Wednesday, June 8, 2011

"I blame the panties."

That's what my excuse will be today, too. I need to ignore everyone and finish this sexy little story that is currently in progress:

I blame the panties.

They’re what started it all, I swear. That turquoise-blue satin—smooth and enticing—stretched tight across Shane’s muscular ass. He looked so beautiful, like a present waiting to be unwrapped. The contrast of strong and soft, of male and female, was a shock to my senses. I hadn’t anticipated that the sight would thrill me as much as it did. It was as if that vision completed some kind of kinky circuit inside me, sending electric sensations coursing throughout my body. My flesh tingled, my heart beat faster, and I made a decision right on the spot: I wanted his ass.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

A Little Risque Coffee Break

I received the nicest note the other day from a reader about Sweet Tooth. Samantha wrote that it was "Perfect for a little risque coffee break read on my Kindle."

I like that idea, that I'm virtually sharing coffee breaks with friendly faces. And I can't think of anything better than endless java and risque reads!

Thanks for the email, Samantha. It was a lovely pick-me-up!

Sun, Sand and Sizzle

Something about summer makes people act a little crazy, often in super-sexy ways. Heat Wave: Hot, Hot, Hot Erotica is all about those sizzling, sultry rendezvous that happen on such fevered nights.

This book will be released in early August, and it's sure to be a scorcher. I'm happy to announce that it will contain my story "Falling," which is all about a hot hookup between two longtime lovers. Here's a taste:

I’ve never minded the hot summer sun. The warmer, the better as far as I’m concerned. In fact, I’ve always found the antiseptic coolness of my office more oppressive than anything else, with its shockingly white walls, bright florescent lights, and air-conditioning so cold it could be a meat locker instead of a brokerage house. Each morning, I’d hear my coworkers utter appreciative murmurs as they entered, happily trading the stifling subway air for that of our refrigerated high-rise with its gray-shaded windows. Meanwhile, I’d sit and shiver in my crisp linen suit, feeling as if I were in suspended animation. I was cool and silent, waiting on ice until I got his message: a short text, consisting of a motel name and a room number. The sight of it warmed me from the inside out—melting my resistance and bringing me back to life.

Every August like clockwork, Clarke and I would meet. And for a few hours, we’d forget our responsibilities, forget our promises, forget everything that made us who we are. Our truth became a tangle of limbs and sweat, sex and heat, whispered sighs that would fade into the steamy night.