I have a new post up over on the Sisters in Smut blog about the Virgin’s Promise plot archetype. You’ve heard of the Hero’s Journey? Consider the Virgin the Yin to his Yang, an inward journey of self-discovery as opposed an epic quest for glory.
There’s so much to be pumped about as we head into the new year. First we have the release of Chemical [se]X, Volume 2, Just One More slated for this Valentine’s Day, as well as The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30, Volume 3 in the spring. I’m about to dive into a brand new project that I look forward to sharing with you later this year.
If you want to receive updates about these and future projects, be sure and subscribe to my monthly newsletter.
In the meantime, I have a new (old) story available for your reading pleasure. Originally published in the erotica anthology Surprising Myself from Insatiable Press, my kinky short story “House Rules” is now FREE to read on Bellesa.co.
Enjoy a steamy excerpt below.
“Turn over,” he said. I shifted onto my stomach. “This ass could be redder.” Cole’s hand came down hard on my left side, then my right. I whimpered into the bedspread as he landed twelve blows. My skin felt hot. A low hum rumbled up from his throat.
“Beautiful.” He glided his fingertips over both cheeks and onto my thighs, which he eased apart and moved between. I gasped as he slid two fingers inside me and then withdrew. There was a wet, lip-smacking sound, followed by a deep moan. Cole covered me with his body, positioning his cock between my legs. He nipped and sucked my earlobe. “Next time, I’m going to go down on you until you beg me to stop. And then, you know what I’ll do?”
“What will you do, Sir?” My insides melted at the possibility of there being a next time.
All Hallows’ Eve is nearly upon us.
Over the past month, I’ve been gorging myself on horror movies (the good and the dreadful) in between the day job, WIP revisions, and writing sprints.
I have so much stuff to share with you, including a brand new erotic story over at Bellesa.co, plus some social media developments and new ways to keep in touch.
Let’s dig in!
First off, I now have a mailing list. If you’d like to be the first to know when I put out a new story or when my next anthology is up for preorder, go ahead and click the subscribe link below. This mailing list isn’t a newsletter so much as a method for sharing news (if that makes sense).
Basically, I’ll only email you when something important is afoot. No spam ever. Promise.
I also created a Pinterest account where I pin pretty and interesting things like old Victorian homes and sexy people who inspire me. This week it’s half-naked dudes with (and without) beverages.
I have a new post up over at the Sisters in Smut blog called “Busting the Writer’s Ghost.” In keeping with the holiday, I introduce you to my own personal ghosts and explore some common writerly fears and offer advice on how to quell them. If I’m particularly skilled at anything (besides writing smut) it’s being stubborn enough to keep at the dream in the midst of a destructive thought storm.
No tricks, just treats: my new short story from Bellesa.co
“Haunted Hearts: A Ghost Story” is a bittersweet, sexy—and dare I say haunting—tale about an eccentric widow, Rose Abbot, who taps into the mysterious power of her own grief to reconnect with her late husband.
Written with Alice Hoffman’s Practical Magic and Sarah Addison Allen’s Garden Spells in mind, “Haunted Hearts: A Ghost Story” is brimming with love and bursting with magic.
Read an excerpt below.
Rose drew the box of Ethan’s ashes into her lap. It was a simple dark wood box with a bronze latch. Not heavy, but substantial enough that she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. Unable to reconcile how a man who had been larger than life could be made to fit inside such a small vessel, she began looking for a place to set the box down. First, she tried the mantel, but that didn’t feel right. Then Ethan’s trophy case, but that wouldn’t do either.
Cradling the box, Rose wandered the house, making streaks in the dust on the furniture with her fingers. She skimmed her hands over Ethan’s clothes and their shared bookshelves, until a spark like a carpet shock zapped her as she touched one particular volume.
Her grandmother’s grimoire. A heavy tome bursting at its covers with spells and recipes for all manner of ills. She pulled it from the shelf.
Setting the box on the big oak desk, Rose leafed through the well-worn pages until she found what she had unknowingly been looking for: a spell to summon a spirit to you. The instructions, scrawled in her grandmother’s looping hand, said to bundle five sprigs of thyme, twelve strands of the deceased’s hair and one other personal item into a small pouch to be worn around the neck of the caster from noon until the sun went down.
Rose glanced at the clock. It was already half-past eleven.
Acting quickly, she fetched her husband’s hairbrush from the bathroom cabinet. As for the “other item,” she reckoned it couldn’t get more personal than one’s own ashes. For the pouch, she scrabbled together a small drawstring pocket tied with a leather cord. Then, she hurried downstairs to the attached greenhouse, praying the cold outside hadn’t weaseled in and strangled the herbs.
In the kitchen, she got to work threading thyme sprigs with Ethan’s honey-blond hair. Careful not to tear the stitches, she eased the bundle into the drawstring pocket. The ashes dusted her fingers as she gathered up a handful. Careful not to spill, she sprinkled the sandy cremains into the pouch.
With the charm around her neck, Rose parked herself in Ethan’s favorite reading chair and waited.
She waited all afternoon.
As the last of the sun’s rays disappeared behind the garden fence, so too did Rose’s optimism. What had she expected? A phone call from the great beyond? She wasn’t enough of a sucker to believe in Heaven, though she’d been fool enough to think that her strangeness could actually be useful for once.
Ethan wasn’t coming back. That should’ve been obvious.
Tearing the pouch from her neck, Rose marched through the living room and threw open the French doors. Cold air pricked the parts of her not shielded by her nightgown. With a howling snarl, she hurled the pouch out into the snow.
Rose slammed the doors and then slid to the floor, curling in upon herself like a dying spider.
Having sobbed herself to sleep, she didn’t notice the breeze on her skin or the strong arms that carried her up to bed like a child. It wasn’t until she woke squinting into the darkness of her bedroom, confused and disoriented, that she sensed the heat against her back and an arm around her midriff.
Lips brushed the nape of her neck. Fear seized like burnt chocolate in her stomach as hope ballooned in her chest. Sliding her hand under the covers, Rose traced the length of the arm across her belly until she found fingers.
“Say something,” she whispered.
The hand on her stomach slid to her breast. She shivered. If this wasn’t Ethan, then it could only be a stranger. Had she forgotten to lock the doors after she’d thrown the pouch into the snow? She couldn’t remember.
Bracing for the fight of her life, Rose balled her fists and turned to confront her silent bedmate.
Moonlight spilled onto the other half of the bed. It was empty.
The spell had worked.
“Wait.” She pawed at the sheets but found no trace of Ethan. “Come back. Come back, I’m here!”
Had she dreamt the feel of his hands and lips, or worse, lost her chance to reunite with her husband?
No. He had to still be around. She just needed a way to make contact.
Rose ran to the kitchen for a shot glass and a marker. Back in the bedroom, she folded up the threadbare rug to reveal a strip of hardwood on which she scrawled an arching alphabet, plus the words YES and NO. She laid the upturned shot glass on the floor and placed her finger on top.
“Ethan, are you still here?”
Nothing happened, not for a good long while, though the air around her felt charged and leaden. As if pushed by an invisible hand, the shot glass slid across the floor to YES.
Rose stared in amazement as the glass spelled out, HELLO ROSIE.
As summer cedes to fall, I find myself reaching for what I consider to be quintessential “autumn reads.” Ghost stories, psychological thrillers, epic love sagas. I recently finished Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn, which I enjoyed (though not as much as Gone Girl) and my beloved copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife has been whispering to me from its spot on the shelf. The trees are burning gold, and I’ve had to bring the space heater up from the basement so I can continue to write on the porch.
Yes, fall is in the air. But before you pack away the shorts and swimwear, allow me to coax you back into summer’s embrace for a few moments with my new short story, “Wading In.”
Once again, I’ve partnered with Bellesa to bring you this steamy story about an independent woman named Lorelai, who has vowed to put her pleasure first in the wake of a difficult break-up.
When the heat of the night reaches a fever pitch, she sneaks into her neighbor’s pool for a midnight skinny dip. To her surprise, she’s not the only one looking to cool off under the cover of darkness: her handsome new neighbor, Will, has the same idea. And while Lorelai doesn’t need a helping hand to get herself off, she can’t help wondering if it might be time to let someone get close enough to touch.
“Strange things happen to your body when you go a long time without physical contact. After the cravings subside, you start to forget what it feels like to be touched…”
Read an excerpt below:
Tossing back the sheet, I rose from the bed and threw on a T-shirt and shorts. Pippa lifted her head from where she lay sprawled out on her dog bed. I told her to stay, then padded downstairs, out the back door and into the night.
The moon was bright enough to see by. I didn’t bother trying the gate in case I tripped the censor light on Alma Crowley’s garage. Instead, I opted for the stepladder I’d been using to paint my shutters.
Once I was over the fence, I moved silently across her yard, though I doubted she could hear me with all her windows closed. Moonlight glinted off the ripples on the built-in pool. Feeling giddy, I stripped out of my tank top and shorts, and made my way around to the shallow end of the pool.
A soft moan floated from my lips as I descended the four large steps. Even at lukewarm, the water felt delicious against my hot skin. Dunking under to wet my hair, I propelled myself toward the center of the pool, then resurfaced. I wiped the water from my eyes and breathed a contented sigh.
“Feels great, doesn’t it?”
“Jesus!” I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of Will’s voice. I scanned the water until I spotted him, tucked around the bend in the kidney-shaped pool. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are,” he said. “Taking a midnight dip. Sorry if I scared you.”
He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded amused. I moved to cover myself, though I doubted he could see me in the dark. “Why didn’t you announce yourself?”
“Calling out wouldn’t have been very smart, since I’m not supposed to be here. And seeing as how you snuck in over the fence, I’m guessing neither are you.”
Will swam away from the side, pushing himself toward the center, toward me. His teeth glinted. “Honestly? I was admiring the view.”
“Were you, now?” My tongue felt clumsy, too big for my mouth. Figures, the one thing I was trying to avoid would be waiting for me in the place I wasn’t allowed to go. It was like fate was challenging me to sin harder. And there was no denying that Will was sexy as sin.
He sidled up to me, the drops of water on his well-toned chest and arms sparkling like diamonds. “I know you were checking me out on your nightly walks with Pippa.”
I aimed my smile at the water. He’d remembered my dog’s name. “Was I that obvious?”
“No. I only noticed because I was checking you out, too.”
A warm shiver rippled across my skin; I felt as though I’d been dropped into a glass of champagne. I floated onto my back before I recalled that I was naked.
My nipples puckered to tight peaks. I wondered if Will was staring at my breasts, licking his lips and imagining what they might taste like. Arousal skittered like pebbles in a rainstick from the apex of my thighs to the tips of my fingers and toes.
“You know,” he said, “the first time I saw you I couldn’t take my eyes off you, especially your legs.”
My legs had always been one of my best features. I’d often wear skirts when I walked Pippa, hoping Will might notice. I righted myself in the water, planting my feet so I could press my thighs together.
Will swam closer. “I thought about you later that night. About what it would feel like to kneel in front of you on the sidewalk and have you drape your skirt over my head. I wondered what color panties you’d be wearing.”
I wondered if Will could read the desire on my face as clearly as I could read his, plain as white chalk on blacktop. I took a shuddering breath. “Have you thought about me since then?”
Will nodded. “Every night.”
I am not what you would call a joiner. In school, I never played sports or participated in extracurriculars—save art club, but that was more of a drop-in-whenever sort of deal.
My parents signed me up for computer camp one summer, which I now appreciate, but at the time, I was less-than grateful. There’s an active kink community in my area of which I’m not a member.
So when the lovely Doctor J invited me to join Sisters in Smut, I’ll admit, I was hesitant. Having grappled with social anxiety my whole life, I’m used to the tense muscles and racing thoughts that accompany any sort of potential group event—including online interactions.
But something told me not to shy away from this opportunity…
I am beyond thrilled to announce that I have a brand new erotic story available on Bellesa.co!
Bellesa is a high-quality porn and sexuality website for women, featuring some of the best videos, sex-positive articles and erotica on the net. Seriously, go check out their offerings. The quality of their stuff is top-notch. I’ve sampled it myself. 😉
And best of all? You can enjoy all of this scintillating content, including my short story “Make It Right,” for FREE!
Kat, the main character in this story, is a café owner with a taste for good coffee, great whisky, and refined men in even finer suits.
Intrigued? Grab yourself a cup of something strong and settle in for a steamy excerpt.
Excerpt from “Make It Right” by Rachel Woe:
“What about him?” Esteban aims his knife at the bar. I wait a few seconds and then turn.
A dark-skinned man sips beer from a pilsner glass. From this distance, I’d guess him to be at least forty-five. His navy-blue suit is well-fitted, though not as bespoke as Esteban’s Armani. And the way he pauses between drinks to swipe at his phone suggests he’s on his own time. Alone, but not lonely.
“Do you find him handsome?” Esteban asks.
“You know I do.” He wouldn’t have pointed him out otherwise.
Esteban’s gaze narrows. Jealousy was a point of contention throughout his marriage. Since his divorce, he’s worked to recognize the tendency so he can control it instead of the other way around. In doing so, he’s discovered that jealousy turns him on. Aggravation as a means of arousal, a combustive combination.
“Do you think he has a big cock?” His breath is hot on my neck. I don’t have to touch him to know he’s hard, but I reach over anyway.
“Not as big as yours.” I palm Esteban through his trousers, making him hum low in his throat. Occasionally, I can get him so worked-up that he’ll fondle me under the table. Always over my panties; never enough to get me off.
“I bet you’d like to find out.”