Saturday, October 27, 2012

"Ravishing Rose" by Andie Prime (Contemporary Romance)

Genre:  Contemporary Romance

Summary:  One shy girl is about to start living!

Francesca Ellison is swept off to an A-list party in a concealing mask, a decadent costume and sex-shop panties. There she meets the pirate, Captain Cool. Frankie tells him her name is Rose because for once she intends behaving very badly. The Captain outdoes her at every turn.

As sky-rockets scream skyward and guests start to demolish the party venue, Frankie loses her panties and her inhibitions. ‘Rose’ is thoroughly ravished, and the Captain gets more (and less) than he hoped for.

This naughty novella is around fifty pages long - just right for a quick bedtime read.


Inside it was brighter, and a great deal noisier. Dozens of expensively perfumed people thronged the imposing central lobby, champagne flutes twinkling, voices raised above the music from a string quartet in an adjacent room. Everyone wore masks, and Frankie’s eyes roved with delight over the variety of disguises and costumes.

She smoothed down the short front of her skirt, conscious of what hid behind the handful of gauzy gold petals. Well, she was finally free—and if her new life included sex-shop panties, then so be it.

Mike handed their tickets to a half-naked angel with spectacular feathered wings.

“Welcome, Michael,” the angel boomed. “And—”

“Rose,” Frankie said quickly. “I’m not the wife, I’m the sister.”

“Bella’s come down with the ‘flu,” Mike explained to the angel. “So in place of my wife, I’ve brought...Rose.” He raised an eyebrow at Frankie and winked.

“Welcome, Rose,” the angel said.

“Welcome, Rose,” a huskier voice repeated right beside her ear, and under Frankie’s fake black ringlets the tiny blonde hairs rose up on her nape.

“Your host, Captain Cool,” the angel announced.

Captain Cool? What kind of stupid name is that?

An ideal name she decided when she turned to inspect the owner of the devastating voice. He stood much too close and he wore pirate’s garb. A gold-braided black jacket. Skin-tight white breeches which she was sure would leave very little to her imagination if only she could get a decent look at them. Black boots and a three-cornered hat. Far too much sexy stubble. And a strip of green cloth tied across his face like a blindfold. From the eye-holes, dark pupils inspected her with blatant appreciation. His grin stretched wide and wicked.

Frankie drew a deep breath. All of a sudden there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

Her breasts rose.

His eyes dropped.

Her nipples peaked in a sudden squirming shiver.

She thanked the costume gods for thick violet velvet and hoped the Captain couldn’t detect what lurked so dangerously close to the edge of her laced-up bodice.

She released her breath and felt the small delicious friction as her breasts subsided against the plushy pile.

“Welcome indeed, Rose.”
Buy this story on Amazon.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

"A Hero's Return" by Xavier Edwards (Erotic Romantic)

Genre:  Erotic Romance, Contemporary Romance, Military

Summary:  Florence has been patiently waiting at home for Devin to return from his latest deployment. With the time off that she has saved up, there's a lot she's looking forward to getting to do with him again.

An unexpected phone call is the first sign of something troubling, but Florence continues to hope for the best. Trouble doesn't even begin to describe what it is that has accompanied Devin and his mates when they return under a leaden sky.

Florence enters her own private world of pain when Devin returns from a deployment but still feels a thousand miles away. All she wanted was to reconnect, spend some time together, and enjoy all his physical charms, but she finds herself without any of that.

Wanting nothing more than him, Florence sets out to uncover Devin’s inner demon, only to find more than she ever bargained for, but in the process she unlocks the path to redemption for them both.


Two days later, under a leaden grey sky, Florence waited on the edge of the flightline, watching as Devin’s aircraft taxied in and shut down. The breeze kicked up by the engines lifted the hem of her dress and blew rudely inside it, reminding her of the little she wore underneath. She had to wait for the formalities of the crew to post-flight the aircraft — “putting it to bed,” in their terminology — before Devin could make his way to the edge of the flightline and she could greet her love. The crew’s normal boisterousness was very subdued. Each man’s shoulders sagged under the weight of some unseen load as they silently went through the motions of their work. As Devin’s last formal flight with the unit, he should have been hosed down by the fire crews, but even though they were there ready to do it, they stood idly by, realising that there was something of greater importance unfolding in front of them.

Eventually, the unloading and post-flight complete, the crew ambled across to the small crowd waiting for them. Each one was met by the silence that they projected before them. Finally Devin appeared and made his way to Florence, a thin smile of recognition on his face. The hug he gave her was anything but romantic — it was a robotic motion, but there was obvious relief she felt through it. At least her hug and kiss was in gratitude for him finally being home and hers again.

Nothing was said between them as Florence drove them both back to the unit, where Devin disappeared inside to complete some unknown administration. Other families and partners milled around the car park aimlessly, kids screaming and playing, oblivious to the drama unfolding around them. Adults stood in small groups, murmuring nervously or sharing fearful looks between themselves. Nobody could remember a time that a crew had returned in such a state.

Eventually Devin reappeared and climbed silently in beside Florence. As they made their way home, he spoke for the first time “It’s good to be home. I have some time off.”

“Good, because I’ve got a couple of days off myself, and we’re going to get caught up again with each other. Perhaps you can explain whatever happened the other day on the phone.”

That was a mistake. Devin was about to talk when he turned and stared out the window. Florence pouted. What the fuck had she done? She didn’t mean to upset him. She just wanted to jump him. When he spoke next, it was barely above a whisper. “No.” Okay, so that wasn’t so much of a surprise. “Maybe someday, but not today.”

“Okay. Forget I mentioned it.”

“Not that simple.” With him, it sounded like the understatement of the century. “Oh, I have more than a couple of days off. I don’t quite know when they want me back at work, but it isn’t soon...” Devin trailed off, as if he had more he wanted to say, but wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

Florence thought for a bit. “I take it something happened on your deployment that affected your whole crew — you were all like zombies after you got back. I’m here for you whenever you want to talk about it.”

“Thanks.” With that simple statement, the conversation was over and he returned to staring out the window.

Check out this story on Goodreads, "like" it on Facebook or see details on Xavier's website.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

"Her Island Fantasy" by Emma Jay (Erotic Romance)

Genre:  Erotic Romance

Summary:  Bailey Warwick has had a crush on Ian Viera for months, but he was involved in a longterm relationship. But now he’s free, and the two of them will be spending time together in Hawaii for his brother’s wedding to her best friend. Add to that, since her weight loss, she’s realized if she sets her mind to something, she can have what she wants. And she wants Ian Viera. Will she have the courage to go after him? And if she wins him, will she have the courage to keep him?


“So. Hula dancing. That was unexpected.”

She laughed, a pretty husky sound that carried through the night. “We took lessons last time so Haven could surprise Eric.”

“I think it’s clear he was pleasantly surprised.”

She stopped at the edge of the beach and kicked off her shoes, then bent to pick them up. When she straightened, he took the sandals from her, hooking the fingers through the straps at the back. The smile she gave him punched him right in the gut, and before she stepped in the sand, he moved forward, hooked his hand behind her hair and lowered his mouth to hers.

If he thought the smile hit him in the gut, the kiss hit him lower, the softness of her lips, the innocent way she parted her lips for him, at odds with the seductress he’d seen on stage. He stroked his fingertips across her cheek, wanting so much to pull her close and take the kiss deeper, at the same time savoring the sweetness of it.

The sweetness that just underscored why this shouldn’t happen.

Shouldn’t. Not wouldn’t.

She shifted, just a bit, resting her hand against his chest, angling her head, inviting him deeper. He wanted to accept that invitation. Instead, he broke the kiss, closed his hand around hers on his chest, and led her to the beach.

She didn’t say anything, and her head was bent so her hair hid her face. Great, something else to fuel his fantasies, her hair curtaining them as they made love.

They walked to the edge of the water until the waves lapped at their toes. They weren’t the only people on the beach, which was lit by torches spaced along the beach. She dug her toes into the wet sand and he’d never seen anything more adorable.

“So you want to give me a demonstration?”

“Of what? The hula?”

He eased closer, his fingers itching to touch the warm skin between her blouse and low-rise cargos. “Yeah, it looked like more than just circling your hips.”

She hesitated, then lifted her arms over her head, her wrists crossed—his eyes crossed as that brought another fantasy to mind—and slowly started to sway, her hips undulating. Her shirt rode up, baring that strip of skin, holy shit, and it was all he could do not to drop to his knees to run his lips over it.

“It’s more a figure eight. Did you ever do a hula hoop?”

“Not well.”

She moved behind him and rested her hands on his hips. Both of them stood still for a moment, absorbing, and he heard her breath catch. Then she pressed his right hip, guiding him in the movement, right, left, right. He got the pattern long before he let on, liking the feel of her hands on him, wanting them to slide forward or back.

“Got it?” she asked, a little breathless as she released him and stepped beside him.

He demonstrated with exaggerated movements, making her laugh. She moved and he matched her so they were doing the hula side by side on the beach while the waves rolled over their feet. She sped up the tempo, which he couldn’t match, only watch the graceful movement, the shimmy of her breasts beneath the top, and he caught her hips and drew her against him.

“Eric and Haven might be at it all night.”

“They might be,” she said, her breath gusting against his throat.

“You could possibly stay with Joslyn,” he said.

“I could.”

“Or…with me.”
Buy this story on Amazon or B&N.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

"Night Sighs" by Emma Meade (Paranormal Romance)

Genre:  Paranormal Romance

Summary:  It’s good to be alive, when you’re dead!

Meet Alex & Tristan, modern star-crossed lovers of the supernatural variety. Alex is running-on-empty, one year on from the death of her fiancĂ©, and the only thing that keeps her going is her romance with the young vampire Tristan. Tristan, meanwhile has a serious obsession with Bruce Springsteen, and is battling a ‘can’t-live-without-you’ sort of love for Alex. He’s trying to persuade her to come over to the dark side, but so far she’s resisting his efforts.

So come and sing along to Tristan’s band, The Dead Beats, the hottest group in London right now, and walk with Alex as she teeters between this life and the next. Because when you’re around Tristan, you’ll see, how much fun it is to be alive when you’re dead….

Night Sighs is a sensual, adult paranormal romance, following the relationship & adventures of Alex and Tristan through five short stories: The Dead Beats, The Ancients, Until My Body is Dust, Bourbon & Jazz and West of Forever.


Dawn rose, blazing hot. Standing by the attic window her skin looked pink and luminous. Heat and light were promised on her lips as the last shadows fell, leaving her naked and in full control. The London street outside was still quiet, its squalid alleyways no longer hidden under night’s friendly mask. Daylight was not everyone’s friend.


“She left me that morning,” Tristan spoke to his avid audience. “Crept out into the light, knowing I couldn’t follow. Saving herself and me is how she put it. Because the night was too dark for her…”

A roar rose up from the 50,000 strong crowd in the rural landscape miles outside London. Tristan stepped back from the microphone and lowered his head. His long black mane had been cut into jagged spikes. Silver crosses hung from his ears and on a chain around his neck, gleaming brightly against his black t-shirt and dark ripped jeans. A glance behind at his band told him they were good to go.

The moon illuminated the five vampires on the roofless stage, spotlighting Tristan as the opening bars on the piano sounded. His fans screamed again. Some were crying, others fainting, many more were as high as the grey clouds overhead.

Because the Night was a favourite cover the band liked to perform. Another haunting note on the piano followed and then the first strum of Tristan’s guitar. His thumb scraping well used strings was met with the wild screams of teenage girls. He satisfied them with a few more twangs.

And then. Silence. The band stopped. The crowd was unsure, excited and dizzy with anticipation.

Tristan lifted his head and stared straight ahead. The cameras focused on him for a close up and his face appeared on the dozens of temporarily erected screens throughout the park. He blinked, deliberately, emphasising his sad, wicked eyes all the more. Several young women dropped to the grassy ground. And then he sang.

The screams were deafening yet Tristan’s gruff, melodic voice rose over their noise as he spoke of the night belonging to lovers. His mouth touched the mic as he sang, loud, strong and clear. Those closest to the stage broke out in goosebumps. The sweetness of the piano seeped into their pores and they were more aware and more alive than ever. Tristan knew what they were feeling; he shared it with them every night on tour. Haunted. He, the band and the fans were held together amidst something beautiful but fleeting, an intermingling of love with the divine. The band had been both Tristan’s salvation and damnation. For every night through the music he felt so much, too much for one being to stay sane. The loyal crowd shared his burden.

The audience sang along with him, their shouts mixing with the sultry tones that slid so seductively off his tongue and into the hearts of every woman listening to him, and some men too.

His music embodied him entirely; it was moody, sorrowful, artistic, compelling and ultimately self-destructive. And this song captured the beauty of his pain perfectly.

Tristan strolled across the stage, one bare foot stamping down hard in front of the other, feeling the wood beneath his feet and the splinters drawing blood. He moved gracefully but there was a predatory sway that always ensured the enthrallment of his spectators. He knelt on one leg and sang to a group of young girls in the first row. All four friends were weeping, screaming and laughing, and begging him to take them up on the makeshift stage.

He winked at them and returned to centre stage, grinning at his bandmates. The red and yellow lights beat hotly against his forehead and his pale visage became ivory and near transparent. Like a ghost. He played his guitar heavily in time with the drum beats and almost drowned out the soft romance of the piano.

The elation of the audience was building as the notes rose higher, rushing towards a crescendo that was not unlike sex. His voice, always husky deepened to an overt show of masculinity.

No one his age should possess a voice like that, Tristan recalled one New York music journalist writing. He smiled in amusement.

His voice portraying carnal hunger drifted to the furthest corners of the gathering.

She was at the rear of the crowd, standing close to a fifteen foot screen mounted next to a great oak. It wasn’t his true face she was looking at now but that was enough to swell her heart and tug the memories loose. Tristan was separated from her by thousands of crazed fans. Distance didn’t seem to matter. Alex was as enthralled and on fire as the girls she could see screaming in front of her. They all wanted him and knew nothing. Those big brown eyes filled the screen until some of his hair came free of its gelled spikes and fell across his eyelashes. Tristan blew it out of his vision and carried on singing.

Two years had passed since they had last set eyes on one another but it may as well have been two minutes. Nothing had changed, not his luminous vitality or her longing to be with him. She thought that he may still love her, definitely thought of her but also possibly despised her now. Alex shivered as she listened to him. A rock star, she thought with faint amusement.

Tristan had spent years hiding from the human world and now he was one of its most famous players. The Dead Beats finished their opening number to a storm of yelling, whistling and clapping.

Alex didn’t move. What was she doing here? Why this concert and why now? Time had moved painfully slowly since she had left Tristan but some old semblance of herself had returned and the days and the nights held beauty again, and loneliness.

Without conscious thought, her legs moved of their own accord and Alex found herself walking forward through the throngs. Eyes fixed on the dot that was the stage, she was wholly unaware of the nasty comments and the irritated looks on the faces of the girls she swept past. Her progress was gradual but effective. One song melded into another and then another as she approached the front few lines of dedicated groupies, and then finally she was at the foot of the stage.

Alex shut her eyes to truly hear him, and it was his real voice now that floated over her, not an imitation that blew through the loudspeakers across the park. Soft, sensual, erotic and deadly. Cobain, Morrison and now Tristan. A long line of powerful, doomed rock stars, too big to exist comfortably in a repressive world. Would Tristan fall to the same fate? She feared he was drawing too much attention to himself and that many in his secret society were already displeased. Then stop him Alex, her inner voice urged and she opened her eyes.

He had moved on to singing Secret Garden. He always did love Springsteen, she thought wryly, remembering how he would pop on a record many a time after sex. Raw, passionate and oozing sex appeal, Tristan was all these things and more. Up on that stage now, he even sounded more than a little like the Boss. Alex listened to the words. Was he singing about her?

Tristan was on the far side aiming his words directly at a particular young girl, perhaps only a teenager. Alex’s lips curled up in a smirk. Some things never changed. And then he was glancing across the crowd, and then at the front row. Alex’s breath stopped and she clutched her locket as a reflex.

At that moment he saw her and stared. His lips no longer moved and the crowd filled in the words instead. Alex met his shocked gaze and offered him a shrug to let him know she was as confused as him. He recovered himself and completed the song. A moment later Tristan announced a short break and disappeared back stage.

Lively chatter ascended from the concert goers and Alex slipped away to the sidelines, walking numbly through empty space away from the lights and friendly noise. Shadows enveloped her, removing her from the view of the crowd.

She felt his presence behind her but didn’t move, preparing herself for his questions. Finally Alex turned to face him.

“Tristan I- ”

He flew at her bird-like and she hit the soft ground silently. Falling over her, Tristan clamped a hand over her mouth.

Check this story out on Amazon, Smashwords and Goodreads.