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In order to be compliant with the new GDPR, I am creating this post so that if you no longer wish to subscribe to this blog, there are links to unsubscribe in the emails to opt-out.
Thank you 🙂
Hello, and thank you so much for having me here today to talk about my new release, Spice & Vanilla. This is the darker, naughtier sister of my previous release, Woman as a Foreign Language, but it can be read as a complete stand alone.
The BDSM element in Spice and Vanilla came about in part because I had just finished reading Katerina Ross’ beautiful novel Tenderly Wicked, so I was in the mood for something a bit spicier than my previous release, and partly because I had this idea for Raphael, the main character, that he would be “in two minds about anything”. He’s gender-fluid, bisexual, and as it turns out, a switch (he is in fact the sort of character that can piss off absolutely every reader on earth, lol).
I always like sex scenes to carry some of the character building in my stories. I think sex is one of the most visceral things we do in life, and the way we have sex with different people and different sex with the same people at different times can say a lot about us, about our feelings for our partners and where we are in a relationship. You can put so much more than smut in a sex scene (although a good amount of smut is most welcome), and when you stray into BDSM that potential for character exploration rises tenfold, because there are so many more layers to it. Why do we feel the need, in a caring, loving relationship, for giving or receiving pain? Why do power and humiliation become a turn on, even a necessity, at certain times? And can these things add more to our relationships than just a passing kinky thrill? Can they possibly become a way to express feelings we don’t have words for? I do not pretend to have full answers to these questions, but I did enjoy searching for them in the company of such complex characters as Raphael and Hugh.
Time was, when Di could dance all night. Time was, when she could ride any horse in the stable. Time was when she had a fiancée, a future and a home she loved. Until a silver SUV came out of nowhere and broke her life in half.
Well concealed under a sarcastic, spiny hide, Hugh has a darkly romantic, passionate soul. Torn between love and terror, he’s held the talented, elegant, magnetic Raphael carefully at arm’s length since the day they met.
Male or female, men or women, kinky or sweet, top or bottom? Angel or devil? Raphael’s life is a string of unanswered questions. And Lucie, his long-hidden female self, may bring it all together or destroy everything he has.
Hugh watched him stroking away with great contentment. He was totally worn out after a crazy day at work, and it was not always easy to find the energy to satisfy such an enthusiastic masochist. There were days when he wished Raphael were a bit less fond of being spanked and whipped, but he always did his best to oblige him. The thought of his Raphael going out there looking for release from God-only-knows-whom, and getting hurt for real by some less scrupulous or talented Dom was just unbearable. Still, tonight he would lie back and relax. Mostly. I will have to help him eventually, he thought with a slightly evil grin, but I can take a breather first.
Raphael stroked in perfect tempo. He was one of the most technically exact musicians Hugh had ever played with, after all. Too exact, in fact.
It would do him so much good to let go a bit, to just go with the flow, be wild and imprecise and purely passionate. Then he would not need so much of this.
Tick—tock—tick—tock—tick—tock, went the metronome, and Raphael stroked and stroked. It was a good while before Hugh could tell, from a small furrow between those blond eyebrows, that the unchanging, slow rhythm was beginning to frustrate him. He smiled a bit wider and said nothing, devouring his beautiful quarry with his eyes. He watched, entranced the fluid play of flesh and skin as Raphael’s long pale cock, a nice ruddy purple by now, sank and reemerged into and from his fist, the velvet-like foreskin lapping beautifully over the shinier, silky glans, the testicles bouncing softly to the rhythm as the scrotum was pulled up and released. It was hard to resist the temptation to throw the whole scene to the devil and just take that cock in his mouth and suck it empty.
This is without exception the best use a metronome was ever put to.
Raphael’s body was developing a number of small, charming tics and twitches. He briefly lifted his left knee from the mattress then relaxed again. His right wrist was pulling on the strap from time to time, and his breath was coming in slightly ragged bursts.
Still it took a long time. Too much control, thought Hugh, smiling. Tsk-tsk.
He slowly unfolded his hands and moved to sit between Raphael’s legs. He spit on his middle finger and watched Raphael’s face, half hopeful, half anxious, as he slowly approached his anus. He didn’t hurry. He let Raphael wait for it. He would beg, in time, Hugh knew, but there was no need for that, not yet. He finally pressed his fingertip to the twitching, tight, live rose of flesh and felt it jolt and spasm. He massaged it in circles, with relish, and didn’t even try to penetrate it. Raphael was shaking all over, trying to press down on his finger, but there was just so far he could stretch, tied as he was. His belly muscles went taut. They were contracting in random, jerky convulsions. Hugh had never seen anything so beautiful.
Then Raphael missed a beat. His hand had picked up pace, ignoring all orders. Raphael whimpered, trying to compensate to get back in the right tempo. The double change of pace made him squirm all over. He swallowed twice and missed the beat again. This time Hugh slapped the inside of his thigh, very hard. Raphael could take a long regular series of well-spaced blows with relative ease, but a single hard slap coming down out of the blue like that drew a ragged cry from him.
“You do know what tempo means, I asked?” Hugh said, in a plain chatty voice. He had never had any taste whatsoever for histrionics. He was not, he had never been, a theatrical Dom. He wasn’t in it for setting up a show. He just got the job done.
“Yes. Yes!” said Raphael, a bit frantic. He managed to stick to the rhythm for a minute longer, until Hugh gently stuck his finger just within the ring of his anus. All of Raphael’s body twisted, and he lost all track of the cold, mechanical rhythm of the metronome.
And that is exactly what you need, my love . Too much playing by the rules, too much fucking control. You need to find your own tempo, and just let go.
Five or six fast hard strokes followed. Hugh slapped him twice, on his thigh, and, when he turned suddenly, on his butt. And then Raphael came, on the third slap, as he flopped flat on his back again, crying out in pleasure or pain, or both. It was hard to tell. Semen spurted out in beautiful, long, arched white streamers, splattering over Raphael’s belly, chest, and even his face.
It is difficult to aim while being spanked hard.
Hugh watched him coming, avidly.
He was so naked. So vulnerable, so unguarded. Hugh, who felt, every day, that he might shatter like glass, on Raphael’s unearthly, impossibly graceful, self-possessed beauty, lived for these moments, to watch him released of all self-consciousness and all bonds. Strange, how it took a bunch of leather straps to get him to do that.
“Ah, oh, shit. That hurt,” Raphael whispered after a minute. “Not complaining, mind,” he added, with a small edgy laugh, wiping some drops of sperm from his lips and eyebrow.
“Good,” said Hugh, quite composed, despite the erection straining in his pants. Watching Raphael twitching and jolting while covered in glistening semen was not a sight to leave him unmoved. He reached out for the metronome, stopped it and lowered the weight a tad, then started it again.
This was a faster, business-like tempo.
“There you go, hot lips,” he said to Raphael, who was still breathing hard from his orgasm.
Hugh gave him a small devilish smile. Raphael was perfectly capable of coming two or three times in one night, but, like most men, he needed a while to recuperate in between. Well, tonight, he wasn’t getting it.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”
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I got the idea for this story after watching a video of French “globe cooker” Fred Chesneau visiting nomads in the Moroccan desert. They generously shared their food, home, and wisdom with a stranger, and I thought it would be cool to write about a female rally driver having the same experience.
A Thorned Rose in the Sand is set in the beautiful, quiet dunes of western Sahara where the sun is so hot you can’t walk barefooted and you could go miles and miles without seeing a single soul. In this story, you’ll meet a badass 450cc rally motorcycle, an opiniated but gentle dromedary, and two highly strong-willed young persons from opposite sides of the planet who get off to a bad start then can’t keep their hands off each other 😊
When life in a big U.S. city becomes too much, Stevie Jones decides to live her wildest dream – compete against the tough guys in a motorcycle rally across Morocco. But the real excitement is found away from the race track, in the shifting sands of the desert.
After his studies in London, Ragab has returned to the nomadic lifestyle of his Bedouin family and the majestic silence of the Sahara. He dreams of the perfect wife, until a beautiful but feisty biker stuck in a sand dune turns his quiet world upside down.
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The girl screamed behind him. “Eeeeee!”
Too hard to resist. Until now, Ragab had had a difficult time respecting her privacy, but surely, a scream called for attention. What kind of a gentleman would he be if he didn’t check on a woman in distress?
He spun and found her kneeling on her jacket, nude and wet, arms outstretched in shock. He bit down a laugh. Yes, the deep well water was cold, but one got used to it, and in the extreme heat of the desert, it was a blessing.
She turned, caught him staring, and even though he couldn’t see anything inappropriate, she hurried to cover her breasts and pubic area. “Look away!” she shouted, voice panicky.
The laugh bubbled inside him, but he obediently turned back to the motorcycle—then stood in such a way he could see her reflection in one of the side mirrors.
Oh, it was like watching a porn scene. Her long, red curls hung wild over her back and round, white butt cheeks. Every time she moved, a portion of her breasts appeared in the space between her ribs and arms. Such perfect feminine curves, all over. Imagine if he saw the front…
Blood rushed to his groin. Stiffening, bothered, he tore from the sight, walked over to the well, and leaned against its waist-high wall, hoping the hardness of the bricks and coolness from the water below would temper his arousal before it became a full-blown erection.
He strained to hear.
Splashes. Muffled squeals. More splashes.
He turned slowly and stole a glance from the corner of his eye.
She washed her panties and black top in the bucket and leaned forward to spread them in the sun. Her position exposed the dark pink lips of her sex, from the tiny hole in her butt to the end of her slit, where her clitoris hid.
Shocked to his core, he turned back and groaned low, his cock hardening again.
He closed his eyes, drew long, slow breaths to calm the painful throbbing and counted minutes, trying to think of something else.
His dromedary, for example. It would be cool to show her how to ride it. What if he rode another one, and they both galloped on the dunes together, she laughing, ecstatic…
Then they’d roll in the sand, and he would tease her thighs apart and slide his hungry hardness into her dark pink lips, to the wet bottom of her. Oh, yes.
She called, “Ready?”
He risked a glance in her direction.
Wearing one of his sisters’ dresses and looking divine with her red curls floating behind her—and her face white and clean—she strolled to the motorcycle, carrying a bag and her clothes. She stuffed everything on top of the fuel tanks, got up, lifted the dress to her knees, and started the motor.
Not once looking at him.
Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After venturing into dirty inner-city crime drama with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between psychological thriller, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance.
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This is not a hate letter.
This is not a public shaming, or a “stoning.”
Now that that’s out of the way, we can move on. So, who the fuck am I, and why the hell am I writing you a letter? In short, I’m Cassie Sharp. I am an indie author. I do not write romance. I feel like I need to make that clear, so you aren’t thinking this is a plea for you to do anything. I will not personally be affected by your TM of the word “cocky.” I write mystery/suspense/thrillers, so unless I want to title a book, The Cocky Detective Who Almost Doesn’t Catch the Psychopath, and somehow categorize it in a romance genre, your TM isn’t going to deter the titling of any current or future works of mine.
Because I’m an author, I’ve been following this madness closely. In my mind, the thought…
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Fascinated, he watched as she strove to regain her composure, while he allowed his desire to show. Staring into her eyes, the pale-blue of her irises consumed by the dilation of her pupils, he read her need. He tugged her to his chest, the clean smell of soap and water, and something uniquely Regan, wafting from her.
Her head tipped back and he dropped his mouth down on hers, the immediate connection hardening his flesh to the point of pain. She relaxed into his hold and he tasted her with desperate intent. His fingers wove through the silky mass of her hair, holding her steady, and she moaned deep in her throat. She pressed closer, her arms wreathing around his neck.
He somehow brought it to a close, over long before he wanted it to be, but his conscience pricked hard. He’d promised her the time and money to bring The Inn up to snuff, somehow unable to resist. And now he’d honor his commitment, intuiting the importance of this woman determining her own destiny. Not a fling, not like with his other women.
His libido jeered and prodded at him but knew to allow nature to take its course. Wherever this connection with Regan was going, he wouldn’t hurry nor derail it.
As they both caught their breath, he gently set her away from him, his hands on her lithe waist, until she steadied on her stool. “I normally don’t seal business deals with a kiss,” he said, aware his tone held a certain rasp. Clearing his throat, he continued, “It’s been a … momentous day.”
Her slender throat working in a swallow, she said, “I’ve never sealed a business deal before.”
He knew she wasn’t experienced and doubted she kissed every man she’d just met with fervor and without meaning anything by it. Aching for her, he clamped down on his physical need and did his best to appear suave and unruffled. “We have a deal, Regan. I’ll bring my things in and get settled while you get organized. You’ll need a material list, among other things.”
Visibly drawing her composure around her like flexible armor, she slipped from the stool and turned her back on him, clearing away the dishes on the island. “Sounds good. I’ll just tidy up and then sit down with pen and paper. Lists are good.”
Holding hard on to his own equanimity, he nodded and headed out for his car. Some fresh air would clear his head and cool him down.
Dominic “Nicky” Landon has been a Sargent at Arms for the Fallen Gliders for thirty years. When he finds out his only sister overdoses on drugs dealt by his brothers, he hands in his colors and severs ties to the club and vicious lifestyle forever.
Mel Hughson owns the only bar in hicksville, no-mans-land, New Hampshire. She’s content with her single life, but the cold, spring night Nicky Landon’s Harley rolls into town ignites her desire. The fact he’s got at least twenty years on her doesn’t mean jack to Mel. He’s hot, he’s dangerous, and whether he knows it or not, he belongs to her.
Can Mel tempt Nicky to ignore their age gap and surrender to her, or will the secrets from his perilous past rise up to destroy everything?
We knocked the liquor back, and our gazes met as we set the glasses on the bar.
“How old are you?” Nicky asked, his attention snagging on my lips.
He scrubbed a hand over the beard lining his jaw while looking away. “So damn young.”
“Not too young.” Gauntlet thrown, I waited for his attention to return to my face. Eyes full of lust, a leashed animal that ought to scare the shit out of me but didn’t.
“I’m no good.”
I cocked my head and slid my gaze down over him, not missing the hard length straining against his leathers. “Look pretty damn good to me.”
His low groan rushed need through me again, and I knew I’d leave a wet spot on the stool once I got up.
“You’re messing with fire, little girl.”
Heat flushed through me. “I enjoy flames now and then.” My breath caught at the hunger on his face, parting my lips.
“Fuck it.” He grasped my chin in his warm palm. “I’ll give you what you want, little girl, but don’t go crying to your mommy in the morning because a big bad wolf left his mark on you.”
Oh, God. I swallowed and squeezed my thighs together. Older men were so the shit.
He captured my lips, but without the brute force I’d expected. Hunger, yes, but the full softness of his lips pressed against mine, taking and tasting, his tongue probing, whiskers brushing my skin. I parted my lips and moaned as he sank his tongue into my mouth, fucking every hidden corner, filling me with the taste of whiskey and pure male. My skin pebbled, pulse thrummed.
“Goddamn.” Nicky stood and yanked me off the stool. Virile, pure hardness and muscle beneath the leather hiding his skin from my grasping hands. His fingers fisted in my long hair, tangling and yanking my head to the side, the other grabbing my ass and hauling me against his huge cock.
He crouched down slightly and pulled me up. My legs wrapped around him as though having a mind of their own—even though I had been thinking about getting him between my legs all night long.
His beard brushed along my neck as he breathed me in and licked from my collarbone to my ear. “You smell like a fucking spring day. Innocent.”
“I’m h-hardly an innocent,” I gasped as he bit my earlobe and ground his cock against my sopping jeans.
“Thank God, because I want to be balls deep inside of you. Now.”
He thrust, and I moaned, my fingers grasping at his t-shirt.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered harshly in my ear.
“No way in hell.”
With a growl, he squeezed my ass to the point of pain. “I haven’t wanted a woman like this in a long fucking time.”
“So take what you want.”
“Goddamn.” He rested his forehead on mine. “Right here?”
I slithered a hand between us to grasp the hardness inside his leathers. “Right now.”
“Fuck.” Like my five-foot-six frame and thirty extra pounds meant nothing, he spun me around. “Hands on the bar.”
I did as told, bending at the waist and putting my ass on display with a little wiggle.
“Don’t move,” he said while peeling off his leather jacket.
My legs trembled, and I turned my head to watch as he moved to the front door and flicked off the lights.
The streetlight half a block away barely cut through the storm, but the flash of lightning lit Nicky up as he stalked back toward me, shedding his t-shirt.
Broad shoulders … another flash filled my eyes with tanned skin stretched tight over massive pecs and abs a twenty-year-old guy would kill for.
I licked my lips, hoping for another flash of light, but Nicky palmed my waist and leaned over my back, his cock pressed against my ass, the heat of his skin searing me through my shirt.
My eyelids fluttered shut as he wrapped his fingers around my hair again and tilted my head back.
“Last chance, Mel.” His rumbling voice and hot breath against my ear brought a moan past my lips.
“Take me,” I managed to whisper and licked my dry lips. “Please.”
Lynn Burke is a full time mother, voracious gardener, and scribbler of spicy romance stories. A country bumpkin turned Bay Stater, she enjoys her chowdah and Dunkin Donuts when not trying to escape the reality of city life.