Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Brenda Novak's Auction for the Cure


I'm so proud to be a part of Brenda Novak's Auction for the Cure this year. If you've never participated in this online auction, I encourage you to check out the website http://brendanovak.auctionanything.com/  The goal this year is to raise more than 2 million dollars for diabetes research, and it's a goal that all of you can help achieve. Your pocketbook doesn't have to be big to donate, even the smallest amount helps. 
Hundreds of authors are auctioning off special gifts to raise money, so make sure you go and check out the loot! It's going to be fantastic, and I already have my eye on a few things I'd love to take home. For those of you interested in what I'm auctioning off, here's the link http://brendanovak.auctionanything.com/Bidding.taf?_function=detail&Auction_uid1=2483964 so you can pre-register for the auction and get you trigger finger ready:-)
Even if you can't participate in the auction this year, you can still help get the word out by tweeting and facebooking about the auction. I love doing events like this because the writing/reading community is so supportive, and I know we'll be able to help Brenda make this the best auction ever. 

Author Liliana Hart has donated this gift basket featuring a Nook Tablet - Value of $199
Pre-Loaded with 8 E-books by Liliana Hart Value of $25
*All About Eve
*Paradise Disguised
*Dominating Gracie
*Double Jeopardy
*All I want For Christmas
*Who's Riding Red?
*Goldilocks and the Three Behrs
*The Madam Duchess
Autographed Copies of Paperback books by Liliana Hart Value of $50
*Cade: A MacKenzie Novel
*Whiskey Rebellion
*Dirty Little Secrets
*The MacKenzie Brothers
*Catch Me if You Can
Barnes and Noble Gift Card - Value of $25
Designer Nook Color Cover - Value of $40
Total Basket Value $340

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Blog Has Moved!

Please join me at my website where my blog is now located. http://www.lilianahart.com/blog/
I look forward to seeing you there!

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Self-Publish: Is it a Dirty Word?

I'm new to the self-publishing world. It was a long and dirty fight for me to get to this place (mostly I was fighting with myself). What I want you to understand is that I'm proud to be an indie author. I know there are other authors in my position who have felt the same triumphs and disappointments I have over this tumultuous journey, and they're struggling with something that slowly eats away at a writer's delicate soul: self-esteem. It could also be called ego. All writers have issues with this. I don't care who you are. Whether you've sold millions of copies or one. Writers are needy creatures. We need to be reassured. We need pats on the back and words of praise. A bad review can spiral us into the darkest depression, while a complimenting fan can make us sit down behind the keyboard with enthusiasm.

I had another author respond to that statement on another thread with derision. He said he didn't have an ego or need pats on the back. He was only writing for the money. My response to that was, WTF? It took me by surprise because I've never met anyone before who said, "I'm going to start a business and get rich. What should I do? Oh, I know, I'll be a writer." It's absurd. Writers write because they love it. It's too hard of a profession to just take up on a whim. So if anyone else falls into the camp of the guy above, just know you're in the minority and good luck with your business.

That being said, I have a confession to make.

I was wrong... (I know, it's hard to narrow this statement down. I'm wrong a lot. Mostly about haircuts and infomercials, but that's another blog topic).

I'll gladly admit my attitude has changed since I joined the ranks of indie authors who seem to be popping up like proverbial daisies on the Interwebs. There are more than 700,000 self-pubbed authors out there, folks. And most of them don't sell more that a single book a month. But they're doing it, and they have hope.

There seems to be a negativity that follows indie authors around. Maybe you've felt it. I've certainly felt it on more than one occasion--that I might as well have a scarlet letter of shame tattooed on my forehead (Insert inappropriate comments here).

Let me explain...

I finished my first book almost almost seven years ago. I was 24 years old. The idea of ebooks taking over the industry was laughable. New York agents and editors were at the top of their game. Publishing houses turned their noses up at the idea of anything being better than print copies. I was bound and determined to see my book sitting on the shelves at a "real" bookstore. Nothing else would do. And it didn't help that the organizations I was involved in seemed to separate themselves from authors who chose a different path. Loyalties were divided. Arguments were had. Many arguments.

I fell into the camp of thinking that ebooks were an inferior product. Once again, I was wrong, so hear me out. I listened to my published friends. I listened to my various writing groups. At the time, that thinking was the majority. I was on my first agent (the first of three I've had in my career), and I was sure the next big contract was going to be mine. But as the rejections came, and I moved from agent to agent, my thinking changed somewhere along the way.

Ebooks exploded onto the market. Print publishing became antiquated overnight and New York was left twiddling their thumbs, wondering what to do or where they went wrong. Some of them are still twiddling their thumbs. It'll be interesting to see who's still standing over the next few years when all is said and done. My agents became nervous. I'm currently repped at a huge agency with a star-studded list of NYT's bestsellers. My agent's list of clients is one of the most impressive. But she's still worried. Her clients are worried.

So somewhere along the way of where I was seven years ago to today, my thinking started to change. I don't know if it was maturity (I was rather young when I started all this) or the fact that I finally became confident enough in myself. But I made the change. I had to ask myself a really hard question.

What was the point of my writing? My writing. Not anyone else's.

Was I writing for money? Hell, no. If I was I'd be destitute and living on the streets. Was I doing it for fame? Was I doing it to brag? To be better than my friends who were already published? The answer to all of those questions was ultimately, No.

I write because I have to. Period. It's my soul. I'm absolutely insufferable to live with when I'm between books and not writing every day. So then I had to ask myself another question. What was wrong with ebooks? What was wrong with the people who were self-publishing? The answer to that was easy. Not a damned thing. The publishing business is hard. It's even harder now. Publishers aren't taking chances on good writers like they would have years ago. And those good writers are getting out there on their own without the powerhouses of publishing behind them. I've been reading them. Some of them are really good. As good as any of the print books I've read. These authors are careful about the product they put out there--they edit, have good covers and a catchy blurb. And they're making a shitload of money doing it. Even though I'd be writing whether I made money or not, it's still nice to see the sales pile up.

So to all the writers out there who had the foresight to see what was coming and go after what you wanted, I apologize. Sometimes I'm a little slow.

But here's the problem: The stigma that goes along with being a self-published author is still out there. It's not as bad, but it still exists. I've felt it numerous times since putting my books out there. I've felt it from my friends (though they would never say so to my face). It's more of that pitying look that tells you they think you've given up on being a "real" author. Anyone else ever get that? It was bad enough when I first "came out of the indie closet" that I didn't tell anyone in my local chapter of writers. I'm glad to say that's changed, but it took me awhile to face those pitying stares. Remember the self-esteem issue of writers? But no worries, I'm all good now and ready to shout it from the rooftops.

So how do we as indie authors change, not our readers' thinking, but the thinking of other writers? All we can do is keep writing good books. Keep your focus, your determination, your heart, and your need to write all about what you want. Not about what others are whispering. Someday they'll realize what they missed out on.

Friday, June 24, 2011

We Have A Winner!

The winner of all this fine loot is Shari!

 Congratulations, Shari!

Be looking for an email soon so I can deliver your prizes.


If you didn't win, don't worry! I'll be doing this frequently. I love to give away books!

Monday, June 20, 2011

Free Book Giveaway!

I'm giving some lucky someone a treasure trove of free ebooks this week! Included in these books is my own award-winning WHISKEY REBELLION: AN ADDISON HOLMES NOVEL. I'll post an excerpt at the end of this blog to whet your appetite.

This is a contest anyone can win. Tell your friends, spouses, and neighbors. Tell the girl in braces behind the cash register at Kroger. Scream it from the rooftops or start a buzz going while you're in line to register your kid for summer camp.

All you have to do to win this contest is...FOLLOW MY BLOG!

I'll have the randomizer pick one winner from the list of my followers to receive these awesome ebooks. The winner will get to pick which format they'd like them in (Kindle, Sony, Nook, etc.). It's easy, folks! The contest will last until Friday's blog post, where I'll announce the winner.

Here's the loot, yo!


by Keri Stevens

When Delia Forrest talks to statues, they talk back. She is, after all, the last of the Steward witches.
After an arsonist torches her ancestral home with her estranged father still inside, Delia is forced to sell the estate to pay his medical bills. Her childhood crush, Grant Wolverton, makes a handsome offer for Steward House, vowing to return it to its former glory. Delia agrees, as long as he'll allow her to oversee the restoration.

Working so closely with Grant, Delia finds it difficult to hide her unique talent—especially when their growing passion fuels her abilities.

But someone else lusts after both her man and the raw power contained in the Steward land. Soon Delia finds herself fighting not just for Grant's love, but for both their lives...




by Keri Ford

He never loses control.

She always tests the rules.

Chief Deputy Mike Gabel is the man in charge in Apple Trail. No one gives him more trouble than a certain blonde. While her stunts are frustrating enough to deal with, it’s the constant way she keeps him trapped in knots that sends him over the edge.

Tiffany McBride has a reputation for act now, think…never. She’s been betting and causing trouble since her parents died when she was a teenager. What looks like a young woman sewing her wild oats, is actually desperate measures to gamble for extra money to put food on the table.

When these two acknowledge their attraction, sparks fly…that is if Mike’s public position can survive Tiffany’s frowned upon reputation.




by T.R. Ragan



Elizabeth Gardner (Lizzy) is seventeen-years old when she tells her parents she’s going out with her girlfriends. Instead, she meets up with Jared Shayne, her boyfriend of two years. As she walks home beneath an inky black sky, her perfect night becomes her worst nightmare.

Fourteen years later, Lizzy is a licensed PI known as the “one who got away." When she’s not searching for runaway teenagers, working on insurance scams, or talking to her therapist, she’s at the local high school teaching young girls to defend themselves. But her world is turned upside down for the second time after she receives a call from Jared Shayne. He’s an FBI special agent now and he needs her help. Lizzy has no plans to get involved. Not until Jared tells her the kidnapper left her a personalized note.

Escaping from a madman should have been the end of her nightmare…but it was only the beginning.



by Liliana Hart

EXCERPT:


Prologue

My life was a disaster.
I sat in my car with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and watched the rain pound against the windshield. I was soaked to the skin, my skirt was ripped, and blood seeped from both knees. There were scratches on my arms and neck, and my face was blotchy and red from crying. Along with the external wounds, I’d lost a good deal of my sensibilities, most of my faith in mankind, and all of my underwear somewhere between a graveyard and a church parking lot.
I’ll explain later. It’s been a hell of a day.
My name is Addison Holmes, no relation to Sherlock or Katie, and if God has any mercy, he’ll strike me with lightning and end it all. I’ve had a job at the McClean Detective Agency for exactly six days. It’s been the longest six days of my life, and I’ll be lucky if I live to see another six. Unspeakable things, things you’d never imagine have happened to me in six days.
Now I faced the onerous task of telling Kate McClean, my best friend and owner of the McClean Detective Agency, how I’d botched a simple surveillance job and found a dead body. Another dead body.
I should have kept my job as a stripper.






Chapter One

Saturday, Seven Days Earlier
I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in thirty years of living. Like when I was eight and I decided to run away from home with nothing more than the clothes on my back, peanut butter crackers and my pink Schwinn bicycle with a flat front tire. And the time when I was sixteen and decided it was a good idea to lose my virginity at an outdoor Metallica concert. And then there was the time I was nineteen and decided I could make it to Atlanta on a quarter tank of gas if I kept the air conditioner off.
There are other examples, but I won’t bore you with the details.
Obviously my judgment has gotten worse as I’ve grown older, because those bad decisions are nothing compared to the one I was about to make.
“Hey, Queen of Denial, you’re up.”
I gave the bouncer guarding the stage entrance my haughtiest glare, sucked in my corseted stomach, tossed my head so the black wig I wore shifted uncomfortably on top of my scalp and flicked my cat-o-nine tails hard enough to leave a welt on my thigh. It was all in the attitude, and if I had anything to do with it, The Foxy Lady would never be the same after Addison Holmes made her debut.
The music overwhelmed my senses, and the bass pumped through my veins in time with the beat of my heart. The lights stung my eyes with their intensity, and I slunk across the stage Marlene Dietrich style in hopes that I wouldn’t fall on my face. Marlene’s the epitome of sexy in my mind, which should tell you a little something about me.
I’d run into a little problem lately, and let’s just say that anyone who’s ever said money can’t buy happiness has obviously never had the need for money. My apartment had a date with a wrecking ball in sixty days, and there was this sweet little house in town I wanted to buy, but thus far the funds to buy it hadn’t magically appeared in my bank account. I could probably make a respectable down payment in three or four years, but I had payments on a 350Z Roadster that were killing me, yoga classes, credit cards, a new satellite dish that fell through my roof last week, an underwear of the month club membership to pay for and wedding bills that were long past overdue. My bank account was stretched a little thin at the moment.
None of those things would be a big deal if I was making big executive dollars at some company where I had to wear pantyhose everyday. But I teach ninth grade world history at James Madison High School in Whiskey Bayou, Georgia, which means I make slightly more than those guys who sit in the toll booths and look at porn all day, and slightly less than the road crew guys who stand on the side of the highway in the orange vests and wave flags at oncoming traffic.
Since I’d rather have a bikini wax immediately followed by a salt scrub than have to move home with my mother, I’d declared myself officially desperate. And desperation leads to all kinds of things that will haunt a person come Judgment Day—like stripping to my skivvies in front of men who are almost as desperate as I am.
The beat of the music coursed through my body as I twirled and gyrated. The lights baked my skin and sweat poured down my face from their heat. Something tickled my cheek. I caught a glimpse of black out of the corner of my eye and realized a false eyelash one of the working girls had stuck on me earlier sat like a third eyebrow on my glistening skin. I swiped at it nonchalantly, but it wouldn’t budge. I ducked my head and peeled it off my cheek, but then it stuck to my finger and I couldn’t get the little devil off.
I shimmied down to my knees and knelt in front of a portly man with rosy cheeks and glazed eyes that spoke of too much alcohol. His sausage-like fingers came a little too close, so I gave him a slap with my whip to remind him of his manners and the fact he was wearing a wedding ring.
I ran my fingers through his thick, black hair and left the eyelash as a souvenir of his visit to The Foxy Lady. The thought crossed my mind that he might have a hard time explaining the eyelash to his wife, but the music kicked up in tempo and I had to figure out something else to do with my remaining two minutes on stage. Who’d have guessed it would take me thirty seconds to run through all my dance moves?
The arches of my feet were screaming and I almost laughed in relief when I saw the poles on the far side of the stage. I could spin a few times on the poles and hang upside down a few seconds to take the pressure off my feet. Besides, I watch T.V. Men always seem to go crazy for the girls dancing with the poles.
I swung around the pole with more gusto than was probably wise and little black spots started clouding my vision, so I slowed my momentum down until I was walking around the pole like a horse in a paddock on a lead rope. 
I made another lap around the pole and saw Mr. Dupres, the club’s owner, frowning at me. He swung his arms out and gestured something that resembled either taking off his shirt or ripping open his chest cavity, and I realized I still had on every scrap of clothing I’d walked on stage with. I threw my whip down with determination and ripped my bustier off to reveal the sparkly pasties underneath. I tossed the bustier into the audience and cringed as it knocked over a full drink into some guy’s lap. Just call me the human version of a cold shower. Not a great endorsement for a stripper. I waved a little apology in his direction and tried to put a little more wiggle into my hips to make up for the mishap.
Would this freaking song ever end?
I prayed someone from the audience would have mercy and just shoot me. I spun one last time on the pole and nearly fell to the ground when I saw a familiar face in the audience. 
I would have recognized the comb-over and pasty complexion anywhere, though when I usually saw Principal Butler he didn’t have a stripper grinding in his lap. I kind of hoped the way his glasses were fogged would keep him from seeing me, but when he took them off and wiped them on his tie my hopes were dashed. He did a double-take and blinked like an owl before he paled.
I just wanted to vomit.
Mr. Butler practically shoved the woman in his lap to the ground and reached for something in his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped off a picture. Not good. I guess he wanted proof to show to the school board before he fired me.
I covered myself with my arm and edged back toward the curtain. The music pounded. I waved to a few customers on the front row, their faces twisted and disgruntled at my early departure. I considered my bounty. A grand total of seventy-two cents on a bed of peanut shells lay at my feet.
Tough crowd.
Principal Butler’s eyes were still glued to my chest as I finally found my way behind the thick curtains at the back of the stage. It was a darned good thing there was only a week left until school was out. Maybe the summer would give Mr. Butler time to forget that he saw me in pasties and a thong and me time to forget that I saw my principal’s tiny excuse for an erection.
Or maybe not.

***

So it turns out I’m not cut out to be an exotic dancer, and I’ll be checking the employment section of the paper again.
I have to say that after the conversation I just had when I was fired from The Foxy Lady, I probably can’t count on them to give me a glowing recommendation.
“Listen, Addison, I just don’t think you’re cut out for this type of work,” Girard Dupres told me after my first and only routine.
I can’t even begin to tell you how many times in my life I’ve heard those exact words. If I weren’t such a positive person, I would live in a constant state of depression.
Anyway, Mr. Dupres was the guy who hired me, and he looked like a Soprano’s reject—thinning dark hair, beady eyes, hairy knuckles and greasy skin. He obviously didn’t know anything about hiring good strippers or he never would have considered me.
I decided it was best to look slightly downtrodden at my termination, but inside I was relieved that exotic dancing wasn’t my calling. I don’t think I pulled off the reaction I was hoping for, because Mr. Dupres thought it would be a good idea for me to perfect my technique in a private showing just for him. But to give him the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to have a conversation and not look desperate when you’re topless and covered in sweat.
I told Mr. Dupres “Thanks, but no thanks,” and headed backstage to gather my things and get dressed. I decided to keep the costume and cat o’ nine tails just in case I ever had a dominance emergency, but I left the itchy wig on the little plastic head I’d borrowed it from.
I took out the blue contacts I’d worn to cover my dark brown eyes and creamed off the heavy eye makeup. I pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail, slipped on my jeans and baby-doll tee from the Gap and stepped into a pair of bright pink flip-flops. It was nice to see the real Addison Holmes once again. I’d only misplaced myself for a few minutes, but it was long enough to make me realize that I liked the real me enough to find some other way to make the extra money I needed.
I’d just hide this little incident away and no one but Mr. Butler and me would ever know about it.
I pushed open the heavy metal door that led from the dressing areas to the alley behind The Foxy Lady and squinted my eyes as the sun and heat bore down on me. I slipped on a pair of Oakley’s and hitched my bag up, digging at the bottom for my car keys.
If I’d been looking where I was going instead of at the bottom of my purse, I’d never have tripped over the body. I’d probably have walked a wide path around it and wondered how someone could already be drunk enough on a Saturday afternoon to be passed out in a strip club’s parking lot. As it was, my foot caught the man right in the ribs and sent me sprawling to my hands and knees.
“Ouch, dammit.”
I muttered various curses as the raw skin on my palms bled. I pushed myself up slowly and took stock of my aching body. My jeans had holes in both knees and a lot of blood covered the toes of my right foot.
“What the hell?” I said as I wiggled my toes to see what the damage was. There didn’t seem to be any cuts so I turned around to see what I’d fallen over.
The body sprawled out in the gap between the cars. It seemed twisted in an odd arc, but shadow shielded me from witnessing the carnage that created so much blood. If nothing else, I knew where the blood on my toes had come from. I couldn't pretend he was drunk with the dark stain spreading out across his dress shirt like a Target ad. Nor would I be able to keep my recent dabbling into the exotic arts a secret once I called the police and explained to them I’d just found my principal dead in the parking lot.

To be continued...




Good Luck, Readers! 

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Happy Father's Day

I want to give a shout out to my dad and my husband for father's day! I couldn't have been blessed with two more awesome men. My dad raised three girls (I'm the youngest), and my husband and I have four children together (all under the age of nine).

My husband is tired at the end of the day y'all, and I'll tell you why. Three years ago he told me I could quit my day job to write full time. He knew I loved it, knew it was my passion, my dream, and that I had to do it to be complete. So he gave me my dream, and I quit my job. He, on the other hand, worked two and three jobs to supplement the lost income. And when he was home, he never once told the kids he was too tired for them. My husband is my biggest supporter, my confidant, my shoulder to cry on, my champion, my hero and my best friend. He no longer has to work those two and three jobs for us to make ends meat, which I am eternally thankful, but he did it when he had to all for me. I can't express in words how much I love him and how grateful I am that my children have someone like him in their lives.

So Happy Father's Day!


P.S. I'm starting a free giveaway on the blog tomorrow, so make sure you check back to see how to win.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

WARNING: Adult Content

Whew, I'm glad that's out of the way. Now we can get down to business. But before I get you all hot and bothered on this beautiful Saturday morning, I'd like to talk about...Walmart.

Yes, you heard me right. WALMART.

Not sexy, I know. It's just I have to get this off my chest. Is there anywhere else in the world that makes me want to stick needles in my eye or punt small puppies? NO. Is there any other retailer that provides you with visual stimulation meant to send poor souls in to cardiac arrest? Again, NO. It's not everywhere a man could walk down an aisle in a white unitard and cowboy boots, only to be overlooked because the woman walking the opposite direction weighs 450 pounds but decided to shop in her bikini and houseshoes. So thank you, Walmart, for bringing a little extra something to my meaningless life.


Now on to the SEX!

Here's an excerpt of one of my erotic romances. It's set in 1920's New Orleans, and is one of my very favorites. This book does have M/M, M/M/F and Domination. Happy Reading!


New Orleans, 1925

Secrets could never be kept from the maid.

Chloe Monroe found this out first hand as she stood in the darkness of the servant’s stairs behind the master bedroom wall, a small lantern at her feet. She was no stranger to the sounds of passion—the soft moans, rustling sheets and whispered words—she’d been a widow for more than a year, but that didn’t mean one forgot.

The folded linens in her arms went forgotten and her pulse leapt in anticipation. Lucian Deveraux was the master at Vieux Coeur, an estate his great-grandfather had built during the early eighteen hundreds. Chloe had never seen anyone as handsome as Lucien. With his gilded hair, sinful blue eyes and rakishly good looks, it was no wonder that women frequently found excuses to visit the house. She’d felt the same pull of attraction dozens of times, but Lucien was a busy man who had no time to pay attention to his servants. And that’s all she was now. A servant. Her days of glamorous parties and a staff of her own were long over.

The servant’s stairs ran all through the estate, from the basement to the third floor. Legend was that the elder Mr. Deveraux had had dealings with Jean Lafitte himself and used the passageways to smuggle contraband to the canal. It was most likely true because she knew for a fact that Lucien used the same passageways to smuggle bootlegged whiskey out of New Orleans.

Shafts of light gleamed into the dark passageway through wood that was riddled with wormholes, and it glittered upon the dust dancing in the air. There was a small tear in the silk wallpaper from the inside of the room and it gave her a perfect view inside Lucien’s private domain. A faint glow of candle flame flickered from somewhere and the scent of sex was stronger than the earthiness of the corridor where she stood. Her eye roamed lazily around the room, over plush chairs and a low-banked fire, to the massive four-poster bed that was the focal point of the room. Crimson sheets pooled over the edge and onto the floor like blood.

The muffled sound of a grunt pulled her attention to the center of the bed. Her eyes widened as she saw Lucien in naked splendor. His skin was tanned from the time he spent on his ships, and his torso and thighs were muscled impressively. A fine feathering of light hair covered his chest, and the sheen of perspiration matted the hair at his temples. He knelt behind his lover, his buttocks flexing with each thrust, and he threw his head back in ecstasy as his rhythm sped to an impossible tempo.

But it wasn’t the sight of Lucien that brought a small gasp to her lips. It was the man who knelt before him. She’d never seen him before. She would have remembered.
The man’s swarthy skin and black hair contrasted against Lucien’s fairness. And he didn’t seem the type to kneel before anyone. Even now, his head was thrown back in a defiance that warred with his moans of pleasure.

Moisture pooled between Chloe’s thighs, soaking the thin cotton
of her bloomers. She watched the man’s face, the mixture of pleasure and agony, as Lucien’s thrusts became even more rapid.

“You love my cock, don’t you?” Lucien asked. “You can’t be around me without wanting my cock up your ass.”

“Fuck you,” the dark man answered.

Lucien’s lover held onto one of the massive posts at the end of the bed, his legs spread far apart and his muscles taut. His thick prick stood at attention, almost to his bellybutton, so hard it looked painful. It was wet with the beginnings of his come, the tip swollen and ripe like a plum. Lucien took hold of the man’s hips and each thrust made the bed creak.

Chloe let the fresh linens she held fall to the dusty floor. She’d have to rewash them in her off hours, but she couldn’t help the sudden need that came over her. She hadn’t felt a man’s touch in so long, and her fingers had been her only satisfaction for the last year. She inched the dark gray skirt and slip she wore up over her thighs until it was bunched at her waist. Her fingers found their way to the soft folds of flesh, slicked with desire, and she found the tiny nubbin hidden within.

“No, mon noir,” Lucien answered. “It is I who is fucking you.”
My darkness.

Chloe thought the endearment terribly appropriate. She couldn’t take her eyes from the erotic picture they made—both of them so strong, so muscular—one taking, the other being taken. The sounds of their flesh slapping together, the scent of their sex, the gentle touches and demands they gave as they neared completion.

Chloe rubbed her swollen flesh, wishing she could join them on the bed—to feel a hard cock penetrate her once again. Her nipples were rigid and rubbed against the coarse fabric of her dress. She breathed in shallow pants as a heaviness gathered at her core. Her hand braced against the raw beams of the passageway, and she ignored the splinters as she delved her fingers into her neglected channel.

Lucien caressed a finger down the dark man’s back, bringing a chill to his lover’s skin. Lucien then slid his hand around, teasing his lover with his fingers as they barely touched the tip of his rigid cock. The dark one’s rod jumped at the touch, and Lucien laughed at his lover’s predicament. Lucien finally decided to torment no more and grasped his lover’s rod in a hard fist, pumping him with every thrust.

“Harder, harder,” Lucien’s lover panted against the assault.
Chloe knew they were both close to fulfillment, as was she. The moans grew desperate. The air lay heavy with tension until Lucien gave a final thrust and plunged into the dark man’s ass further than before. Chloe watched as a white stream of come shot from the stranger’s prick, thick and copious, and landed on the crimson sheets. Lucien stiffened and screamed out his own pleasure. She couldn’t contain her own moan as an orgasm hit her with the strength of a wave crashing on the shore.

Chloe slumped against the wall, her breathing heavy and her pulse racing. It had been too long since she’d come like that. For the last year her climaxes had been a necessity, a way to relieve the body of sexual desire the same way one might relieve a headache by rubbing at the temples.

She let her dress fall back to her knees and tried to straighten her appearance as best she could. She’d have to go back to her rooms and wash and change clothes. Her panties were soaked and her clothes were wrinkled and damp with sweat.

Chloe bent to pick up the linens that had fallen to the floor and spared one last glance at the couple on the bed. Lucien was hunched over his partner, his breathing beginning to slow and the sweat on his back beginning to cool. But it was the other man, once again, who caught her attention. He rested comfortably on his elbows, his head up and his posture relaxed despite the man who lay heavily on his back.

His dark gaze stared at the wall, as if he could see through it.

As if he could see her.

Chloe shivered and used the passageway to go back to her room, assuring herself that the direction of the stranger’s stare was only coincidence. But she knew it would be him she saw in her dreams from now on. Not Lucien.


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