Friday, February 6, 2015

Dark Siren by Eden Ashley

Title: Dark Siren
Author: Eden Ashley 
Series: Dark Siren #1 
Release date: July 4th 2013
Genres: Paranormal Romance, Young Adult
To survive, their bond must be unbreakable.

When the mysterious and passionate Rhane rescues Kali from an attacker in the theater parking lot, they form an immediate, smoldering connection. But Kali doesn’t remember Rhane or anything from their past. As far as Kali knows, she’s just a seventeen-year-old kid coping with an insatiable hunger for the “spark” or energy of others, feeding on classmates to survive.

A unique artifact—one that may hold the key to returning Kali’s memories—is uncovered by the archaeology firm where she works part-time, sending Kali and Rhane on a dangerous journey that leads them to the Forbidden City, into the unforgiving Gobi, and into the ruins of Rhane’s ancient homeland. As they fight for survival, Kali begins to discover who she really is and the true power she possesses.

But Rhane still harbors a secret that could destroy Kali…unless old enemies kill her first.

Young Adult is not a genre I generally seek out but I signed up for this review from Xpresso Book Tours so I gave it a go with the same open mind that I always start a new book with.  I can't say that it has changed my "seeking out" thoughts on young adult but it's still a very good read.  The characters are well written, the paranormal side is interesting, the mystery to Kali is very intriguing. I was surprised to learn that this was the author's debut novel.  In my opinion, first novels can be a bit lacking just because I think writing is an ongoing learning experience, but this is not lacking.  Definitely an author to keep on your radar.

Author Bio:
I’m Eden Ashley and I was born and raised in a small, sunny town in South Carolina. However, it’s the thunderstorms that inspire my best ideas. There are few things I love more than curling up with a good book and a cup of coffee on a rainy day, (except maybe chocolate cake. I love cake.) often reading into the wee hours of morning when something really grabs me. I pretty much love anything with supernatural elements, so writing paranormal romance and fantasy romance seems to be a natural fit.

My first novel, Dark Siren, is best described as paranormal romance artfully wrapped within a plot chock-full of action, adventure, and edge-of-your-seat suspense, while the series has evolved to become a journey of redemption and second chances as two characters understand that sometimes committing evil is necessary to protect what is loved most. I took the siren from Greek mythology (and borrowed a little from mermaid lore), creating an entirely different creature, with its own mythology, and one that Publisher’s Weekly praised for its passion and complexity. This is not just another werewolf/shapeshifter romance or vampire romance. I think this is a story that both adults and teens can enjoy, full of characters to fall in love with!


Brought to you by: 

Friday's Film Adaption: Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman

The bestselling author of Second Nature, Illumination Night and Turtle Moon now offers her most fascinating and tantalizingly accomplished novel yet -- a winning tale that amply confirms Alice Hoffman's reputation not only as a genius of the vivid scene and unforgettable character but as one of America's most captivating storytellers.

When the beautiful and precocious sisters Sally and Gillian Owens are orphaned at a young age, they are taken to a small Massachusetts town to be raised by their eccentric aunts, who happen to dwell in the darkest, eeriest house in town. As they become more aware of their aunts' mysterious and sometimes frightening powers -- and as their own powers begin to surface -- the sisters grow determined to escape their strange upbringing by blending into "normal" society.

But both find that they cannot elude their magic-filled past. And when trouble strikes -- in the form of a menacing backyard ghost -- the sisters must not only reunite three generations of Owens women but embrace their magic as a gift -- and their key to a future of love and passion. Funny, haunting, and shamelessly romantic, Practical Magic is bewitching entertainment -- Alice Hoffman at her spectacular best.

Chapter One
For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It didn’t matter what the problem was — lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn’t matter if the situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long they’d convinced themselves that it wasn’t safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a snake.

Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your reflection right there in the wainscoting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.

The little girls who lived up in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They could drink cold Dr. Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marshmallow pies for dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible, in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings, whispering, arguing over whether it was feasible for even the smallest wish to ever come true.

The girls were being raised by their aunts, who, as much as they might have wanted to, simply couldn’t turn their nieces away. The children, after all, were orphans whose careless parents were so much in love they failed to notice smoke emanating from the walls of the bungalow where they’d gone to enjoy a second honeymoon, after leaving the girls home with a baby-sitter. No wonder the sisters always shared a bed during storms; they were both terrified of thunder and could never speak above a whisper once the sky began to rumble. When they did finally doze off, their arms wrapped around each other, they often had the exact same dreams. There were times when they could complete each other’s sentences; certainly each could close her eyes and guess what the other most desired for dessert on any given day.

But in spite of their closeness, the two sisters were entirely different in appearance and temperament. Aside from the beautiful gray eyes the Owens women were known for, no one would have had reason to guess the sisters were related. Gillian was fair and blond, while Sally’s hair was as black as the pelts of the ill-mannered cats the aunts allowed to skulk through the garden and claw at the draperies in the parlor. Gillian was lazy and liked to sleep past noon. She saved up her allowance money, then paid Sally to do her math homework and iron her party dresses. She drank bottles of YooHoo and ate goopy Hershey’s bars while sprawled out on the cool basement floor, content to watch as Sally dusted the metal shelves where the aunts kept pickles and preserves. Gillian’s favorite thing in the world to do was to lie on the velvet-cushioned window seat, up on the landing, where the drapes were made of damask and a portrait of Maria Owens, who had built the house so long ago, collected dust in a comer. That’s where she could be found on summer afternoons, so relaxed and languid that moths would land on her, mistaking her for a cushion, and proceed to make tiny holes in her T-shirts and jeans.

Sally, three hundred ninety-seven days older than her sister, was as conscientious as Gillian was idle. She never believed in anything that could not be proven with facts and figures. When Gillian pointed to a shooting star, it was Sally who reminded her that what was falling to earth was only an old rock, heated by its descent through the atmosphere. Sally was a take-charge sort of person from the start; she didn’t like confusion and mess, both of which filled the aunts’ old house on Magnolia Street from attic to cellar.

From the time she was in third grade, and Gillian in second, Sally was the one who cooked healthy dinners of meat loaf and fresh green beans and barley soup, using recipes from a copy of Joy of Cooking she’d managed to smuggle into the house. She fixed their lunchboxes each morning, packing up turkey-and-tomato sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, adding carrot sticks and iced oatmeal cookies, all of which Gillian tossed in the trash the instant after Sally had deposited her in her classroom, since she preferred the sloppy joes and brownies sold in the school cafeteria, and she often had swiped enough quarters and dimes from the aunts’ coat pockets to buy herself whatever she liked
Night and Day, the aunts called them, and although neither girl laughed at this little joke or found it amusing in the least, they recognized the truth in it, and were able to understand, earlier than most sisters, that the moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They kept each other’s secrets well; they crossed their hearts and hoped to die if they should ever slip and tell, even if the secret was only a cat’s tail pulled or some foxglove stolen from the aunts’ garden.

The sisters might have sniped at each other because of their differences, they might have grown nasty, then grown apart, if they’d been able to have any friends, but the other children in town avoided them. No one would dare to play with the sisters, and most girls and boys crossed their fingers when Sally and Gillian drew near, as if that sort of thing was any protection. The bravest and wildest boys followed the sisters to school, at just the right distance behind, which allowed them to turn and run if need be. These boys liked to pitch winter apples or stones at the girls, but even the best athletes, the ones who were the stars of their Little League teams, could never get a hit when they took aim at the Owens girls. Every stone, each apple, always landed at the sisters’ feet.

For Sally and Gillian the days were filled with little mortifications: No child would use a pencil or a crayon directly after it had been touched by an Owens girl. No one would sit next to them in the cafeteria or during assemblies, and some girls actually shrieked when they wandered into the girls’ room, to pee or gossip or brush their hair, and found they’d stumbled upon one of the sisters. Sally and Gillian were never chosen for teams during sports, even though Gillian was the fastest runner in town and could hit a baseball over the roof of the school, onto Endicott Street. They were never invited to parties or Girl Scout meetings, or asked to join in and play hopscotch or climb a tree.

“Fuck them all,” Gillian would say, her beautiful little nose in the air as the boys made spooky goblin noises when the sisters passed them in the hallways at school, on the way to music or art. “Let them eat dirt. You wait and see. One day they’ll beg us to invite them home, and we’ll laugh in their faces.”

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly nasty, Gillian would suddenly turn and shout “Boo,” and some boy always pissed in his pants and was far more humiliated than Gillian had ever been. But Sally didn’t have the heart to fight back. She wore dark clothes and tried not to be noticed. She pretended she wasn’t smart and never raised her hand in class. She disguised her own nature so well that after a while she grew uncertain of her own abilities. By then, she was as quiet as a mouse. When she opened her mouth in the classroom she could only squeak out wrong answers; in time she made sure to sit in the back of the room, and to keep her mouth firmly shut.

Still they would not let her be. Someone put an open ant farm in her locker when Sally was in fourth grade, so that for weeks she found squashed ants between the pages of her books. In fifth grade a gang of boys left a dead mouse in her desk. One of the cruelest children had glued a nametag to the mouse’s back. Sali had been scrawled in crude letters, but Sally took not the slightest pleasure in the misspelling of her name. She had cried over the little curled-up body, with its tiny whiskers and perfect paws, but when her teacher had asked what was wrong, she’d only shrugged, as though she had lost the power of speech.

One beautiful April day, when Sally was in sixth grade, all of the aunts’ cats followed her to school. After that, even the teachers would not pass her in an empty hallway and would find an excuse to head in the other direction. As they scurried away, the teachers smiled at her oddly, and perhaps they were afraid not to. Black cats can do that to some people; they make them go all shivery and scared and remind them of dark, wicked nights. The aunts’ cats, however, were not particularly frightening. They were spoiled and liked to sleep on the couches and they were all named for birds: There was Cardinal and Crow and Raven and Goose. There was a gawky kitten named Dove, and an ill-tempered tom called Magpie, who hissed at the others and kept them at bay. It would be difficult to believe that such a mangy bunch of creatures had come up with a plan to shame Sally, but that is what seemed to have happened, although they may have followed her on that day simply because she’d fixed a tunafish sandwich for lunch, just for herself, as Gillian was pretending to have strep throat and was home in bed, where she was sure to stay for the best part of a week, reading magazines and eating candy bars with no cares when it came to getting chocolate on the sheets, since Sally was the one who took responsibility for the laundry.

On this morning, Sally didn’t even know the cats were behind her, until she sat down at her desk. Some of her classmates were laughing, but three girls had jumped up onto the radiator and were shrieking. Anyone would have thought a gang of demons had entered the room, but it was only those flea-bitten creatures that had followed Sally to school. They paraded past chairs and desks, black as night and howling like banshees. Sally shooed them away, but the cats just came closer. They paced back and forth in front of her, their tails in the air, meowing with voices so horrible the sound could have curdled milk in the cup.

“Scat,” Sally whispered when Magpie jumped into her lap and began kneading his claws into her nicest blue dress. “Go away,” she begged him.

But even when Miss Mullins came in and smacked her desk with a ruler and used her sternest voice to suggest that Sally had better rid the room of the cats—tout de suite—or risk detention, the revolting beasts refused to go. A panic had spread and the more highstrung of Sally’s classmates were already whispering witchery. A witch, after all, was often accompanied by a familiar, an animal to do her most evil bidding. The more familiars there were, the nastier the bidding, and here was an entire troop of disgusting creatures. Several children had fainted; some would be phobic about cats for the rest of their lives. The gym teacher was sent for, and he waved a broom around, but still the cats would not leave.

A boy in the rear of the room, who had stolen a pack of matches from his father just that morning, now made use of the chaos in the classroom and took the opportunity to set Magpie’s tail on fire. The scent of burning fur quickly filled the room, even before Magpie began to scream. Sally ran to the cat; without stopping to think, she knelt and smothered the flames with her favorite blue dress.

“I hope something awful happens to you,” she called to the boy who’d set Magpie afire. Sally stood up, the cat cradled in her arms like a baby, her face and dress dirty with soot. “You’ll see what it’s like then,” she said to the boy. “You’ll know how it feels.”

Just then the children in the classroom directly overhead began to stomp their feet—out of joy, since it had been revealed their spelling tests had been eaten by their teacher’s English bulldog— and an acoustic tile fell onto the horrid boy’s head. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, his face ashen in spite of his freckled complexion.

“She did it!” some of the children cried, and the ones who did not speak aloud had their mouths wide open and their eyes even wider.

Sally ran from the room with Magpie in her arms and the other cats following. The cats zigzagged under and around her feet all the way home, down Endicott and Peabody streets, through the front door and up the stairs, and all afternoon they clawed at Sally’s bedroom door, even after she’d locked herself inside.

Sally cried for two hours straight. She loved the cats, that was the thing. She sneaked them saucers of milk and carried them to the vet on Endicott Street in a knitting bag when they fought and tore at each other and their scars became infected. She adored those horrible cats, especially Magpie, and yet sitting in her classroom, embarrassed beyond belief, she would have gladly watched each one be drowned in a bucket of icy water or shot with a BB gun. Even though she went out to care for Magpie as soon as she’d collected herself, cleaning his tail and wrapping it in cotton gauze, she knew she’d betrayed him in her heart. From that day on, Sally thought less of herself. She did not ask the aunts for special favors, or even request those small rewards she deserved. Sally could not have had a more intractable and uncompromising judge; she had found herself lacking, in compassion and fortitude, and the punishment was self-denial, from that moment on.

Griffin Dunne directed this romantic fantasy adapted from the 1995 Alice Hoffman novel about the Owens family of witches, regarded as outcasts in the town where they live. Aunt Frances and her sister Aunt Jet tried to pass on practical magic skills to their nieces, subdued Sally and fiery Gillian, brought up by the two aunts after their parents died. The aunts concoct spells for the lonely and the lovelorn, but the family's use of witchcraft unfortunately invokes a curse that spells doom to the family's menfolk. Denying her powers, Sally attempted to lead a life minus magic. Her marriage to fish merchant Michael brought two daughters -- and Michael's death. Moving into the aunt's seaside mansion, the widowed Sally warns the aunts not to influence her daughters. Sally intervenes when Gillian suffers at the hands of her abusive Bulgarian boyfriend Jimmy, and Arizona detective Gary Hallet, investigating Jimmy's disappearance, turns up in town, eyeing Gillian and Sally as the leading suspects.

Release dates: October 16, 1998
Running time: 103 minutes
Sandra Bullock as Sally Owens, a witch who becomes widowed after the Owens’ curse kills her husband.
Nicole Kidman as Gillian Owens, sister of Sally, who grows bored with small town life and becomes the victim of an abusive relationship.
Goran Visnjic as James 'Jimmy' Angelov, boyfriend of Gillian, who becomes abusive and kidnaps the sisters, and is ultimately killed by them, twice.
Stockard Channing as Aunt Frances Owens, aunt of Sally and Gillian, who tends to be more outgoing and fun-loving. She also loves to meddle in people's love lives.
Dianne Wiest as Aunt Bridget 'Jet' Owens, aunt of Sally and Gillian, who tends to be more tenderhearted and quiet.
Aidan Quinn as Investigator Gary Hallet, a lawman who investigates Sally and Gillian in the murder of Jimmy Angelov and falls in love with Sally.
Caprice Benedetti as Maria Owens, matriarch of the Owens clan.
Evan Rachel Wood as Kylie Owens, daughter of Sally Owens, who lives with her mom and aunts after the death of her father, Michael. She looks and acts a lot like her Aunt Gillian.
Alexandra Artrip as Antonia Owens, daughter of Sally Owens, who lives with her mom and aunts after the death of her father, Michael. She looks a lot like her mother.
Mark Feuerstein as Michael, husband of Sally Owens, and father of Kylie and Antonia Owens. He is a victim of the "Owens' Curse", which resulted in his death.
Lora Anne Criswell as young Gillian Owens.
Camilla Belle as young Sally Owens.
Peter Shaw as Jack, Sally and Gillian's father, who died from the Owens' curse when they were children.
Caralyn Kozlowski as Regina, Sally and Gillian's mother, who died of a broken heart after losing her husband to the Owens' curse.
Margo Martindale as Linda Bennett
Chloe Webb as Carla
Martha Gehman as Patty


I have not read the original novel so I cannot give an opinion as to how close the film is to the book. It's been a long time since I've watched Practical Magic but it's always been an enjoyable film to see.  I can't say it's overly deep but it's fun, entertaining, well written and equally well acted.  I may just have to track down my DVD and give it a viewing one of these cold winter nights.


Author Bio:
Alice Hoffman was born in New York City on March 16, 1952 and grew up on Long Island. After graduating from high school in 1969, she attended Adelphi University, from which she received a BA, and then received a Mirrellees Fellowship to the Stanford University Creative Writing Center, which she attended in 1973 and 74, receiving an MA in creative writing. She currently lives in Boston and New York.

Hoffman’s first novel, PROPERTY OF, was written at the age of twenty-one, while she was studying at Stanford, and published shortly thereafter by Farrar Straus and Giroux. She credits her mentor, professor and writer Albert J. Guerard, and his wife, the writer Maclin Bocock Guerard, for helping her to publish her first short story in the magazine Fiction. Editor Ted Solotaroff then contacted her to ask if she had a novel, at which point she quickly began to write what was to become PROPERTY OF, a section of which was published in Mr. Solotaroff’s magazine, American Review.

Since that remarkable beginning, Alice Hoffman has become one of our most distinguished novelists. She has published a total of sixteen novels, two books of short fiction, and eight books for children and young adults. Her novel, HERE ON EARTH, an Oprah Book Club choice, was a modern reworking of some of the themes of Emily Bronte’s masterpiece Wuthering Heights. PRACTICAL MAGIC was made into a Warner film starring Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman. Her novel, AT RISK, which concerns a family dealing with AIDS, can be found on the reading lists of many universities, colleges and secondary schools. Hoffman’s advance from LOCAL GIRLS, a collection of inter-related fictions about love and loss on Long Island, was donated to help create the Hoffman Breast Center at Mt. Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, MA. BLACKBIRD HOUSE is a book of stories centering around an old farm on Cape Cod. Hoffman's recent books include AQUARMARINE and INDIGO, novels for pre-teens, and The New York Times bestsellers THE RIVER KING, BLUE DIARY, THE PROBABLE FUTURE, and THE ICE QUEEN. GREEN ANGEL, a post-apocalyptic fairy tale about loss and love, was published by Scholastic and THE FORETELLING, a book about an Amazon girl in the Bronze Age, was published by Little Brown. This fall Little Brown published the teen novel INCANTATION, a story about hidden Jews during the Spanish Inquisition, which Publishers Weekly has chosen as one of the best books of the year. In January 2007, SKYLIGHT CONFESSIONS, a novel about one family’s secret history, was released on the 30th anniversary of the publication of Hoffman’s first novel.

Hoffman’s work has been published in more than twenty translations and more than one hundred foreign editions. Her novels have received mention as notable books of the year by The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, The Los Angeles Times, Library Journal, and People Magazine. She has also worked as a screenwriter and is the author of the original screenplay “Independence Day,” a film starring Kathleen Quinlan and Diane Weist. Her short fiction and non-fiction have appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Globe Magazine, Kenyon Review, Redbook, Architectural Digest, Gourmet, Self, and other magazines. Her teen novel AQUAMARINE was recently made into a film starring Emma Roberts.




Whistlin' Dixie by Maggie Adams

Title: Whistlin' Dixie
Author: Maggie Adams
Series: Tempered Steel #1
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: October 24, 2014
A man on a mission....

Mackenzie Coalson was determined to rebuild his hometown after a devastating flood left it in ruins. He has no time for a relationship and all the romantic junk that goes with it. He has a vandal to catch and no sweet smelling bundle of femininity is going to sway him.

A woman protecting her family.....

Dixie Harris charged into the county sheriff's office with a sassy sway and a smart mouth, eager to give the sheriff, and anyone else, a piece of her mind. When she locks horns with the devil himself, in the form of Mac Coalson, she quickly learns he has a temper to rival hers, even if he's the living epitome of her sexual fantasies.

When the two unite to catch a potential murderer, it's in everyone's best interest to keep it, "business only". But that's hard to do when their combined attraction is volatile enough to burn down the town.

     Mac stared at her uninhibited display of passion. She was lost in a haze of desire. He had made her feel this way. She was beautiful. She instinctively lifted her arms to welcome him, wanting more. God, he was the luckiest man in the world.
     He leaned down to trace her areola, so pink and perfect, with one finger. Dixie grabbed his finger, sliding it down her torso. Mac smiled and slid his finger down to her clit, circling the swollen bud, but never touching. His finger slipped lower.
     “God, baby, you are so wet,” His voice was a low growl, his control quickly deteriorating.
     “That’s good, right?” she whispered, suddenly shy.
     “Oh, yeah, baby. It’s perfect.” His finger invaded her again, his breath harsh and hot as he leaned over her. He removed his finger and brought it to his lips. “And you taste so sweet. I knew you would be sweet.”


Author Bio:
I live in Southern Illinois with my high school sweetheart and two terrific kids.  I've always loved books and dreamed of one day making writing my career.  Life happens while dreaming but I never gave up.  I believe humor can be found in the most awkward situations as my family can attest, and happily ever after is work but true love is worth it.
In addition to contemporary romance, I also write paranormal romance, erotic romance, and women's fiction.


Brought to you by:

Erotic Romance Story Bundle

Erotic Romance StoryBundle, Feb 4-26, 2015 with Selena Kitt,
Sommer Marsden, Kiki Howell, Alison Tyler, and Skye Warren
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Temptation by Selena Kitt
The innocent 1950s - a perfect backdrop for this "new adult" historical romance saga. What happens when you fall in love with your best friend's father?

Angry Sex by Sommer Marsden
When life turns stressful a girl needs release. Someone to help her work her issues out. Someone hot. Angry therapy...but naked.

Torn Asunder by Kiki Howell
Fraught with scenes of explicit intimacy, romantic spells and mystical shapeshifting, Torn Asunder is a unique blending of the age of manners with sexual magic.

The ESP Affair by Alison Tyler
A dream lover fulfills Connie's erotic desires in The ESP Affair. Confronted with proof of her infidelity, she embarks on a psychic journey.

On the Way Home by Skye Warren
Explore the dark side with this suspenseful new adult romance... It’s a simple trade—the passenger in seat 34B for my sister. But the sexy soldier is more than I can handle in all the best ways.

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Deacon James is more sinful than the candy he sells. Testing Rayka's every limit. Mentally, creatively, emotionally and yes--sexually.

Rituals by Kiki Howell (Novella)
When a Wiccan ritual opens her eyes to an old friend, Maddie’s first week with Ryan is a blur of knots and ropes until Maddie’s controlling ex-husband returns hell-bent on taking her back.

Alison on Top by Alison Tyler (Anthology)
Super hot, incredibly sexy and wonderfully delicious," Alison on Top fulfills your craving for smart femdom fiction with a romantic twist.

Modern Wicked Fairy Tales by Selena Kitt
     "You threaten to drown us all." He chuckled, replacing his tongue with his thumb as he stood between her thighs. His face was covered with her slick wetness. She whimpered as he continued to rub her throbbing clit, eliciting shuddering aftershocks for his cock's delight. The head of it was pressed against her hole, poised at the entrance, aimed and ready, but waiting.
     "Do you want me to fuck you, Alice?"
     She looked at him through a blurry haze of lust, her body singing with it like a tuning fork. She couldn't tell him no. Even if she'd wanted to--and she decidedly did not--the word "no" wouldn't come from her throat.
     She groaned and gave in to it. "Yes. Oh yes, please."
     "What do you want?" he asked again. Snapping his fingers, something appeared, another string or thread, and there was a silver thing attached to it. Alice watched as he slipped something over the nub of her hard, pink nipple.
     She squealed when she felt it tighten.
     "What do you want?" He snapped his fingers again and this time she knew what would appear, where it would go, how she would writhe and moan and grit her teeth.
     "I want you to fuck me," she whispered, eyes half-closed, feeling the throbbing promise of his cock between her thighs.

On The Way Home by Skye Warren
I could be comfortable strapped into a Chinook, with full body armor and another hundred fifty pounds of equipment on top of that. I could HALO down to a cross-fire insertion, no problem. But flying coach on a standard commercial airline was killer.

Everything seemed tiny, as if I’d walked onto a display version of a real airplane. Due to the design of the plane, the rows on this side only had two seats. My buddy James had taken the window seat, but the aisle didn’t give me room to stretch. My legs were folded like a pretzel to fit into the small amount of legroom. My head cleared the headrest by almost a foot. My body jutted into the aisle, but there was nothing to do about that without pushing into James beside me.

The pretty stewardess walked by, her hip brushing my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Della, her name tag read. She was slender and careful, but that didn’t matter when I was taking up half the aisle with my shoulder.

“My fault,” I managed to say. It came out more like a rumble. 

The lightest whisper of cloth, her blue uniform against my fatigues. A wisp of heat and a faint smell of peaches. It was too much. As if I were goddamned Sleeping Beauty, my dick woke the hell up. 

She smiled then, and it was way too late to pretend I wasn’t getting hot at the sight of her.

Jesus, those lips. And the little upturned smile, the one that said she knew exactly what I was thinking.

Well, maybe not exactly. No way were her thoughts as desperate as mine. Eight months away from the States had taken its toll, with not even enough time or energy to beat off with regularity.

No privacy, either, but then we didn’t care about that. You couldn’t be fastidious in a godforsaken jungle. They send a bunch of eighteen-year-old testosterone junkies into the wild, what else is gonna happen? There’d been a time we’d all go into a firefight, walk out with no bullet holes, then head back to our bunks and jack off like we were synchronized swimming.

Not this time, though.

After our first two tours in Afghanistan, James and I got picked up to work as part of a joint task force. Guess we impressed somebody. We couldn’t even drink back then—at least, not legally—but we were handed some of the most lethal weapons and secretive recording equipment in use.

Since then we had continued to fight, but not on any sanctioned battlefield. Our ops were secretive and lethal and mostly not even acknowledged by the US government. We lived and worked in the darkest parts of the world, then came home on leave so we could remember why we did it.

 My twenty-third birthday had come and gone, spent with some of the most disgusting human beings I’d ever met and had to pretend like I was their new best friend. I shuddered just remembering some of the things I’d witnessed, unable to do anything without blowing my cover. I’d seen some bad shit in my life, but nothing compared to those sights. When I closed my eyes, I could still see those young girls. Way too young. I wanted to wash myself off just for being around that, even if we had taken it down in the end.
Mission accomplished. Go home.

So it was a real fucking surprise when my body was suddenly interested in the sweet-smelling, hot-as-hell stewardess.

“Can I get you something?” she asked. “Water? A soda?”

Suddenly my mouth was dry. “No, thanks.”

She smiled again. God, she really needed to stop that. “I think I can rustle up some pretzels if you ask nicely?”

Nope, wasn’t doing that.

“I could use some pretzels,” James said from beside me.

Really? “Nah, we’re good. Don’t worry about us.”

“All right. You boys let me know.” She sauntered off, leaving both James and I staring. Man, that skirt hugged her so nicely…

“What the hell was that for?” James said. “She would’ve come back.”

“And then what, asshole? You’ve got Rachel.”

“And you’ve got… what’s her name? Chelsea.”

“Yeah,” I lied. I’d been lying for a few weeks now, ever since I’d landed at the base in Germany where I could check my messages. Dear Clint, I’m sorry to tell you like this but… A Dear John text message. A remote control breakup. It had happened to enough of our friends that I knew what the reaction would be if I told people. Pity, from the guys who could still look at me. Avoidance from everyone else, as if the condition of being dumped was contagious.

So I hadn’t told anyone, not even James. And hell, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Me and Chels had a good thing going. Maybe not good, but it wasn’t bad either. And separation was always hard. For all I knew, we’d patch things up right away and then I’d be glad I never told James, who would’ve given her a hard time after that.

She was probably going to pick me up at the airport, just like we’d planned, and here I was checking out another woman. The eight months had done a number on both of us, that was all. We’d work it out.
I glanced down the aisle at the stewardess—Della—who had bent to speak to another passenger. “The point is, she’s doing her job. She doesn’t need us bothering her.”

“Hey, you were the one groping her.”

“With my shoulder?”

“And flirting,” James added.

“I was not flirting.” I would have known if I’d been flirting, right? And I definitely hadn’t done that. She was working. The last thing she needed was two horndogs using up her time or ogling her. “And stop staring at her.”

Although that meant I had to stop too.

Torn Asunder by Kiki Howell
     The roses, elegant in their refinement, fell from one another with little grace as she undid the paper around them. Staggering back a few steps until her back met the wall, she slid down to the floor letting the wrapping and flowers fall where they may. Aubrey wrapped her arms tightly around her midsection. Her chest ached more with each beat of her heart as she swallowed hard, blinked away the mistiness over her eyes, and remembered.
     It had been the beginning of the season, a bit over a fortnight ago, when she first encountered Edmund Bryant, the Marquess of Dalysbury. Although she rolled her eyes still at the title, she felt compelled to live through it all again—through the days of fantasy in which she had allowed herself to participate. Love at first sight didn’t always give way to rational thinking. The feelings did, however, make possible the wavering delusions of believing impossible dreams could come true. 
     At the time, she had just come to London to live with her cousins, Lord and Lady Sanderly. They had paid for her travels under the guise of giving a poor relation of marriageable age a chance to find a good husband. The truth of the matter was, she had shown a great aptitude for learning the magical powers inherited through their line. The good Lord and Lady, while holding the public titles of Earl and Countess, were descendants of one of the notorious Pendle witches. They were to teach her to harness and utilize her innate talents in secret while flaunting her about from various parties and balls in the public eye. 
     She recalled with a weak smile the first ball Lord and Lady Sanderly had thrown to immerse her into proper society. Gripping her hands before her waist to resist fidgeting, she had tried hard to fix to memory all of the titles of those to whom she was being introduced. Her level of discomfort had increased. An unsettled awareness of someone in the room, an almost haunting premonition, had made her heart race and her mouth dry. She had paid no mind to the successive shivers which rushed the length of her spine until they pooled as heat in her tightening stomach.
     Reminded she was holding her breath only when she was forced to speak, she found her ribs had begun to ache. When a chill more pervasive than any she had ever known, even in the drafty county cottage she had been raised in, permeated her shoulders, she had turned in the direction of the source. Her eyes met with a man standing just across the room looking back at her. She immediately felt challenged to not look away from the gaze of his dark eyes. They radiated a raw energy unlike anything she had ever encountered before, even among those with her own esoteric abilities.
     A connection was made. Her heart beat at a frantic, uneven pace like a horse racing over shoddy roads. At the same time, a vague forewarning had made her break out in a glistening of sweat. She fought the urge to escape the room as well the need to move toward the man. She had given merit to her reactions based only on the fact she had captured the glance of an aristocratic gentleman. He had a lady on his arm, one of obvious higher circumstances in a lavish satin gown.
     Engrossed in the man’s fine manners, she watched as he removed himself from his current audience. His tempestuous form in posh attire spun on the heel of his expensive footwear to find her again with his haunted and hungry eyes. He seemed an odd mix of rugged and refined. She had felt the thrill and danger of being pursued by a beast which lurked inside of the man.
     As if he was just happening by, he had paused before her and spoken greetings to Lady Sanderly. If his perfection could have been improved upon, he had managed it. Charm sang from his mouth. The spicy smell of him embraced her.
     “I thank you, my Lord. Allow me to introduce to you to my cousin,” Lady Sanderly said as she moved between them. She placed her hands upon both of their arms. “May I present The Most Honourable, The Marquess of Dalysbury, and this, My Lord, is Miss Aubrey Griffen. She is lovely, is she not?” A touch of electricity had tingled up her arm, and she remembered Lady Sanderly had teased her of her overabundance of excitement later.
     Aubrey had curtsied as Lady Sanderly taught her to upon meeting men of his rank, albeit he appeared a bit exaggerated in stance to suit her tastes. All the while, she had blushed while the Lady went on about her so. She had thought, at the time, she was putting it on a little thick even for their purposes. This train of thought was shattered at the memory of the Marquess taking her hand to lightly brush a kiss over the back of it. A capricious sting of tears threatened behind her eyes. 
     “She is,” he had said with an indistinct, but sonorously grave tone. “I was caught by her beauty from across the room, and could not force myself to wait my turn in meeting her.”
     “Lord Dalysbury,“ Lady Sanderly had tittered in a way Aubrey had never heard before. She would have often wondered at the aristocratic pomp if she had not known her cousin so well. However, since she did, she knew it could only be an air she assumed because it was much expected of her. “You are such a gentleman. Is your mother to be in attendance tonight?”
     “She is, but I fear she likes to make late, but grand entrances.” His smile had been charming, and yet, she could see he had stifled it to some degree. Since some things become clearer the more one thinks upon them, and given what she knew now of his mother, it seemed no longer strange at all. The Dowager Marchioness of Dalysbury liked to make good use of her standing to intimidate the masses beneath her in order to amass her whims.
     At the time, however, she had wondered at the curious nature of his many discrepancies. Having fought the need to touch him in order to decipher further the divergences of his feelings, she had focused on her own unfounded fears. She sensed her own frailty in his presence despite the supernatural power she knew she could wield over him.
     Her sudden, intense desire to know him had infiltrated her usual cautiousness even as she idly listened to the conversation continuing between him and Lady Sanderly. Since the Lady had brought up his mother, his tone had switched to a suave satin while his answers had became gruff and monosyllabic.
     Aubrey had tried to emulate a Lady’s refinement, chiming in when she could until Lady Sanderly was abruptly called away by Lord Sanderly. This left her standing with Lord Dalysbury. She feigned meek and timid, although in the usual play of things she had no lack of the assuredness of her own character. 
     “What have you most liked about your first days in London? The weather has been most agreeable for you, I do believe,” he stated. 
     She appreciated his diversion. 
     “It has, but I fear I am more of a bluestocking lady myself. I daresay, I have not ventured much past the garden to read.” While she perpetuated the bluestocking persona to cover her intense study and practice of magic, it could not be a truer representation of her nevertheless.
     “What have you read since you were here?” He stammered the words as if he was not used to discussing such a lofty subject with a woman.
     “Just this morning, I finished Hester Chapone’s Letters on the Improvement of the Mind.” She squared off her shoulders and smiled demurely as she could manage.
     “Such a keen consciousness.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Do you read Mary Shelley?”
     “Yes. I last read Loves of Poets.” 
     As she reflected on their conversation, she sighed at the haunting vision of him. She seemed helpless to stop the antics of her mind. Never had she quite let herself think upon the why of their relationship. She had merely been swept away by love at first sight and given leave of rational thoughts for moments of bliss she may never have the chance at again. Looking back with a clearer vision now, she had pushed aside all propriety to follow the desires of her quickly won heart. She had followed the needs of her body for what she knew could only be a short-lived, secret affair. Better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all had been the faulty proverb of her days. More like bad advice, or an easy excuse to have relations with a man with whom she could share no future.
In those first days, there had been numerous moments of inappropriately stolen kisses, improper grazes of his hands, and lengthy glances across crowded rooms all at the most dangerous of moments.      This shocking behavior, despite the fact that he was believed by society to be openly courting The Lady Elizabeth Ward, the daughter of a duke, for the love of all that is holy! Their courting had been more of a family business arrangement than a veritable romance. A Marquess and the daughter of a Duke to be wed for a gain in social standing and in covering over a mounting disaster of family finances. He had raged over the situation just days into their torrid affair while he walked with Aubrey at a garden party. 
     In her mind, they walked and talked again.
     “Since meeting you, I see the faults of a marriage of convenience, one to gain station and to please the obligations set out by family. How, after knowing such passion with you, can I allow myself to be a mere pawn in a parental game of who shall marry whom? I cannot surrender my life for family alliances!”
     “But, you must. There is no way around it. You have obligations, and thus it seems aristocratic children end up…”
     “Powerless,” he cut her off. “I feel utterly powerless over my own future, like I was just sold to the highest bidder for position and reputation.”
     “The Lady Elizabeth Ward…” The name had burned her throat burgeoning a barrage of tears she fought to suppress, “is better suited to be your wife than a poor relation of an Earl.” With secrets that await scandal if brought into the limelight of those of your rank. 
     She recalled how his sigh had meshed with her own. His tone became more forlorn in recognizing the truth of her words. 
     “Before I met you, I used to think the same. If one considers the facts as they could be scrolled onto parchment then she does suit. Her lineage is as faultless as her manners. She has been trained to be the wife of a Duke or a Marquess and the mother of heirs. We do produce easy conversation, although we never share words of importance. I dare proclaim it is much the same with any talk within the ton.”
     “This is why marriage within your own rank will make your life easier. It is the practical and the wise choice. Other than meeting you, I do prefer my own world to being whirled about in yours. This knowledge, I have gained from my time in London. Do not worry for me. It is far preferable to have had the chance to shower love upon that person who fulfills you like no other and to hurt once they are gone than to have never known or made love to them at all.” Her string of words had tumbled from her mouth. She had tried to express what was in her heart, but she was making a cake of herself in the attempting of it. Yet, her use of the word love had been intentional. She had wanted to say it to him, but known better. It would only cause problems for them both, having known even then she would have to leave. She could not bear to see him marry another, and that was the one thing which would dictate her future.
     As if he had read her thoughts, which seemed an uncanny habit of his, he had said, “We all know of at least one person who has stood for love and married beneath them. It could be me! I can weather the scandal of walking away from an advantageous marriage and still fulfill the obligations of my position. I do not care one wit what society thinks of me! Often one is surprised to find society is not as harsh a council as one thought it to be.”
     “I love you for even thinking it, but you are dreaming, my Lord. And, what if it all falls apart around you? What then? You have others to think of. We have only just met. We do not know of each other enough to make such rash decisions.” Those were the only choices she did make where he was concerned, but in this one matter, she could not allow it to be so. She tried to maintain some distance between them for his sake.
     “There is time for us to decide. I am not being pressured with a time frame to ask for her hand as of yet. I could make you fall in love with me in time. I could set us up a house in the country. Could you not see me in a shabby coat with a few shaggy dogs at my feet when I do not have to be in attendance in London? Or, we could flee to America and be done with it all.”
     “How absurd both ideas are. You are banking a lot on a few illicit meetings. Besides, you could never live with yourself having hurt Lady Elizabeth and your mother. You shall have to let me go. Honestly, I am not the lady of your youthful dreams, am I?”
     “No, you are so much more than I ever dreamed possible for myself. You are truly a rare person, and I am in awe of all I know you to be. You have humbled this aristocrat. So, then let me ask you, am I the man of your dreams?”
     “No,” she had laughed fully. “I had more in mind a man with no wealth and no title to speak of. I…” she had left off before she could slip and admit to having thought she would marry a man of magic. It did not seem to matter to her now. There was another sort of magic she had then not been aware of. It is the magic of uniting two souls meant by the universe to be together even if society claims they are not to be permitted such happiness.
     “I must be with you, fully as a man and a woman can. I must have at least that, please. I must know one night with you. I must have it in my memory to endure the lot which is my life. Please tell me you want me as much as I desire to have you.”
     His words had sounded scandalous. Yet, the sexual tension between them had been so viable she could actually see the sparks stemming from the energy which grew within her each day. She knew he had a part in that as if he had powers of his own and was gifting them to her. Although, a sillier notion there never was. Just being with the man who dominated both her heart and soul had made her better for the knowing of him. 
     “How can we take such a chance? There are too many to be hurt.” Like me, she thought, although she did wonder upon which choice could possibly make her future without him worse. She cringed at the idea of what he would be able to do with his wife each night once they were wed. The torture in the days to come would be set upon such thoughts each night.
     “A single decision can forever change how it is we bear the rest of our lives. We will not get the chance back. I shall be married, and you shall be gone. You have said as much, have you not?”
     “Where and when?” She had heard the words come from her mouth and chose to let them be. There would be dreadful consequences in their future either way. Why not have a moment of pure bliss, utter happiness, before our lives are torn asunder for our remaining days.
     The tears now fell freely along with her memories. Only days ago they had shared a first night of passion, as they had discussed. What was to be their first and last sexual relations had continued through successive nights. They had found more times and more ways to slip into each others arms, naked and free. 
     She picked up a rose which had fallen to the floor and put it to her nose. The fragrance brought back that infamous moment when they first joined. Roses, much the same, he had given her on that night too.
     Even though the reminiscing was killing her, she let herself go back to the intimate party she had attended while staying the weekend with Lord and Lady Sanderly at the grand estate of The Earl of Gainsborough. To her delight, they had found another moment to walk a garden together. This time he had begged her with his eyes and then his words. She had become momentarily hesitant about such a monumental happening, the loss of her virginity. Since she knew she would suffer the loss of him the remainder of her days, this was probably her only chance to feel a man hard inside of her.
     “Please forgive me, but I must have you. I must make love to you,” he had begged.
     “I want the same, but it feels most improper, still. Years of teachings, I suppose, of how to be a proper lady.”
     “I can feel the heat radiating off of you. I know you want me.” 
     She blushed, not understanding how he could have known of the wet heat building thick in her core, making her damp with desires she had only heard about.
     “Your blushing tells me I am right.”
     “My blushing is only confirmation of your sincere impropriety,” she countered, not meaning the words.
     “You want me.”
     “How can I want what I know not of?” It had been a lie of course. She had studied the grimoires of many witches who had written of using the energy gotten of sex to power spells. She had become mesmerized in all of the lurid details, feeling her body tingle and pulse much as it was doing now.
     “Say yes. Please! I apologize, I know I owe it to you, but I can’t help myself. It is as though you have bewitched me, and I can’t hold back my desires.”
     She had gone stiff at his use of the word bewitched. She recollected the raw lust coming from him as something she had never felt, even around the most lecherous of men. Did I do something unknowingly to him? She fretted the idea now as she did then. Could it be why he wanted me? Did he not have his own true lusts and desires?
     “I am sorry. I won’t ask again. Relax.” He had rubbed her arms, sending the warm remnants of friction meddled with touch through her body. “I will gain control over myself somehow.” She had seen the obvious bulge in his trousers and turned to go until he had released a moan of anguish. 
     “I am afraid,” she offered.
     “I won’t hurt you anymore than nature necessitates.”
     “I don’t understand why I am even considering throwing away a lifetime of propriety on this moment. It is insane.” What if I have bewitched you, and you are not acting of your own volition? 
     Her chest tightened, suffocating her. In her mind she had always thought love would have no place in her magical life unless she happened upon a man with her powers. She had thought she could not give herself to a man who knew not the whole of her. Men like him, normal men, could never understand. She had been through these arguments in her head a thousand times since meeting him, and she knew it was only her fears seeking them out again. Her final thoughts on the matter had gone as such. If they were to be together only once, and she must leave him anyway, it would not matter if he knew not the truth.
     She let the scene move forward once again as she brushed her fingers over the silkiness of a rose petal, lost in her recollection as if it was happening once more. She remembered their breath meshing between them, coming out fast as they stood facing each other, frozen in their desires. His visage had been as grim as her treacherous heart in want of him. All the appropriate responses had left her, and she wondered the harm that could come of such a tryst.
     “Come to me tonight after all others have retired. My door I will leave slightly ajar once the house is quiet.” Her words had tumbled out before she had time to finish thinking it all through. She abruptly left him to find a quiet bench to compose herself upon. 
     He had done as she had instructed. Her current existence darkened around her once more, and she stood there again when he shut the door to her room that fateful night. He had been but a gentleman for one more moment. He had proceeded to stalk her back toward the bed as he asked, “Are you sure?      I may have but one last ounce of restraint to get me out of here if you are not.”
    The word had barely left her mouth when, in one heart-stopping expanse of time, he picked her up off of her feet and pinned her body under his. His eyes had darkened as something raged behind them. He ran his hands down her sides in a gentle caress that had an ounce of violence to it, laced within pressure and intent. She felt him holding back a huge amount of energy. The power came at her in surges, overwhelming her sensibilities and catching her breath.
     She was overflowing, on the other hand, with many unfamiliar yet wondrous emotions as his mouth descended upon hers. A pulse beat more frantically in her most secret of places as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her lower body more fiercely against his. Her softness gave way to his hardness, and she became as pliable as his cravat, which was falling from his neck despite all the starch. The bulge of his cock from earlier now filled the space between her thighs.
     Whatever shyness she had, whatever reservations, they had misted from her like steam from her heated skin. She started ripping at his coat and shirt. When her hand hit the skin of his chest, a spark of electricity went through each of her fingers.
     He had let go of her then, moving off of her and to her side as he started to pull on her gown. She helped him by moving as needed until he had divested her of her corset and chemise and stockings too. 
     “My, but I have never seen one before so beautiful,” he had exclaimed in a faltering voice as he knelt beside her. He stared like she was food to be devoured. She had not even the will to move her head back and forth in rebuttal.
     When he grabbed for his trousers, he begged, “Please don’t turn away.” 
     He proceeded to remove them along with his stockings and boots. His cock stood out, proudly bouncing a little with his movements. There was nothing that had ever prepared her for the sight of this naked man in front of her. He was brawn under a shroud of satin skin, with chiseled muscles accentuating each curve of his abdomen, legs and arms. She had tried to wet her dry lips as he reached for her hand. Brushing across the curve of her belly, his touch sent a current of electricity that set what already pulsed to twittering.
     Next, he had moved her hand to his arching erection, running her fingers over the reddened staff. The skin was soft while the bulk of it was unyielding. He guided her over him, showing her what to do, then cupped her hand and moved it to the tight sacs at its base. She touched lightly upon the tight band of skin beneath them. With his teeth clenched, he growled, alarming her. He never allowed her to remove her hand from him while he climbed back up on the bed.
     He rubbed over her breasts, making her yearn more for him in the lower regions of her body. Her nipples tightened and pebbled under his touches. Erotic sensations mingled then merged into pure ecstasy when his mouth finally came down to suckle her. She had never felt so perfectly warm. The rhythm of his deep pants increased as she felt her way around his cock in an untaught manner which seemed to make it twitch in her hand. He shuddered against her.
     Soon, he had moved from her reach as his kisses trailed lower. His fingers met with the curls at the apex of her thighs. They drifted over the soft folds, opening them to discover her most secret spot. Thus, he released the most wanton of desires she had no idea she even possessed. She was grateful to be lying down as she felt she would swoon when she let her legs fall apart as far as they would go. When his fingers caressed her wet skin, her hips arched up toward him. Then, he caught the swollen nub there in his lips and flicked at it with his tongue. A wave of contractions had tightened her stomach. She let free a cry which he moved up her body to stifle quickly with his mouth. His lips were wet with her juices. The contractions continued with the fall of his erection over the highly sensitized nub. His tongue plundered her mouth.
     He lifted his hips, setting his cock at her opening. She tensed, awaiting the pain she had heard would now come. He had been patient as much as he was frantic, moving in slowly until he pierced through the last piece of her which could give him any pause for concern. 
     “I am so sorry,” he whispered gently when she tensed. She knew he had ceased moving while he waited for her to confirm it safe for him to continue. The ache died away as she felt her body conform and grip around his. 
     “I am fine, My Lord.” 
     He pulled back, looking upon her quizzically, but an evil smile took his face. He thrust in and out of her, drawing ripples of pleasure. The sensations had built and built until she tumbled with them over the edge of the precipice to ride out the waves of the most indefinable, exquisite bliss she had never fathomed. His seed had shot warm into her, moving her back to the build again for a moment before her core contracted in tiny ripples. Leaving her relaxed and sated, he fell flat onto her. She had felt all-encompassed by him, and safe in all that had just happened because of it.
     “I cannot apologize for what just happened here. It was too perfect, too unbelievable, to utter such insane words for.”
     She had sensed mutual adoration, hesitant then to call it love even in her mind.
     “You never have to,” she had answered.

What is Story Bundle?
Curator’s Message by Kiki Howell: 
I’m a fan of each and every author who graciously agreed to be included in this Erotic Romance StoryBundle, and so I will admit to being a bit star-struck to have my stories published beside theirs. As you will read, I met each one through a series of intertwining, very fortunate events. 

I’ve had the privilege to work with New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author, Selena Kitt, since the beginning of my writing career. After first being published by her company, Excessica, I then began working for her in various aspects of the publishing industry. I consider myself very lucky to have learned so much from a writer as prolific as Selena, one of the best guilty pleasure authors out there with over a million books sold! 

Through working for Selena, I had the blessing of meeting, Sommer Marsden. Over time, and little “water-cooler” chats via emails if you will, we've found ourselves alike in a multitude of ways. I now have the honor of calling her a good friend even though we've never met in person. Referred to as “unapologetic” by another author in this bundle, I couldn’t agree more with that description of her writing. Her stories are both profound and witty, sexy and fun with a myriad of characters from a to z, adventurous women to zombies, and back again.

Thanks to one of Sommer’s social media posts, I signed up to review one of Alison Tyler’s books, and I've been hooked by her writing ever since. A prolific writer of several stories and talented editor of many kinky anthologies, her works offer passion and heart along with vital doses of all things sexy. Just following her blog, appropriately titled, Trollop with a Laptop, is exquisite fun, a true indulgence. 

It was also through Selena that I was recently introduced to New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author, Skye Warren. And, though I’m just getting started into her dark romantic fiction, I can’t wait to indulge in more of her stories. Her work described with such words as “perversely tender” and “haunting and beautiful” I couldn’t agree more. I’ve found her stories to be both complex and raw, emotional and enticing.

I’m pleased with the wide array of genres represented by these authors and their stories in this bundle. While all erotic romance, you will be further tempted with subgenres like: contemporary and historical, paranormal/pagan and fairy tales, bondage and femdom, to name a few. Enjoy!

Why StoryBundle?
Support awesome indie authors by paying however much you think their work is worth!

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