@NaughtyLiterati Turns ONE! To celebrate, enjoy a free #romance #audiobook chapter ~ Happy Listening!

Happy birthday to The Naughty Literati!

It was one year ago this month that a collection of authors from the same publisher met on a Yahoo Group and decided to work together to put out hot and spicy short story anthologies packed full of heart a few times per year.

SO much has happened for all of us since then. Your response has been so gratifying that we're now nearing our sixth (!) boxed set with the upcoming winter collection, Naughty Chances, in December 2015.

Many thanks to our fearless and wise leaders Suz deMello and Marianne Stephens for keeping us naughty writers herded and motivated so that our quills kept scratching parchment to create over the past year (6!) boxed sets that include sixty-five (count 'em, 65!) imaginative, best-selling stories to date.

In my "other life" I work in the entertainment industry and, among other things, I produce and narrate audiobooks for Audible. So for the one year anniversary of our very first boxed set, Naughty List (see the trailer and get all the stories in Naughty List now for only .99!)...

WATCH NOW

... I'm recording all my Naughty Literary short stories into one audiobook on Audible, starting with my very first one, How the Alien Stole Christmas.

LISTEN NOW

Please enjoy the first audio chapter above now... and look for the entire recording of all my Naughty Literati stories ~ AlienSeductions: How the Alien Stole Christmas, Valentime, Blood Mates: How toBlackmail a Vampire, and Pack Masters: The Bermuda Love Triangle ~  in December on Audible in my upcoming collection Absolutely Alpha. I'll be giving away FREE copies of the audiobook over on my blog when it's out, so stay tuned to WIN!

And to our readers, thank you! You inspire us in so many ways and we've appreciated hearing from you over the past year.  Remember...

XO, 

Belle Scarlett

Life meets fiction by Alexa Silver

Sometimes life and fiction collide, and this was really brought home to me this weekend.

I’m very lucky to have been able to attend several shows from my favorite band in the last few years, and have been blessed with excellent seats. This weekend, I attended a show and was seated in the front row. Right in front of me was a bank of speakers, about three feet high. The stage was probably four feet in height. Great for leaning on at the end of the show, but I digress.

During the change up between songs the full band played, and several solo spots from the various uber-talented vocalists, a keyboard was brought to the front and several roadies had to work hard and fast to get the keyboard and mic set up. Trust me, these guys work hard and efficiently, and it is usually less than three minutes to do this.

One of the roadies, while setting up the mic stand, took a step backward. He was right at the very edge of the stage, tumbled off headfirst, hit the speakers on his way down, and landed on his back and head. Within a few feet of me. He lay there stunned for a minute or two amidst cries of “don’t move” while several of us rushed over.

It was a very surreal moment. As the roadie shook off the help, I glanced up at the stage and the band members were there, very concerned. Fortunately—very fortunately—roadie Pete was okay and returned to the stage amidst cheers and applause.  Thank god he’s okay. If the stage had been only a foot or two higher, or he’d fallen just a little bit differently, I might be typing a much sadder blog post.

After the show, my friend and I were chatting, and she immediately brought up a story I have in the Enchanted Eternally anthology, called Muse. In it, there’s a shooting at a concert and the fan in the front row tries desperately to save the lead singer. If I tell you more, I’ll spoil the surprise, but I hope you’ll check it out. Fellow Naughty Literati Belle Scarlett and Charlotte Boyett-Compo are in the anthology as well.

As I was writing that pivotal first scene in Muse, I wondered what the reactions from audience, performers, and crew might be, and I tossed around a lot of ideas before the scene crystallized, and looking back on Roadie Pete’s fall, I was surprised how close Blayze’s emotions were to my own in that moment.

Fortunately, she manages to save the day, and she and Slate go on an incredible adventure of the heart.

I fully admit, rock stars are my weakness as a writer and my catnip as a reader. If you enjoy books about rock stars as much as I enjoy writing them, I hope you’ll check out Naughty Escapes and Naughty Reunions, and my stories Get Away and Homeward Bound. A-list actor Bryson meets former boy band singer Kell, and they have their own sun and fun times before reality crashes in.  Both stories are fully standalone, but I’d love it if you’d like to read both!

Happy reading!

Alexa

Enchanted Eternally is out now and you can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/Enchanted-Eternally-Jan-Springer-ebook/dp/B015YEHB76

Naughty Escapes: http://www.amazon.com/Naughty-Escapes-Eleven-Vacation-Getaways-ebook/dp/B00ZJJ1QSC/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

Naughty Reunions:  http://www.amazon.com/Naughty-Reunions-Romance-Regina-Kammer-ebook/dp/B0154ZXU5W/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1445260604&sr=1-1&keywords=naughty+reunions

Ghostlings and Haints by Charlotte Boyett~Compo

My grandfather Lewis Hatcher was a seanchaí--an Irish storyteller.  He was a larger than life individual who was the first man I ever loved. My adopted father wasn't around much because he owned a fleet of trucks so he was almost always on the road. My Pa-Pa, however, lived with us and he is the reason I became a storyteller in my own right.

I didn't know until I was much, much older--married, actually--that this wonderful man I hero worshipped had worked for the mob in Miami during Prohibition. It was rumored that he and his oldest brother Tom had been enforcers, hitmen for mobster Meyer Lansky. I don't know if that is true or not but I do know Pa-Pa never went anywhere without his snub-nosed .38. He also had a strange looking gun under a blanket in the backseat of his car. It was something he called a Tommy gun. I always thought the gun belonged to Uncle Tom, his brother, and that was why my grandfather called it that. As you can see from the photo of the two of them together, they were not--as Worf once said--merry men. Uncle Tom never, ever smiled and I was terrified of him. That's Pa-Pa on the right (wearing his ever-present Fedora).

Back in the 1950s, we didn't have air conditioning in SoWeGa (southwest Georgia) so sitting on the screened porch was the only way to keep cool on a humid night. Pa-Pa and I would sit in the swing and tell each other tall tales.  He'd begin a story then leave it to me to finish it. If I couldn't, he wouldn't give me the buffalo head nickle he had waiting for me in his pocket. It was important to me to finish the tale--and do it well--because he graded me on just how interesting and plausible the story was. We'd work on the ghost story--it was always a ghost story--until we had it just right.

Of course, the kinds of tales he told had no basis in reality according to my teachers at school. But my family knew better. Pa-Pa was not only a great storyteller who could scare the bejimminy out of you with his ghost stories, he also had 'the sight'.  He 'saw' things the rest of us couldn't. It was an ability he passed on to his only child, my mother Vivian. They both seemed to know when death was about to strike someone close to the family. Mama saw angels hovering near the person. Pa-Pa saw something dark that he never described.

Because he had nerves of steel, it wasn't unusual for the local undertaker to ask Pa-Pa to sit with a deceased family member or friend at the funeral home prior to the embalming. The corpse would be laid out on what was called a cooling board and Pa-Pa would sit there all night long. Historically, the reason for the cooling board--which was traditionally made of cane lattice--was to make darn sure the person on it was really dead. Everyone knew a tale of at least one corpse that had sprung up on the cooling board. Most of the time, it was simply rigor mortis setting in but sometimes the person actually was alive. Pa-Pa sat with the deceased out of love, respect and to honor that person's wish that he or she not be left alone in the funeral home.

In the South of my tender years, it was the custom for deceased family members to be brought in their caskets to their home or the home of a loved one on the day before the funeral. Family and friends would pay their respects in a much more private way than they could at the funeral home.  It was considered bad form not to bring your loved one home or to leave him or her at the funeral home alone. 

Pa-Pa passed away when I was six years old and they brought him to our house in a big black hearse. To this day I can still see the six solemn-faced men in black suits bringing his casket into the house.  Mama had them place it in the dining room under the windows.   When they opened the lid, it seemed to my six year old mind that my grandfather was just sleeping. I'd never seen a dead body before and I really had no conception of what death was. Pa-Pa had always told me about ghosts and the undead--he called them haints--coming back to see their loved ones so I fully expected him to open his eyes and speak to me.  You can imagine my deep disappointment when he did not. He was my hero and I loved him dearly. I'd always been afraid he'd go away like my daddy did and never come back. When I'd voice that fear, he'd tell me: "Baby girl, your Pa-Pa will always be here for you. When you need me, I'll be there. That's my promise to you."

Many years passed. I grew up. Got married. Had kids of my own. The youngest was just four months old when we were sent to Chanute A.F.B. in Illinois.  Because my husband was a non-commissoned officer, we were assigned to base housing. Wherry Housing, as it is called, is like a two-story apartment building with usually five or six apartments per unit. The bedrooms and bath are upstairs. Since our children were both boys, we were given a two-bedroom unit. (Had we a boy and girl, we would have been given a three-bedroom unit).  Separating the two bedrooms was a steep uncarpeted stairway.

At around three o'clock in the morning, I heard footsteps on the stairs. My husband was sleeping beside me and our oldest son was only three years old--much too small to make the heavy noise that I was hearing. My first thought was that we were being robbed. I was terrified but I couldn't seem to move. I was frozen in place.  There is a term for that condition. It's called sleep paralysis. Sleep paralysis is the experience of waking up (usually from a dream) and feeling paralyzed, except for being able to breathe and move your eyes. Hypnogogic hallucinations (episodes of seeing and hearing things as one is falling asleep) and sleep paralysis often occur together. 

I tell you this because it is the logical explanation for what happened that night. I was dreaming and woke, had a hypnogogic hallucination complete with sound. Sleep paralysis had taken hold of me. Yes, that's the logical explanation.

But I know in my heart--down deep in my soul--that it was no hallucination or parasomnia I experienced that night. That night, my grandfather came back from the dead to keep his promise.

As I am lying there--unable to move and sweating bullets--the footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs then turned toward our room. A dark shape came through the bedroom door and around to my side of the bed. I found myself staring up into the gently smiling, beloved face of my Pa-Pa. He was wearing the same suit and ever-present Fedora from the photo above. Same tie, too. BTW: he was buried in that suit.

All my fear evaporated as he stood there. I felt a soft breeze on my cheek then he said only one sentence: "Baby girl, go check on your son."

Just those seven words. Nothing more. His message imparted, he smiled again then slowly vanished. His leaving broke my paralysis and I sat bolt upright in the bed and screamed for my husband. Tommy jerked awake and I grabbed his arm. Shook him so hard I literally heard his teeth clicking together.

"Check on Michael!" I yelled "Check Michael!"

Tom didn't hesitate. He was out of the bed like a shot and ran across the landing to the baby's room.

It's a good thing he did. Mike had somehow gotten his blanket wrapped around his head and he was suffocating, unable to cry out. He was already blue by the time Tom tore it from him.  Trembling like a leaf, he brought the baby in to me.

"How did you know?" he asked, his voice breaking.

How, indeed?

"Baby girl, your Pa-Pa will always be here for you. When you need me, I'll be there. That's my promise to you."

Pa-Pa had kept his promise.

A Little ABOUT WRITING by Suz deMello

Taking a break from talking about the Naughty Literati to boasting about my newest venture as an indie author. ABOUT WRITING is a handy little writing manual of interest to both new and advanced writers. Though it's been out only a short time, it's garnered a few nice five star reviews:

About Writing by Suz deMello is a small, but powerful book for beginners and experienced writers alike. This little book is an excellent reference to remind all authors of the goals of becoming a better author... Ms. deMello explains in clear language and with excellent examples the building blocks of writing. She offers excellent ideas for developing characters, plot, conflict... I believe the most important message in this book is “everything in a story should contribute to it, from the biggest monster to the tiniest comma.” I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in improving their writing. Keep it close and read it often.

***

I was given this book as an ARC for an honest review. Suz deMello wrote a fantastic primer for the beginning writer, but it should not be overlooked by the more experienced. It's nice to have go to guide to touch on the things easily forgotten. She touches on everything from character arc to plot points. This is an excellent book to have in your craft library.

You'll find both of these reviews at the Amazon sales Page for ABOUT WRITING:

 http://tinyurl.com/SDM-AbtWritng      

It's in both print and digital forms, so whatever your preference, there's an edition for you!

Here's a snippet:

There are three rules to writing a novel.

Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.

--Somerset Maugham

For decades, I sensed a creative spark glowing feebly inside me. I tried

everything I could to nurture that tiny ember and fan it into a blaze. I sang in concert choirs and rock bands. I painted and made craft projects; I remember buying Styrofoam balls, rick-rack and sequins one Christmas when I was about nine. I recall how great I felt when Mrs. Elliott, my friend Dru's mother, bought one of my primitive ornaments for a whole thirty-five cents.

Later I majored in art without, alas, a shred of talent at drawing. The leap from pen to brush didn't come easily—some say I never bridged that gap.

My preference for the pen was a sign I ignored or didn't know how to interpret. And unfortunately, creative writing units in middle school English classes didn't help. They never answered this basic question: How does an author write a book?

Unfortunately for aspiring authors, this is not an easy question to answer. It’s tantamount to asking, Where do authors get their ideas? which, believe me, is our least favorite question. I often tell people I get them at Sears—they’re sold by the dozen in the basement between the barbecues and the bikes.

I needed years of study to learn how to write a story, but ideas are actually the easiest part of it. I find them almost anywhere. Maybe a magazine article about a place or event. Perhaps someone I meet or something a person says may trigger a train of thought that will eventually lead to a book. Maybe travel to someplace new ignites the creative spark that will inspire me.

Here’s a better question: What are the building blocks of plot and story?

CHARACTER AND CONFLICT

How important are these? Quite simply: No characters, no conflict. No conflict, no plot. No plot, no story. No story, no book.

Hope you love what you read and will buy the book. I'm really very proud of it.

Make Heroes Unforgettable by Marianne Stephens

What makes a hero come alive as you read or write pages? His looks, actions, emotions? There are so many adjectives to describe a hero, and writers need the right combination to make him unforgettable to readers.

Each story setting can determine a hero’s demeanor, body language, and actions. If he’s in danger, or the woman he loves is in danger, a hero should be strong and willing to do anything to keep himself and loved one safe. This calls for serious actions and behavior. Bravery in difficult circumstances, even if he at first doesn’t succeed, makes a hero lovable.

Facial Looks: Heroes don’t have to have the perfect face. Heroes with physical flaws…a scar on a cheek for example) become more real to readers. Rugged, tanned features make a hero interesting. Perfect teeth, perfect, face, perfect smile, can hide a sinister soul…and we know that no man is perfect.

Physique: Most heroes seem to have wonderful abs, biceps, rippling chest muscles. Readers want to visualize those characteristics in heroes since some female readers will put themselves in the heroine’s place and crave being close to the hero’s body. And, more and more, a hero’s “bulge” is described. Having a heroine notice what’s straining his zippered area focuses her attention on lusty thoughts and sexual desire.

Emotions: Can a hero cry? Be funny? Be rude and still catch the heroine’s interest? Sure. Crying shows a deep, softer side. Being funny, keeping conversations and settings lighthearted, shows a happy man, content with his demeanor. A rude, harsh hero can come across as brooding, but still garner some sympathy. Perhaps he’s brushing off the heroine for her own good, or having a bad day and doesn’t realize how he’s offending the heroine. Being contrite and apologizing makes him more lovable.

Does your hero have a quirk, something only he does? Does it endear him to the heroine or annoy her? Having him do something like tip his cowboy hat up for intimate face-to-face conversations makes him more likable. Cracking his knuckles can not only annoy a heroine, but readers as well.

Body Language: Leaning casually makes a hero more approachable, but a ramrod straight stance might make a heroine think twice about getting too close.  Heroes have to “invite” the heroine to share their space, and make her feel comfortable.

Voice: Tone and adding “color” to comments can give a hero that “stay with me” implication. Does he whisper, is there a huskiness quality in his voice? Can a heroine…and reader…hear his tenderness and crave to be closer?

And finally, how does your hero smell? Is there a “woodsy” aroma? Hint of lime aftershave? All-male scent that drives the heroine crazy? When a heroine inhales, are her senses bombarded by the aromas surrounding the hero?

Make your heroes unforgettable and embedded in readers’ minds. Give him a great smile, genuine passions for the heroine, and journey to win her heart.

In "Back in Your Arms", my story in the Naughty Reunions Anthology, Brian is hard to forget. Even though Liz starts out wanting revenge for what she considers a past wrong-doing, she slips back into a fierce desire for him. Lust on both sides sparks many lovemaking encounters. Can past hurts be overcome by rekindled love?
Buy LINK
More information about Naughty Reunions at: http://naughtyliterati.com 

Also available: Entice Me - Luscious Love Stories Anthology published by Romance Books '4' Us. 
Buy LINK
More information at http://www.romancebooks4us.com
My story: Operation Man Hunt

Marianne 
http://www.mariannestephens.net

The Haunted House by Francesca Hawley

Francesca Hawley here! :-)  I thought I'd share a grown-up ghost story with all of you for my October post. Happy Halloween!

Please note that this story is explicit and meant for those 18 and over.


©Francesca Hawley, 2012
http://www.francescahawley.com

The Haunted House

Julie tugged her sleeping bag over her shoulder and followed after her friends, tugging at her backpack that held her supplies for the night. She shouldn't have agreed to this. She hated dark creepy, dusty places and she had no desire to meet a ghost. She wasn't ready to admit that to anyone, though because she knew they’d laugh at her. This should have been such a lark. A bunch of friends celebrating their recent college graduations. Instead, this sucked big time.

"C'mon Julie. We need to stake out our spaces for the night," her friends called as they entered the dark house. When they paused in the entry hall, she sneezed from the dust wafting in the air.

"So we each pick a bedroom and sleep in it. Then we'll compare notes in the morning." Lisa, the groups’ ringleader said.

"We aren't going to stick together?" Julie's belly tightened. Fear flitted along her nerves. Shit. She hadn't expected this.

"No. Splitting up is half the fun," Lisa laughed.

Right. As if. Julie forced a smile to her lips as Lisa rolled out a floorplan.

"Got this from the assessor's office. The place has been empty about five years. The last owners swore there was poltergeist activity and abandoned the place. So there are bedrooms upstairs. Katie, you sleep in the gold room. I'll take the blue room. April, you set up in the green room and Julie, you take the red room."

"Red room?" She asked as they other girls grinned at each other.

"It's the master bedroom. Old Captain Striker owned the place and the master bedroom used to belong to him."

"Are there really any ghosts here?"

"Sure."

"Which room has the most activity?"

"The blue room. That's why I grabbed it for me. There's supposed to be a ghostly lady dressed in Victorian clothes who hangs out there."

"What about the red room? Any ghosts?"

"Not that I've heard, but you never know. You might get lucky. Let's go upstairs and get settled for the night."

Julie swallowed hard. She really hoped this whole thing was a big joke. They left her inside her room and shoved the door shut. For the next half hour or so, as she spread out her sleeping bag, dug out her flashlight and drank some water from her bottle, she heard slamming doors as the other girls laughed together. Julie pulled on a sleep shirt and tugged her jeans off.

She looked up at the red walls, shuddering as the sun set. She really wanted to go back home. A portrait hung over the head of the bed. He looked formidable. Stern. But he was mega-hot for all that. Julie crawled into the sleeping bag and stared at the portrait, slowly drifting to sleep as she wondered what Captain Striker had really been like.


Warm fingers slid up her thigh. Teasing. Enticing her to spread. She sighed and lifted her hips. A stroke fluttered against her pussy lips. Pressing her silky panties against her. She sighed, kicking the sleeping bag out of the way and tugging her nightshirt up so that the warm hand could get at her slit.  Silk was tugged out of the way and a long, rough finger slipped into her folds. A male finger circled her taut clit and she moaned. The finger paused.

"No, don't stop," she muttered, spreading her legs wider. She heard a low masculine chuckle. He caressed her again. Flicking fingers against her clit.

"Take off the panties," a deep voice whispered to her in the dark.

She obeyed, wondering at herself. A man was with her. One she didn't know. A tongue lapped at a nipple through her t-shirt. Biting and sucking. She sighed. It was a dream. That's all. A really great dream. Julie relaxed and let him continue after she slid her panties down her legs, kicking them across the room.

His hand slid between her legs again. Stroking her. He slipped down between her thighs. Lifting her legs up to his shoulders. He parted her and she cried out as the flat of a tongue lapped at her clit. She sobbed as he ate her and wormed fingers up into her pussy. Fondling her and spreading her juices while he sucked her. Julie drove her cunt onto his fingers. Encouraging him to fuck her. She gasped as desire clenched inside her.

He rose above her and she reached for her dream lover. Pulling him into her arms while he continued to thumb her clit, readying her to take his cock. She rode his hand, sighing into his mouth. Lambchop style whiskers teased her cheek and a bushy mustache tickled her mouth. She opened for him. Tongues twined as the weight of his body settled over her. Bare skin met her hands. Warm flesh. She caressed his shoulders, his back, grasping his ass.

"Take me," she sighed.

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I want you."

A soft groan teased her ear and she felt a long thick cock ease inside her. Fill her. She lifted her legs up along his hips, wrapping around his waist. He tugged her nightshirt upward and together they pulled it off. His mustache tickled her breasts. It made her squirm in his arms. Giggle at the light touch of the bristles against her nipples and the rise of her breast.

His hips drove forward and she opened for him. Raising her hips to welcome him inside her wet sheath. His hips rolled against her and she twisted back. Grinding against him as he thrust and withdrew.

"So wet and hot. I love that sweet muff of yours."

"Harder. Faster. Please!"

He obeyed. Driving deeper. Picking up the tempo. She gasped against his cheek before he took her mouth with his once more. Their tongues twined as he buried his cock in her. She moaned into his mouth. Stroking her fingers through his hair. Sobbing with excitement as his hands cupped her ass. Holding her tight so he could command her body.

Her nipples tightened. Desire coiled in her lower body. Tension spiraled as he took her. He shuddered, expelling a breath against her lips. Soft cries filling the night air. God, she wished she could see him. If only the moon would come out and shine through the window so she could enjoy the look of arousal on his face as well as the sound of his grunts as he pounded into her. They writhed together. Hard. Fast. Deep. She arched upward. Grabbing his shoulders. Clutching at him as he plunged into her. Grinding together to increase their satisfaction.

"Please. More," she sobbed.

He groaned, kissing her. She was so close. Just a little more. A stroke or two… Her nails dug into his shoulders as he hit bottom. She went rigid then began to shudder. Spasms moved through her in rising waves. Driving her higher and higher. She clenched on him. Milking his cock.

Julie shuddered. Clasping him tightly. "Cum with me."

As if he'd waited for her plea, he went rigid. His cock jerking inside her. He shot his cream inside her pussy and she cried out again as another climax shook her. She held him close. Not wanting to let him go. She hadn't been fucked so well in months.

Julie glanced out the window and the clouds parted. Finally. The full moon shining through. Her lover lifted his head and the moon illuminated his form. She saw his face and he looked familiar. Painfully familiar. She looked from his face to the painting above the bed. The painting was empty. Only the background showed. Waiting for its subject to return.

"You?"

He smiled slightly and the moon began to shimmer around him. It was like glitter clung to his skin and he began to glow. Fade slightly. She sat up as he returned to insubstantiality, reaching for him. He held out his hand, but her fingers pass right through him.

"Thank you, my lovely."

"But… How do I find you? See you again?"

"One night a year, I can escape my prison on the anniversary of my death. Come back next year. I'll be here."

He shimmered for a moment then disappeared. She looked up at the painting above the bed. He was back in the frame. A smug smile on his face. She grinned. He looked happy. Satisfied. She licked her lips and made plans for a return visit, curling back into her sleeping bag.


In the morning her friends packed up. Lisa bitched and moaned. "What a wasted trip. There was no ghost at all." She glared at each one of them, finishing with Julie. "Did you see any ghostly visions?"

Nikola Tesla - writing inspiration - photo in the public domain

"Ghostly? No. My night was completely spent in the physical realm."

"Well, shit. I'm never doing this again."

Julie paused. "I'll come back. I had the best night's sleep ever."

"Well then you come back alone." Lisa stomped out the front door followed closely by the other two girls.

Julie looked up the stairs. She fancied she saw him at the top of the stairs. Whether she did or didn't was irrelevant. She intended to return and just maybe when he returned to the painting next year, he'd have a wide grin on his face.

What if?

Like many writers, I’m fascinated by “what if” questions. “What if North Korea really did carry out its threat to bomb America? What if the Islamic State did establish a Caliphate? What if some idiot set loose bacterial warfare?”
The “Born to Rule” series of books follows the stories of Terah, Raine, Flame, and Skye, women whose destiny will only be discovered after the world as we know it has gone forever. The planet Mu Arae 7 sends warriors to Earth on a mission. Each warrior must find his bride to complete his mission.

Old Anny told all the community the story of their history, but it was most important that Terah, Flame, Raine, and Skye understood it. She’d named them when they were born, and she was the only one who understood the meaning in the names she’d given these girls. The future of Earth depended on them, but they didn’t know it yet.
She drew the four little girls to her and said, “When my grandmother’s grandmother was a little girl just like you, there was a place called North Korea. The leader there hated South Korea and America. He knew if he attacked America he wouldn’t be able to defeat them, but South Korea wasn’t as big and strong so he had his soldiers fire nuclear rockets and weapons filled with diseases at South Korea. Other countries who disagreed with their neighbors took the opportunity to start fights as well. The Islamic State in particular sent suicide fighters to many countries to cause unrest while their soldiers expanded their borders.”
She looked at the children seated at her feet. Flame with her bright red hair, Skye with her white-blonde hair neatly braided, Raine with her enormous blue eyes, and Terah their leader. All were listening to her intently.
Old Anny continued her story. “Within a few years many countries were fighting, some in major wars, others just annoying their neighbors, trying to get back at them over long-held grievances. But the bacteria and diseases began to spread rapidly in the unrest. Nations were too busy fighting to deliver good healthcare fast enough to stop pandemics from developing so many people died. Entire villages became empty. Warriors came from a distant planet and stole some of our women away to be their slaves. Some went willingly as conditions were so bad in their countries. Our people were smart enough to hide and remain safe. Once in every generation the aliens return for more slaves. They will come in your generation, too, but we will be prepared and hide where we can’t be found because we have always survived.”
Old Anny shifted on her blanket, reality returning to her mind. The girls were no longer small children. It was time for them to leave.

Book 1, "Born to Rule: Earth" released on 6 October.
Earth: Every twenty years a small group of warriors from Mu Arae 7 come to Earth to find their brides. Andreas captures Terah on the hill near where his spaceship lands and knows he has obtained his bride. He claims her immediately because he knows she’s the only woman for him.
Terah's running from trouble when she’s captured to be an alien’s slave. There’s nothing she can do to escape...but would she even want to?

Buy links: Evernight: http://www.evernightpublishing.com/earth-by-berengaria-brown/
ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-earth-1901004-340.html
BookStrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/earth-mf

Book 2, "Born to Rule: Fire" comes out October 21st.

And don't forget to pick up your copy of "Naughty Reunions" if you don't have it yet.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0154ZXU5W

Berengaria Brown
http://berengariasblog.blogspot.com/
http://www.bookstrand.com/berengaria-brown

Sneak Peak from Katherine Kingston

My story in the Naughty Reunions anthology is actually a prequel to a novel I'm currently working on. The story in the anthology features Brad and Dani Carpenter, who find a way to resolve a sexual incompatibility with some help from their employer/friend Drew Robertson. The novel currently in process (tentatively titled Judith's Challenge) is set a few years later, and is the story of Judith Delaney, another employee of Drew's who becomes much more to him than a business assistant. But before they can get there, they have a lot of baggage to overcome and things to work out.  Right now, this story is about two-thirds done and I haven't decided yet whether to self-publish or submit it to a publisher.

But I decided to give you a sneak peak at it.  If you'd like more information about the progress of the story, please go to my website at http://katherinekingston.com and sign up for my brand new newsletter. I hope to start sending out newsletters no more than once a month.

Without further ado, here's the excerpt:

Enormous, forbidding iron gates blocked the entrance to the estate, forcing Judith Delaney to stop the car. Their grand presence revived all her doubts about whether she should have come. Graceful scrollwork curled around on itself densely enough to prevent anyone from squeezing through, and a crown of lethal picket spear-points along the top threatened anyone foolish enough to try to climb over it. Andrew Robertson guarded his privacy.

Drawing a deep breath, she reached out to the box nearby and entered the numeric code the agency had given her, pressing the buttons on a keypad sheltered in what looked like a miniature Japanese pagoda.  For a moment, nothing happened. Then the intimidating gates swung open, quietly and with surprising speed.

A winding drive meandered through forested land until the house itself came into view.  No, not a house.  Mansion.  It sprawled out ahead, three long stories of brick, fronted by an enormous columned front porch.  She counted a dozen windows across each of the two upper levels. The façade’s blank, incessant symmetry struck her as unfriendly, almost brooding. All the windows appeared to have drawn shades or closed blinds shuttering the. Privet hedge clipped into rigid box shape lined the foundation on either side, marching in a straight row to either corner of the building. Only the front porch which held an array of white-painted wicker rockers interspersed with planters bearing brilliant red geraniums softened the forbidding look.

The estate sat in a narrow valley not far from the city of Asheville, but the North Carolina hills on either side and the high, spiked fence surrounding it lent an air of greater isolation.

She parked in front of the main door and waited a moment, fighting the nervous flutters in her stomach. Finally she got out, climbed three steps to the porch, and rang the doorbell.

Moments later, the door swung open and a man stood there, his face set in grim, harsh lines.  Arched, sandy eyebrows rose as he stared at her. “Yes?”

“I’m Judith Delaney,” she managed with only a slight stammer. She’d seen one grainy picture of the reclusive owner of the estate, and there was a resemblance… Surely he wouldn’t be answering his own doorbell. “I had an appointment with Mr. Robertson. The Seabolt Agency sent me.”

“Oh, yes.” The stern expression relaxed a fraction. He nodded and stepped back, letting her enter a grand, spacious hall. White painted walls, classic mahogany furniture and expensively framed paintings screamed elegance. The crystal chandelier hanging from two stories above likely cost more than her entire last year’s salary.

“Andrew Robertson,” the man said, drawing her attention away from the magnificence of the surroundings and confirming her unlikely suspicion.  “I hope you had a safe and pleasant trip here. Let’s go back to my office.”

But first, he extended a hand.

Judith had to make herself reach out and take it. His palm was warm and a little rough. For a moment she was fine, then the feel of the strong, masculine fingers against hers sent a wave of memory crashing over her.

Hands clamped around her wrists and ankles, holding her in place despite her struggles, while someone lay atop her and forced… 

No!  She pushed the memory away, recovering control, hoping he hadn’t noted her momentary lapse.  To cover it, she said, “You answer the door yourself?”

He shrugged.  “The butler gets every other Thursday off.”

“Today’s Tuesday.”

“He keeps losing his calendar.”

“I hope he doesn’t lose too many other things.”

Nothing changed in his expression when he answered, “Last time I counted the spoons were all there. But he does sometimes forget which side of the plate they go on.”

“Isn’t that a cardinal sin for a butler?”

“Actually it’s probably the least among this butler’s sins.”

“Should that give me hope?”

“Are you applying for the butler’s job? I don’t remember advertising for one.” A sudden laugh broke up the severe expression. Mischievous lights danced in blue-gray eyes. “But in fact, keeping track of my calendar is part of the position I’m looking to fill. You don’t lose them, do you?”

“No, but I’m not perfect either, and I don’t know that anything less would do for this place.”

The man’s expression turned grim again in an instant. “Believe me, there are no perfect beings in residence here.”

Mature Romance by Regina Kammer

It happens to the best of us. It happens to the worst of us. But we’re lucky if it happens to us at all.

Getting older.

As we tally off the years, we get a little soft around the middle, our knees creak when we climb stairs, our muscles complain if we try a new dance move, our fifty shades of youthful tresses dim to one shade of gray.

And yet, we still crave romance, we still yearn for love. Because, even though we’ve grown older, we’re still human. We may not have the raging hormones of youth, but the heart still desires emotional satisfaction.

So it is with romance novel characters.

Back in the day, romance novels mostly dealt with the idea of first love, that intense Romeo and Juliet passion that gripped a couple with such fervor they would do anything for each other. It’s great to read such novels that transport one back to teenaged or college days (although Regency heroes all seem to be about thirty-five, at which age they realize they must end their rakish ways). But we readers get older and sometimes it’s difficult to feel empathy toward a heroine whose biggest worry is what to wear to the ball or ohmygod is anyone going to ask me to dance because I’m so ugly when anyone over the age of forty knows that all eighteen-year-olds are beautiful. Every single damn one of them.

So, as romance readership grows older, they demand older characters with the worries and conflicts of maturity.

My first published story, "An Age Play", dealt with an older married couple shaken up by a proposal from a young man. I was in my early forties and had been married for at least a decade when I wrote the story, so could easily construct the characters and the what-if scenario. What’s interesting is that women readers like the story because the heroine does something she’ll probably never get a chance to do ever again because of her age. Male readers tend to not like the story probably because they identify with the middle-aged husband and not the youthful protagonist.

I’ve written ingénue heroines – Clara, Helena, Sophia (when she’s in Disobedience By Design) – but I do tend to gravitate to more mature characters. Why? I’m not on some mission to provide readership with older heroes and heroines, I just find their issues way more complex and interesting. There’s more backstory and there’s been more self-examination. All of this leads to confronting conflicts differently.

I’ll give some examples and try very hard not to include spoilers. Let’s start with Misterotica’s favorite hero, Paul Bridgers in The General’s Wife. Paul is in his thirties so he’s not totally in that mature character zone, but he’s probably in the mature demographic for 1777. Paul has a relationship with the heroine Clara that could go in many different ways, but, as he’s old enough to know a bit about himself and what he wants out of life, he chooses a particular path. His mature decision is the impetus that thrusts the story toward its happily-ever-after.

In Disobedience By Design, the young hero and heroine, Joseph and Sophia, take a huge risk with their lives and love despite knowing the consequences will tear Sophia’s family apart and upend aristocratic society. Twenty years later, in Where Destiny Plays, Sophia’s brother Arthur is faced with sacrificing his own heart to reunite the family torn asunder by the rashness of youth. Because Arthur is in his mid-forties, he approaches finding a solution with rationality and less risk-taking despite being tempted toward recklessness.

My mature heroines have different concerns than my younger heroines. While teenaged Clara, Annabella (The General’s Wife), and Helena have a world of endless possibilities before them, my mature heroines have already made choices along the way. Lavinia (Where Destiny Plays), Jean ("An Age Play"), and Jennie ("Silent Sky") each have chosen a child-free life. Laurie of "Window Display" is thoroughly committed to an academic career path. These heroines want romance to fit into their lives, not the other way around.

Likewise, my mature heroes have been settled in their bachelor ways for a lot longer than the canonical thirty-five-year-old Regency rake. Zeuster at the end of Hadrian and Sabina, Julius in Where Destiny Plays, and Arthur in Where Destiny Plays have resigned themselves to living the solitary male life, perhaps with a lover every once in a while.

But true love finds each and every one of my heroes and heroines despite their years. Because love is ageless and timeless. Unlike my knees.

About the Author

Regina Kammer is a librarian, an art historian, and an award-nominated, best-selling, multi-published writer of erotica and historical erotic romance. Her short stories and novels make history sexier, whether the era is Roman, Byzantine, Viking, American Revolution, or Victorian. She’s even sexed up contemporary settings, Steampunk, and Greco-Roman mythology. She has been published by Cleis Press, Go Deeper Press, Ellora’s Cave, House of Erotica, Story Ink, The Naughty Literati, and her own imprint, Viridium Press. She began writing historical fiction with romantic elements during National Novel Writing Month 2006, switching to erotica when all her characters suddenly demanded to have sex.

Keep up with Regina on her website

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Naughty Reunions Contest Winner

Thanks to everyone who entered our contest celebrating the release of our latest boxed-set, Naughty Reunions: Return to Romance. The contest was a smashing success with more than 5,000 entries. Our winner was chosen at random by the contest widget.

And the winner is...
Kim S. from San Antonio. Congratulations, Kim! You'll be receiving an email from us shortly. We hope you enjoy the Kindle full of great books!


Happy Reading,
The Naughty Literati

What Is Too Taboo?

When sex deviates from societal norms or has been deemed improper it's taboo. What is deemed a forbidden taboo in one culture may be completely acceptable in another. As society becomes less sensitized over time those taboos change. 

In erotic fiction taboos have changed drastically over the past decade. When I was first published in 2005, erotic stories with M/M sex scenes were just gaining acceptance in the genre but still cutting-edge taboo, along with BDSM, voyeurism, exhibitionism. older woman/younger man. 

Today when you look at erotic book titles you'll find lots of taboo relationships like billionaire boss and employee, teacher and student, nurse and patient, parent and child's friend, step-parent and stepchild, step-siblings, priest and parishioner, shape-shifter and human, lesbians, transgender, group sex, strange fetishes... The list goes on and on.

We keep pushing boundaries, taking the extremes further, surrendering to the allure of the forbidden, exploring what society deems inappropriate. Have we taken things too far? Is there such a thing as too far? Is it wrong to be titillated by erotic stories of taboo relationships such as daughter and stepfather? When the sex is happening between consenting adults does it matter what society thinks? 

As an author I am asking you the reader for your thoughts on this subject. Does anything go between consenting adults? Are authors taking things too far? Do you secretly read taboo stories?
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