A (Bitter)sweet and Sexy Treat

Pumpkin Bucket Filled With Various Wrapped CandiesAll 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.

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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.

 

Yummy.

#SistersinSmutScary human silhouette behind a diffuse surface

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.

You can check out that post here.

No tricks, just treats: my new short story from Bellesa.co

spiritualistic seance by candlelight close-up“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.

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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.

“Ethan?”

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.

Click the image below to read the rest on Bellesa.co.Male and female hands silhouette, almost touch each-other

Love Slave: Heatwave

Love Slave Heatwave“I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”
John Keats, Bright Star

I’m pleased to announce the release of LoveSlave.org’s erotic summer themed ebook anthology, Love Slave: Heatwave!

The folks over at LoveSlave.org are running a raffle featuring ebooks by a handful of my fellow Heatwave authors. Visit their site (and scroll to the bottom) to peruse their offerings and enter for a chance to win free books.

Enjoy an excerpt from my short story, “Wild Things”

I retrieved the flashlights and stepped out into the humid night. Shane was already in the yard, shirtless, staring up at the moon. His chest muscles rippled with each deep inhalation of the lilac-scented air and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to run my hands over his skin. He lowered his gaze from the night sky to me, his eyes cloudy with whiskey and moonlight.

“I already checked the bins,” he said. “Blocks are in place.”

“Oh, all right.” I paused. “I guess we can go back inside.” The second I said it, I knew I didn’t want to. I felt oddly at home under the stars with my estranged friend, the trees towering overhead, the woods inviting us to come and play.

Shane walked up to me, hand outstretched. “Give me one of those.” He gestured to the flashlights. He fiddled with it for a few seconds, as though weighing an idea in his mind.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, his eyes boring into mine.

“Which one?” I croaked, painfully aware of his closeness.

“Come on. You know the rules.” Shane put his hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the nearest opening in the trees, the sweet scent of expensive whiskey on his breath. He pressed himself against me and I felt the distinct impression of something firm and rod-like at the small of my back. My pussy tightened automatically.

“I’ll count to one hundred.” His lips grazed my ear.

“Oh. Okay,” I stuttered. My breathing was erratic. I swayed against him as though my body needed confirmation that his erection was real. It was. He slid a hand down my arm, across my belly and slipped it deftly into the waistband of my shorts, giving my entire pussy a squeeze and slight fondle. I gasped.

Shane emitted a low, animalistic growl before withdrawing his hand and hissing, “Now, get.”

He smacked my ass and sent me sprinting into the darkness, my right butt cheek smarting and the rest of me horny as all hell.

My legs carried me through the woods faster than they’d had to in a very long time. I ran as far into the canopy as I could before the density of the trees forced me to turn on the flashlight. Fumbling with the on/off switch, I paused for a moment and crouched low, listening.

There was a slight breeze, but not enough to muffle any significant disruptions to the natural stirrings of the forest. My pounding heart reverberated through my chest and up into my head as beads of sweat dripped down from my hairline. I heard nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no snapping twigs. He was probably still counting.

I took a deep breath and pressed on, hoping I’d placed enough distance between us that he wouldn’t be able to see the glow of my flashlight in the dark. I wondered what would happen if he found me. Scratch that, when he found me.

I ran, dodging prickly shrubs and exposed, gnarled tree roots. I recognized the thick trunk of a sycamore as though I were traversing the route from memory, and dove behind it, shutting off my flashlight and taking a second to catch my breath.

The only sounds I could make out were the soft buzzing of mosquitoes, frogs chirping in the nearby creek, and the water’s quiet gurgling. For a moment, I wondered if Shane had been too drunk to navigate the darkness alone. Maybe he’d lost his footing somewhere and tripped over a fallen log or protruding root system. I considered going back.

About forty yards behind me, I heard the sharp crackle of a pinecone being crunched underfoot.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

There was just enough moonlight piercing the canopy that I could make out the thin, glimmering line of the creek about twenty yards away. I had to try.

Love Slave: Heatwave is now available from Amazon, Amazon UK, Smashwords, and other online retailers.

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Earlier versions of this story have appeared on RachelWoe.com and Literotica.com.

Read an Excerpt from “The Art Teacher” at Simply Sxy

BestWomensErotica2015The folks over at Simply Sxy are featuring an excerpt from my short story “The Art Teacher” this week as one of their Sexy Reads. This story is just one of many scintillating erotic tales found in Best Women’s Erotica 2015.

Here’s a nibble to whet your appetite:

Mr. Thompson answers the phone at a normal volume but then begins to speak in hushed whispers. I hear footsteps and then the sound of a heavy door creaking and latching. I turn and see that he has closed the door to his office. At the same time, I notice a quarter-sized hole beneath the knob. The door must have featured a lock at one point but, for whatever reason, it was removed. I debate the ethics of grasping this opportunity to spy on him and my curiosity is far more powerful than any sense of morality. Before long, I’m removing my gray flats and slinking towards the door.

I crouch, hovering just above the floor with my eye to the peephole. I can barely make out his side of the conversation and am both affronted and intrigued by what I hear.

“Of course I’ve thought about you since August. How could I not? That was some of the best damn head I’ve ever gotten.”

He is talking to a woman. I know this because the tinny, unintelligible voice coming out the other end of the phone sounds high-pitched, feminine. His own voice is low and guttural, deeper than I’m used to hearing in class. I’m both insanely jealous and eager to hear more.

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Want a bigger bite? Click here.

New Erotic Story: Condolences

Funeral Home Wet T-Shirt Contest
“Funeral Home wet t shirt contest” is copyright © 2007 Ashi Fachler and made available under an Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic License*.

Happy Hump Day! (It’s still technically Wednesday, EST)

There is a new story titled, “Condolences” available for your scrutiny and reading pleasure on the Free Erotic Stories page. It’s a quickie—less than 6K words—about a resentful young woman who encounters her childhood-bully-turned-one-night-stand at the vigil of her recently deceased grandfather.

That probably sounds like the least erotic thing ever written, but I’m a big proponent of taking seemingly unsexy situations and events (i.e. real life stuff) and injecting them with sexual tension and a dash of “We really shouldn’t, but…”

If you want specifics, I would classify “Condolences” as a New Adult Erotic Romance story, though the Happy-For-Now ending is somewhat tenuous.

You’ll just have to read it to find out why that is.


Let me know what you think! And don’t forget to Subscribe to my RSS feed and follow me on Twitter.

*Link to Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic License