a Snowman take when he gets sick?
A chill pill. 

4. What does a snowman’s wife put on her face at night?
Cold cream. 

5. What is a Snowman’s favorite Drink?
Ice Tea. 

6. What kind of cakes do snowmen like?
The kind with lots of frosting. 

7. What happened when the snowgirl had an argument with the snowboy ?
She gave him the cold shoulder. 

8. What do snowmen wear on their heads?
Ice caps. 

9. What's the difference between snowmen and snowladies?
Snowballs. 

10. What do snowmen call their offspring?
Chill-dren. 

11. What happened when the icicle landed on the sowmman’s head?
It knocked him cold.

12. What do ou call a snowman in summer?
A puddle. 

13. How does a snowman lose weight?
He waits for the weather to get warmer.

Have a fun holiday filled with the wonder of innocent play and fun.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Cold Nights, Hot Bodies

Friend and fellow author, Lily Harlem’s newest release will be available today @ Ellora’s Cave. Yikes, I need Teflon coated gloves to handle it. It's hot, hot, hot!  ;)
Blurb:
All my life I’ve been the quiet bookworm, the office mouse. It hasn’t bothered me. Immersing myself in erotic novels has kept me wriggling on the edge of my seat at work and firmly entrenched in my own fantasy world at night.
Though one thing is bothering me—my damn virginity. If only I could find a sexy bedroom expert to introduce me to the delights of having a lover. Someone handsome and charming, who can rival the hunky alpha males in my books. I have a very vivid, very well-fed imagination—he’ll have to keep up.
Then, one bitterly cold night, thanks to a devious, conniving so-called-friend, the perfect opportunity to rid myself of this pesky virginal problem comes along. Before I know it, the heroes in my novels have come alive in the person of Shane Galloway, who’s pleasuring me with every trick in the book and wheedling into my heart in the hottest possible of ways.
Check out Cold Nights, Hot Bodies @ Ellora’s Cave


 Buy Today  

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Judging a book by its cover


I admit it. I judge books by their covers. Unless I am familiar with the author, when shopping for books, I go first for a great cover, THEN I read the blurb. It's never the other way around.
I thought it would be interesting to go to different erotic romance publishers and check out their new releases and see what covers catch my eye.

Do you think they're as awesome as I do, or would different covers have captured your attention?

Sex. Cowboys. Sepia-toned cover. Yes, yes, and yes.
This woman just looks so naughty and sexy, I can't wait to read her story!

Love the title, for one. The colors also drew me in. And it just looks like a fun read.

Three hot guys and a shark? I'm so there.

Multiple hot guys. Beautiful, artistic cover--love the black and white.

I honestly don't know why this one captured my eye. I don't find the hero particularly appealing, but something about his expression just drew me in. And the hot (literally) colors. This cover just screamed for me to buy the book.



  How do you choose books? Cover? Title? Author? All the above? None of the above?




Monday, December 12, 2011

Excerpt Monday - Perfect Strangers

NEW FROM GEM SIVAD
2012 EPIC AWARD FINALIST
2011 PASSIONATE PLUME WINNER
2010 EPIC AWARD WINNER


BLURB   Lucy and Ambrose Quince share fiery passion in and out of bed; they love hard but fight often, both having opinions and tempers. But Lucy mysteriously disappears in 1874, leaving the Double-Q ranch and all she loves behind. Three years later, scarred in mind and body, Lucy is drawn back to Eclipse and the life she’s forgotten—including a snarling, lustful husband.

Although she claims she can’t remember him, Ambrose hasn’t forgotten a damned thing. Lucy left him and he owes her nothing. Trouble is—his heart remembers too, and Lucy’s the only woman who’ll ever own it.



EXCERPT
They rode hard and silently. The stranger didn’t offer his name, and Lucy didn’t ask for it. It was sufficient to know that he was kin to her children and once, to her. She didn’t doubt that at all.

It was midmorning Friday by the time their exhausted mounts carried them into Eclipse, where the day’s entertainment had already begun. Folks were lining the streets—wagons and buckboards served as the gallery.

Lucy and her escort were behind the tightly packed crowd, too far from the gallows to reach it in time, but from horseback she had a clear view of the accused standing with the rope around his neck, feet planted defiantly, ready to swing.

Suddenly she locked gazes with the man about to be executed. Unsheathing the Winchester, Lucy hitched it to her shoulder and took aim.

Her new relative pulled his gun. “Put it away, lady. You’re not shooting anyone,” he warned her.

He had a choice—he could stop her with a bullet and let his brother strangle at the end of a rope or let her take her shot. She didn’t wait to discuss it. Steadying the rifle against her shoulder, Lucy sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger.

Her bullet found the rope, cutting him loose at the same moment the hangman dropped the hatch. Ambrose Quince plummeted through the trapdoor, landing in a heap on the ground.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” her brother-in-law said, kneeing his horse into motion as Lucy chambered another round, following him through the gantlet of staring faces and the fifty guns trained on her. As they neared the law officials standing by the gallows, the expectant audience quieted, straining to hear the coming exchange. It wasn’t necessary. The sheriff cursed loud enough for all to hear.

“Goddammit, Ham, he’s been tried and found guilty. You didn’t have no call to cut him loose. That was a brand-new rope. Yer gonna pay for it and spend some time in jail for yer interference.”

Lucy paid no heed to the lawman, more interested in the man on the ground staggering to his feet. He was taller than his brother, with the same shaggy black hair and hard features. His picture hadn’t done him justice. He’d only looked stern before. Now he looked savage.

She nudged her horse toward the prisoner, ignoring the loud threats of the sheriff as he harangued. It was a bizarre occasion—her seated on her horse, pushing through the crowd toward an unknown man to whom she apparently was married.

Time hadn’t been kind since the photographer had captured Ambrose Quince’s likeness but when he turned his head and looked at her, she could see it was the same man she’d viewed in the tintype.

Lucy looked around for the children, being more interested in finding them than releasing the cold-eyed stranger she’d just saved. She could feel his eyes following her and like a magnet, her gaze returned to him. She was glad his hands were tied behind his back because even shackled as he was, his fingers opened and closed as though he wanted to strangle someone.

At the moment she had an uneasy feeling it might be her neck his fingers craved. As Lucy stared down at him he drawled, “It took you long enough to come home, Lucille.” Her name—Luseeaal—seemed stretched to ten syllables—hanging in the air between them, mocking her.

The sheriff’s curses piddled out as the crowd abandoned him, closing around her to hear her reply. The Winchester made an impressive noise as she chambered a round.

Leaning forward she asked, “Mr. Quince, where are my children?”

Ambrose looked surprised at the same time the sheriff said, “That ain’t Lucy Quince. It’s someone shammin’, pretending to be her.”

“Why would you say that, sheriff?” It wasn’t an accident when Lucy turned the rifle toward the words and left Ambrose standing, still bound.

The sheriff gulped, noticeably shocked when he faced the barrel of her Winchester. He dropped his hand from the gun he’d been reaching for and said, “Lucy Quince didn’t give a damn about her children when she was here, and if you’re who you say you are, you walked away from them without even a kiss my ass or goodbye. The Lucy Quince I knew wouldn’t have asked about her children.”

Lucy said, “I just hate it when a man tries to beat a woman down with words.” She pulled the trigger and shot a hole next to his foot. Dirt kicked up and splattered both him and her brother-in-law.

Ham didn’t even flinch but the sheriff stumbled back, swearing, “Jesus Christ, Lucy, they’re over in the wagon.” He’d given her children front-row seats.

If the sheriff hadn’t pointed at them, she wouldn’t have recognized them from the tintype. Three years was a lot of growing time for youngsters. Lucy added another count to the list of horrors committed against her. She’d lost time with her children.

She faced them from the back of her horse, suddenly devoid of the courage needed to climb down and stand before them.

The girl, who had neatly braided hair the same brown color as her mother’s, glared at Lucy from aquamarine eyes that matched her own. “You’re not my mama. Mama was a lady and she was beautiful. You’re not my mama. My mama’s dead.”

Lucy judged the little girl to be about eight years old. Her freckles stood out on her round cheeks and she trembled in shock, having just witnessed her father snatched from sure death.

The boy with his arm around her shoulders had changed just as much since his picture. Then he’d been stocky, baby chubbiness not quite melted away. In the picture he’d looked at his mother—at Lucy—with eyes of adoration.

Now, even sitting, she could tell that he’d grown taller, thinning down like his father. His hair was black and he pinned her with an accusing stare that screamed he’d never seen her before. But his words said different.

“No, Brody, she’s our mother all right. And now they can’t hang Pa because she’s alive.”

Lucy was satisfied to see her children had inherited her intelligence. Together, the kids stood up in the wagon and turned to the sheriff.

The little girl spoke first. “Sheriff Bailey, this is our mama. You need to turn loose our pa.” Quivering bottom lip or not, she delivered her order without hesitation.

Lucy turned her rifle and horse back toward the sheriff to lend her encouragement.

Ham had already cut their father free. Now Ambrose stood chafing the blood back into his hands, an almost smile curling his lip as he watched his children take on the law.

There was no doubt that he was grinding his teeth when his gaze swung to her. Curious, she returned his stare. In her other life, she’d apparently taken a predator to husband. Now she tightened her grip on the rifle, thankful for her Mondays of target practice.

He didn’t waste words but mounted the horse his brother led forward. Lucy didn’t know where home was, but the brothers made it clear she was accompanying them there. Her son handed his pa a hat that looked huge in the young boy’s hands but settled on top of Ambrose’s head with a firm fit.

Suddenly the sheriff took it upon himself to lecture and interrogate her. “Lucy Quince, you can’t just ride back into town and take up where you left off.”

She ignored him ’til he demanded, “Where have you been hiding?”

Lucy inexplicably hated the man so much she had to stop herself from shooting him. “That would be none of your business, Sheriff. I’ll take that up with those who need to know.” When the lawman tried to ease closer, she chambered another round, making no pretense about where she aimed.

He backed off fast, sputtering, “I’m the sheriff and you can’t threaten me.”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you a fact. I don’t answer to any man who would sit children in a front-row seat to see their daddy get hanged no matter his crime. If it’s an elected official you are, these people should remember that and send you packing the next time they vote.”

Her finger itched on the trigger of the Winchester every time the miscreant opened his mouth. He took note of that and sidled away.

Unexpectedly, a man rushed from the bank as though he’d just realized he was missing something important. “Here now, here now, what’s this? What’s the holdup? Get on with things.”

Evidently the hanging wasn’t going fast enough to suit him since there were people blocking the bank entrance on what should have been a business day. When he saw her, he stopped in his tracks and backed up, white in the face. “Lucy?”

“Do you know me?” She edged her mount around to face him.

“Of course I know you. I’m the Eclipse Bank President, Stephen Pauley.” His self-important expression turned to doubt as he studied her.

Recognizing which threat was greater, Lucy shifted her rifle enough to keep it steady on the sheriff, dismissing the banker as unimportant. “It appears that people in Eclipse didn’t anticipate my arrival.”

Pauley shouldered his way closer ’til he stood next to her horse, looking up. “I’ll come out to the ranch when you get settled. We’ll talk when we don’t have an audience.” He nodded his head toward the children and the two Quince brothers.

She shook her head, not keeping her rebuff quiet. “If I have reason to need banking services, I know where you work.” Done talking, she backed Sheba to the buckboard, her rifle up and ready if anyone in the crowd decided to dispute the day’s outcome.

While Lucy had made herself the center of the spectacle, the brothers had readied to leave. Now Ambrose rode his horse next to her, nodded at his son and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “Let’s get on home, Alex.”

The boy picked up the wagon reins and the Quince family set out, leaving the townsfolk to figure out if they were satisfied with the show they’d witnessed.

Lucy had plenty of time to think as she traveled with her silent escorts. Her almost-dead husband hadn’t said another word to her since his greeting, but he kept his horse jammed up close to hers, pushing at her every time she tried to slow down. Ham sectioned her off from the other side and the children bounced in the buckboard as everyone clipped along at a good pace.

She kept her arsenal handy, although she remained unafraid except when she felt the eyes of her children on her. She didn’t have any memory of them or their father. But whoever had knocked her around and disfigured her hadn’t stolen her wits.

First, she’d called herself Quincy Smith. She remembered adding the Smith because Roberta said she needed a last name. But from the time she’d started to mend, she’d had the word Quincy in her brain.

Second, if she’d had doubts before, seeing her daughter eliminated them. Brody was a miniature Lucy without the harsh overlay of life.

Frustration gnawed at Lucy when her memories remained hidden. She knew nothing more than what had happened in the three years since she’d come awake in Buffalo Creek.

Her face had been left untouched, as if her murderer wanted her identity known. The person or persons who had done that to her still remained undisclosed and nobody appeared interested in why or how she’d disappeared.

It occurred to her as she rode between the two grim ranchers that somebody in Eclipse was probably suffering from heart tremors about now. She’d risen and returned from the dead and it appeared her resurrection was an inconvenience for everyone except her family. It was odd to think of the two children and the hard-faced Quince man that way, but impossible to think otherwise.

The day was hot and lather from three horses flecked her skirts as the brothers kept her centered between them. It began to get irritating. After Lucy gave Ham a warning look, he put some distance between his horse and her mare.

Ambrose didn’t show the same respect. Finally, after he’d jammed against her leg for the third time, Lucy shook her boot loose from the stirrup on his side and waited for daylight to show between the horses. Then she lined up and let fly, catching his knee with a solid thump from her heel.

He glared at her but she didn’t care. It had felt good, as if she’d delivered a blow for past injustices. She was satisfied she’d made her point when he kept his distance the rest of the ride. When they reached an open gate that fronted a well-used dirt path, Lucy passed under the Double-Q sign mounted above the ranch yard entrance stoically. Here is where I’ll find the answers to who I am.



Ambrose dismounted and automatically turned to help Lucy from her horse. In former days she would have criticized him for ungentlemanly behavior had he not done so. Today she’d already stepped down and crossed the space separating her from the wagon.

Instead of heading for the house, she took hold of the harness and steadied the animal, waiting for Alex and Brody to climb out. No one thanked her and she didn’t look as though she expected it.

Brody hopped down and ran over to hug him hard, burying her face against his side for a moment. He lifted her high in his arms so she was eye level with him. “Guess the Quinces made it through another one together, Sugar Plum.” Then he caught sight of Lucy watching and set Brody to the ground.

“Take your mama to the house, Brody,” He turned to his son. “Alex, carry her satchel in for her.” Lucy remained outside the circle of conversation, listening as if she wasn’t being discussed.

“Where should I put her things?” Alex posed the question.

Brody answered vehemently, “She’s not sharing my room.”

Ambrose looked at his wife as the kids squabbled over where to put her. The heat of the day, his unexpected survival and the incredible reality of Lucy’s presence all contributed to a dizzy rush. His voice was gruffly hoarse, roughened by the squeeze of the rope earlier and the emotion that clogged his throat now. “Put her stuff where it belongs—in our room.”

Appearing disinterested in the discussion, Lucy studied the ranch yard as though she’d never seen the place before. But when Alex moved to take her satchel, she shook her head. “I need to rub down my mare and grain her.”

Ambrose wanted her in the house, suddenly anxious, as if she might disappear if he looked away. For all his control, he had to keep swallowing to wet his mouth before he could speak to her. “Go on in. I’ll see to the mare when I unhook the wagon.”

Rifle in hand, she silently followed their son into the house, taking time to look around at the weed-infested yard as she walked to the porch.

It did look a shade different from when she’d been here before. Her money had paid for the extras. The paint she’d insisted on covering the adobe block with was chipped and the once-red shutters were a rusty brown.

When they’d first married, he’d tried to explain that the Texas sun would steal the color and the wind and weather would sand away the paint, but Lucy had never been one to listen.

She’d come from back East and she had standards. If he’d heard that word once in his eight years of marriage he’d heard it a thousand times before she’d left. Standards.

There were more changes than a little paint. Her money had paid wages for the housekeeper and her money had bought the fancy cushions and covers on the furniture. Hell, her money had bought the furniture. He’d been land-poor and cattle-proud, and he still was.

When Lucy disappeared, Steve Pauley had been more than pleased to shut off the flow of cash from Lucy’s bank account. Without it, the house and kids had suffered. But they’d made it. At least as soon as we get this herd to market the Double-Q will be solvent again.