Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Bound by Pleasure by Morticia Knight

Need a wicked weeknight? This novella is approximately 13,450 words.

Now that Mia is happily with Donovan, she realizes she has to do the right thing, and break it off with goody-two-shoes Jeffrey. It's a terrible confrontation, and she needs the type of healing only Donovan can provide: a boundary-pushing session in his dungeon. But what happens when Jeffrey won't let go of his fantasy of a perfect life with Mia? And how will he handle the increasingly overwhelming urges he has begun to feel – for people other than Mia?

There are several dirty discoveries that are made in Part 4 of the BDSM themed Bound by Pleasure Series. Although this can be read as a stand alone story, you may find it enjoyable to get in on all of the other hot action from the previous installments:

Bound by Pleasure: The Newbie

Bound by Pleasure: The Dungeon

Bound by Pleasure: Live on Stage

Sunday, 26 February 2012

Sunday Snog - Dana and Rick from SLAP SHOT

After the last two weeks snogs coming from my HOT ICE novel CROSS-CHECKED, I'm still all in a twist about hot hockey players . So here is a snog from the third in the series SLAP SHOT - enjoy!


They say a leopard can’t change its spots. They’re wrong, because I did! Now I’m successful and independent and busy heading up my own company. I don’t have time for the complication of a man in my bed—not yet. That plan is years down the line.
Or so I thought. Because when a certain devastatingly sexy hockey captain sets his sights on me, my old impulsive self is determined to make up for two years of abstinence. I had to get sweaty, naked and dirty real quick. Heck to the consequences, regardless of the outcome. It’s all about immediate pleasure and intense satisfaction.
Trouble is, best laid plans never run smoothly and before I know it, I’m working a pole again and running for my life. Just as well Rick “Ramrod” Lewis lives up to his reputation and his name—big, bad and fortunately playing to win!


A knock on the door snapped my attention from my clipboard. “Come in,” I called, wondering who it could be. Everyone who knew I had this tiny office was busy carrying out my instructions.
The door swung open.
My heart stuttered.
Filling the frame was an enormous silhouette that could only belong to one guy at the wedding.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, flipping shut my mobile and straightening.
“I thought I’d give you my number, in case you change your mind about the dating thing,” Rick said, his deep, gritty voice echoing around the quiet office.
“You followed me?”
“I went to the restroom and spotted you heading this way on those sinfully sexy shoes you’re wearing.” He paused. “I guess I was hypnotized, it was like a scene from the Pied Piper. I had to follow you.”
“I’m sorry but you wasted your energy because I won’t change my mind about dating, not for a long time.” I shifted on my heels.
He stepped into the room and shut the door with a quiet click.
“You’ll miss the fireworks,” I said, wondering why it felt as though the temperature had suddenly rocketed up several degrees. “If you don’t get back to the reception.”
“I can take or leave lights in the sky.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair. My gaze was drawn to the white shirt he wore that stretched tight over his hard, well-defined muscles. The top button was undone and his tie was gone.
“No, seriously you have to leave, I’m very busy. I have things to do.” I tapped my pen against the clipboard.
“And when you’re done, then what?”
“Then I’ll go home, rest, and get up early to work again tomorrow. My business doesn’t run itself.”
“All work and no play will make you very dull, Dana.”
“Maybe I like being dull.” I dropped my pen and folded my arms over my chest, tried to press in my nipples, which were hardening and twisting with each softly spoken word he uttered.
“I bet you don’t like being dull, not really.” He picked up the pen and wrote a string of numbers on the top left-hand corner of my clipboard. “Call me, we’d have fun together. I can tell.”
“How can you possibly tell?”
A sexy twinkle in his eyes told me he was enjoying our banter. “Oh, I have a way of knowing these things,” he said, stepping around the desk and moving up close, real close.
My feet stayed rooted to the floor as his body heat and his smell completely overwhelmed my senses. His voice and the undisguised desire in his eyes captured a need in me that demanded attention. I tried to beat down a wave of pure, shocking lust that flowed through my body like red-hot lava. Lust was not something I’d entertained for a long time but right now it was besieging me. Right now sex was the only thing this perfect specimen of a man had me thinking about.
Rick was larger than life, his presence all-consuming in my office. It was as though he took up every square inch of physical space simply with his existence. I tried to remember my reasons for not agreeing to a date, for ever having started this damn celibacy thing, but the memories and the knowledge escaped me and in their place a carnal need grew—hungry and desperate, greedy and demanding.
“Dana,” he whispered, his voice like silk over sandpaper. “Just one date, how hard can it be?” His voice dropped lower. “I promise I’ll be a good boy and I won’t sully your pristine reputation.”
I shook my head, confusion running through my brain. Pristine reputation? Old Dana’s reputation was far from pristine, but she hadn’t been around for years.
He reached out and looped a thick finger into a dark curl hanging over my collarbone. When he gently tugged the roots, my scalp screamed for more sensation. It had been so long, too long since a man had touched me in even this small way.
Suddenly something deep inside me snapped. Blood rushed to my face and seared through my body. My hands reached for biceps nearly as wide as my waist and I pushed myself up to meet his dipped head. “Rick,” I murmured, my lips a hairsbreadth from his. “Stop talking about damn dates and pristine reputations and kiss me.”
He didn’t need asking twice.
I gasped as he crushed his lips to mine and slipped his tongue between my teeth with a challenging, ravenous urgency. I gripped the material of his shirt, parting my lips, my tongue chasing for his, tasting him, drawing in the sweet, malty, masculine flavor of his mouth.
He groaned and the sound vibrated from his chest into mine. We were pressed against each other, our bodies touching from our lips to our toes. The taste and feel of him was exquisite, like drowning in dark, forbidden sin. I realized that this was exactly what I wanted. Why the hell had I been resisting all this time? Or maybe I hadn’t, maybe I had just been waiting for him.
God, I wanted this man. I barely knew him but the need was like an all-powerful magnet, a gravitational force. Straining to get closer, to deepen the kiss, I reached high and locked my hands at his nape, pulled him nearer.
“Ah fuck, you taste divine. I knew you would,” he murmured, his lips leaving mine to explore my neck. “And you feel it too.” He slid his big hands down the silken material of my blouse, following the shape of my spine before cupping my rear. He tightened his hold, squeezing me up against the hard wedge of his erection—hot and thick, a solid weight of arousal beneath his suit pants thrusting into my stomach.
I gasped. His cock was so damn huge, so damn solid.
He tore his mouth from my neck. “You better tell me to leave right this fucking instant,” he said in a heavy, warning voice, “if you’re still adamant about not mixing business with pleasure, tell me to get the hell out of”
“Don’t you dare leave.” I grabbed for the side of his face, kissed him, bit at his bottom lip and tugged. It stretched toward me then I sank in my teeth, just a little.
The sharp nip seemed to send him beyond a point of control. He made a harsh growling sound and plunged his tongue back into my mouth as his fingers worked at my skirt, rucking the tight material upward until it was a band around my waist.
I began tearing at his shirt, fumbling fingers dragging the studs through the holes. My hunger, my impatience was wild and desperate and I didn’t know if it would ever be sated. But I was going to have a damn good try.
He shoved his thigh between my legs and the damp gusset of my panties made contact with his solid leg muscle. My hips began to grind, my desperate clit crying out for stimulation.
“Jeez, you’re a wild thing,” he said, finally ridding himself of his shirt.
I planted my hands on his hot chest. Coarse, dark hairs filled the gaps between my fingers. His lips slanted over mine again and there was a clatter as my clipboard, a pile of pencils and my mobile fell to the floor.
“Wait,” I said, fearing for my laptop.
For the briefest of moments his body left mine to move my laptop to the safety of the floor. I whimpered at the loss of our connection. I’d long since forgotten why I was supposed to be resisting, I was just going to take what I damn well could.
Between one breath and the next he had me up on the table, my back flat on the cool surface and my legs wrapped around his waist.
“How much do you want me to fuck you?” he growled, the hardness of his cock pressing through the thin, moisture-laden barrier of my panties and his eyes ablaze with need.
“Oh god, lots, fuck, yes, I want it lots, please.” Old Dana was well and truly back. “Just get a damn condom on and fuck me already.” I needed him so badly it was a force that was threatening to drive me insane. 

I hope you enjoyed this sexy snog and for those of you who are following my HOT ICE series at Ellora's Cave I have just contracted the 4th book TEAMWORK and the 5th book, working title HIGH STICKED, is written and submitted.

Have a wonderful Sunday.

Lily x

Thursday, 23 February 2012

Mining My History by Lisabet Sari

Please welcome the awesome Lisabet Sari to my blog today. She is chatting about her BDSM novel The Understudy and what inspired her to write it. I urge you to read on, its not only fascinating stuff but also incredibly honest, and the book, go grab a copy, I did, and I devoured it in one sitting.

Take it away, Lisabet...

Hi Lily, thanks for having me today,

All authors use personal experience in their stories. How could we not? Any writer who claims that her characters and their conflicts are one hundred percent fictional is not being honest with herself. 

On the other hand, it's dangerous to make one's work too autobiographical. There's the very real risk of legal action by people who recognize themselves in your so-called fiction. A more subtle problem is the tendency for an author to write the same story over and over again- her own story. (I recognize that many authors are male. However, since I need to choose one pronoun, I prefer to use the female.)

I've incorporated bits and pieces of my life into my own work, of course. I've borrowed settings, character traits, and occasionally, specific erotic scenes. Normally, though, I mix everything up. A bit of this, a bit of that, all seasoned with plenty of fantasy, and no one's the wiser. 

My BDSM erotic romance novella The Understudy is an exception. Although the characters and the setting are fictional, the primary conflict in the book is based on my personal history. 

Back when I was young, single and hormone-ridden, I had a D/s relationship with a fellow graduate student. I was totally new to the paradoxical delights of BDSM; I didn't realize that I was submissive until my reactions revealed this truth - to him and to me. In contrast, he had done a great deal of research and also had some actual experience as a dominant. 

Our explorations of power dynamics affected me profoundly. I'd never felt such passion, or such freedom, as I did when I surrendered myself to his will. We seemed to share a bond that went far beyond the physical. More than once I felt certain we were reading each other's thoughts. I think we both believed in magic, that intense desire could create reality. Somehow I was able to trust my master completely, from the very beginning, though we really didn't know each other well. He never betrayed that trust. 

I fell deeply in love with this man. However, I believed that I was nothing more than a plaything for him. I knew that before he and I connected sexually, he'd had another lover who had also been submissive. I'd even met this woman at parties. She was gorgeous, confident, flamboyant - a sophisticated and elegant woman of the world. When she broke off their relationship, my master sank into a profound depression that lasted nearly a year. 

He didn't hesitate to tell me about what he and A. used to do together. I think he understood that I found it exciting as well as enlightening. However, our discussions led me to conclude that he was still in love with her. I figured that he and I had no future. I was happy enough to act the part of his slave in the present moment - indeed, I couldn't resist him - but I always had the nagging worry that he was comparing me to her. 

When I began working on The Understudy,  I realized I wanted to transplant this situation into the story. The details and the setting are different, but the fundamental conflict is the same. Sarah Gladstone, pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way, gets her first real acting job at the Berks Summer Playhouse and discovers that she'll be working with theater legend Geoffrey Hart. The charismatic actor initiates her into the dark delights of BDSM and she's soon experiencing a level of intimacy and trust beyond anything she could have imagined. 

According to the rumors, though, Geoff's heart is taken. Renowned actress Anne Merrill, his long time partner and submissive lover, has severed their relationship and Hart has escaped to the Berkshires to lick his emotional wounds. Sarah knows that she can't compete with the glamorous theater veteran and fears that she's just a substitute for the real object of Geoff's affections.

Writing Sarah was like revisiting my own insecurities in my relationship with my master. A number of reviewers have commented on the intensity of the tale. More than most of my work, the story reflects my own emotions. I stripped myself bare writing this book. I guess it shows.

Of course, one advantage of fiction is that I can give my characters a happy ending. The real world resolution of my relationship with my master was far more ambiguous. We drifted apart. I met and married my husband. Still, my master and I keep in touch and share a wistful fantasy life. (My husband is aware of this.) Only years later did I learn the depth of my master's love for me, or understand that he had wanted a commitment but was too insecure to ask. 

I sometimes wonder what my life had been like if he and I had been as skilled in communicating outside the bedroom as we were inside. I have no regrets. I love my husband and my current life and wouldn't take back any of my choices. Writing The Understudy, though, gave me the chance to play with some seductive notions of what might have been. 

I'll end with a quick excerpt from the book. 

The door to the Shays suite was half-open. I knocked anyway, swallowing my nervousness. 'Stop this silliness, Sarah, I lectured myself. Just be professional.'

“Come in.”  That voice, so full of music and power, sent chills through my sweaty body. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed the door wide and entered the sitting room, dragging the noisy bag after me. 

Hart stood by the window with his back to me, appraising Mr. Higgin’s view. “Took you long enough,” he commented without turning around. 

I should have been annoyed, but instead I felt embarrassed and guilty. “Sorrythe stairsand it’s so hot today...”

“Never mind. Just put the suitcase on the bench next to the other bag.”  

I hoisted the case up onto the luggage rack to the right of the door.  He still didn’t turn around. I took the opportunity to get a good look at him. 

He was tallover six feet, I guessedand the low ceilings typical of colonial buildings made him look even taller. Although he was relaxed and still, his lean, athletic body suggested unlimited energy. He had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The tailored garment looked crisp and fresh despite the fact that the temperature must have been pushing ninety. 

One hand clasped the other at the small of his back. His bare forearms were lightly furred with black hair, a touch of the animal that clashed with his aura of culture and sophistication. His trousers fit as perfectly as his shirt. I couldn’t stop myself from appreciating the swell of his muscular buttocks under the fabric. My nipples were swollen and painful. My jeans felt hot and tight.

The awkward silence lengthened. I took a deep breath and thought I caught a whiff of his cologne, something brisk and nautical, overwhelmingly male.  My heart was a jackhammer in my chest.  I looked around the room, trying to distract myself from the physical reactions Hart seemed provoke simply by being present. 

It appeared he had already had time to do some unpacking.  A stack of neatly folded shirts, all black, white or grey, lay on the sofa. Several pairs of shoes were lined up near the bedroom door. On the table near the window there was a fifth of Glenlivet, which I knew hadn’t been supplied by the inn, along with a pack of Gitanes, some books and a fancy-looking camera. A framed 8x10 colour photograph sat on the end table beside the couch, not far from where I stood. 

I peered more closely at the photo. A pale, raven-haired beauty stared back at me. Her sultry dark eyes and enigmatic half-smile spoke of a passionate nature just barely held in check by convention. Luxurious curls tumbled over her shoulders but did not hide the ripe breasts swelling out of her burgundy velvet décolletage.  Her delicate chin rested on the back of one hand. The graceful fingers were tipped with crimson enamel that exactly matched her lipstick.

I didn’t need to read the autograph to know who she was. Anne Merrill, Geoffrey’s long-time partner, the woman who, if I could believe Adele, had broken his heart. 

My spirits sank even lower. It was easy to see how such a woman could captivate a man, even someone as bold and self-confident as Geoffrey Hart. When I compared myself to herwell, there was no comparison really.  I was a short, unimpressive womana girl, Hart had called mewith plain brown hair too fine to curl and a B cup figure.  I had no drama, no flair, nothing like this vivid, exotic creature who oozed sex appeal.  So what if I had an MFA in acting from Columbia? I’d had almost no real world experience. I dreamed about Broadway and London’s West End, but this gig at Berks Hill was my first professional job as an actress. And what was I? Nothing more than a bit player, an understudy to the stars.

“You’re still here, Sarah.” Hart wheeled to face me, breaking into my bitter internal monologue. “Good. After all, I didn’t tell you that you could go.”

Amusement lit up his handsome features. He towered over me, close enough that I could feel the heat emanating from his body. Embarrassment washed over me but didn’t quite submerge the undercurrent of arousal. “May I leave?” I asked, my voice a weak quaver that disgusted me. Why was I asking, anyway? Who was he to tell me what to do?

“Not yet. I need your help unpacking. Go open the bag you carried up. It’s not locked.” 

No, I wanted to scream. But I obeyed him anyway, pressing the chrome-plated catch on the sleek grey Samsonite case and flipping up the lid. 

I gasped when I saw the contents.  “It’s true!” I blurted out. 

Hart came up behind me and looked over my shoulder.  He didn’t touch me, but his mere presence was overpowering.  “What’s true?”  I heard laughter in his voice.

I pointed at the leather restraints and the rubber paddles, my hand shaking. “Thatthat you’re kinky. Into S and M, just like Adele said.”

“I prefer the term ‘D and S’. Dominance and submission. My focus is on the exchange of power, not the administration of pain. Though I’m not averse to using pain if that’s the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do?”  I turned to face him, hiding behind my indignation. “Are you joking?” He was close, too close for comfort, deliberately invading my personal space. I tried to step backward. I succeeded only in banging my shin against the luggage rack. “Ow!”

His eyes drilled into me. “I’m completely serious. D and S is not a game, despite the way it’s portrayed in popular culture. It’s not a fashion statement. It’s much, much more, a new way of being in the world. A doorway into a new kind of relationship, deeper and more intimate than anything you can imagine.” 

“Right,” I muttered. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I stared down at my sandals, feeling the blush crawling up my cheeks and across my chest. “I’m sure that’s what all the perverts say.”

He caught my chin under his forefinger and raised my eyes to his. I trembled when his skin met mine. “I can’t pretend it’s not exciting, of coursetrying new implements, pushing the sub’s limits, testing her devotion. But that’s not the main point.”  

I burned in the heat of his stare. I felt myself begin to melt, the crotch of my jeans growing damper with every beat of my pulse. I didn’t want to listen but I couldn’t hide my fascination.

He stroked his thumb across my cheek.  I held my breath, wanting him to stop,  dying for him to go further. “Aren’t you curious, Sarah? Wouldn’t you like to drop your diligent, high-achieving, good little girl persona and find out what’s underneath?”

I couldn’t answer. How did he know these things about me, this man I’d met less than a half hour ago? Did he really understand the way I’d pushed myself in college and grad school, working for the top grades, following the rules, determined to succeed in my chosen path despite the odds?  Did he know that I hadn’t had a lover for nearly four years?  I hadn’t had time. Anyway, I’d been all too aware of the fact that everyone around me was both a colleague and a competitor.   

I saw compassion in his chiselled face, mingled with lust. “I know you, little one. I know what you really crave. What you really need. Open yourself to me and I will fulfil the desires you don’t yet dare to admit, even to yourself.” 


TheUnderstudy is available from Total-E-Bound  as well as Amazon and other third party vendors.


A dozen years ago LISABET SARAI experienced a serendipitous fusion of her love of writing and her fascination with sex. Since then she has published three single author short story collections and six erotic novels, including the BDSM classic Raw Silk. Dozens of her shorter works have been released as ebooks and in print anthologies. She has also edited several acclaimed anthologies and is currently responsible for the altruistic erotica series COMING TOGETHER PRESENTS. 

Lisabet holds more degrees than anyone needs from prestigious universities who would no doubt be embarrassed by her chosen genre. She loves to travel and currently lives in Southeast Asia with her highly tolerant husband and two over-indulged felines. For more information on Lisabet and her writing visit Lisabet Sarai's Fantasy Factory ( or her blog Beyond Romance ( 

Thanks so much for stopping by, Lisabet, and for sharing your thoughts. Lisabet is giving away a copy of HOT SPELL her latest release, so do leave a comment to be in with a chance to win. Then to double you chances head on over to Nicole Morgan's and enter again! Make sure you leave your email address in the body of the comment.

Lily x

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Freestyle Love by Marcus Lopes - Excerpt and giveaway!


When it comes to one-night stands, Malachi Bishop has “rules”. No pillow talk. No sleeping over. No planning a future hook-up. First names only. It’s just sex, not a prelude to love. But when Cole Malcolm, a smooth-talking management consultant, woos Malachi into bed, the rulebook is tossed out the window.

The one-time fling leaves Cole reeling: Malachi is his first real shot at happiness, his “forever” man, and he’s determined to show Malachi just how good they could be together. But Malachi doesn’t believe in happily-ever-after, and dodges Cole’s play for his heart. After all, Malachi is still mourning the loss of Taylor Blanchard, whom he hoped to love forever. Then there’s Zach Brennan, a handsome twenty-five-year-old and student at the college where Malachi teaches. Falling for Zach could destroy everything he’s worked for, but Malachi can’t help himself.

Caught by love and in its betrayal, it’s a later affair with a beautiful stranger that changes Malachi’s life most dramatically. Now Malachi must confront his present and his past that bring into question the larger fantasies of home and his place in the world.


Malachi, hunched forward over the dining room table reading the Globe and Mail, let out a sigh as he yawned, his mouth open wide revealing his uneven teeth. As he reached for his half-empty and lukewarm cup of coffee, he caught a glimpse of the hairy bronze cyclist’s legs in the archway of the dining room and sat back in his chair. He looked intently at the tall, lean figure standing before him, naked, with his arms folded across his chest. Of course, Malachi knew that they would have to confront each other at some point, but he was still nervous and, after a moment, glanced away.
     The man stood with his legs spread slightly apart, like a model posing for a photo shoot. His eyes narrowed. “Do you mind…” His voice cracked and he bit down on his lower lip. “Do you mind if I take a shower?”
Malachi said, “Oh, of course,” and stood, watching his guest unfold his arms and then run his hands through his dark bed hair that darted in a thousand directions, pushed back from his low brow.
They smiled thinly at each other, as if suddenly able to read the other’s thoughts, and uncertain about how to proceed. Malachi dropped his gaze and left the room to retrieve a towel and facecloth from the disorganized hall closet. He returned to the dining room and gawked at the handsome figure’s firm yet pale backside that he remembered, with a mixed sense of pleasure and dread, having had his face between for most of the night. Malachi cleared his throat.
The man spun around and took the linens from Malachi, and held them in front of his crotch, concealing his growing hard-on. He sidled his narrow blue eyes at Malachi and said, “It’s Cole… my name, that is, in case you’ve forgotten.” He took in Malachi’s blank stare, fully aware of its significance, and when there was no response shrugged and disappeared down the hallway towards the bedroom.
Malachi picked up the newspaper from off the dining room table and carried it into the living room, tossing it onto the coffee table and then pacing the room that was filled with the bright morning sun. He stopped in front of the fireplace and leaned against the mantelpiece, staring abstractly at his collection of soapstone cat carvings that he had purchased during his trip to Quebec City the previous summer. There was a heaviness in his heart, an utter repulsion that lingered the morning after, as if there was something absolutely criminal about sex. What was “criminal” was that he had let himself give in to desire, which he came to designate as lust — that murky, disgruntled and disheartening world of one-night stands that, when he felt alone in the world, held the promise of love. He wasn’t opposed to one-night stands. When he longed for the closeness of being with someone, of feeling loved when he thought he was not, he found, and this was what disturbed him, comfort in what was supposed to be meaningless, anonymous, uncomplicated, sex. Was it really meaningless? He worried that love was becoming impossible, completely out of reach, just like the happiness that he believed depended on it. His love life had been nothing more than a string of one-night stands and now, with his thirtieth birthday looming, he was in search of something more, something real, permanent, true.
The contradictory aspect of his current situation pained Malachi deeply. He was thoroughly displeased with himself because he had been weak. Worst of all, he was still revelling in the afterglow of the night of passionate lovemaking, yet unwilling to conceive of something more permanent, true, possibly evolving from it. The crudeness of one-night stands made their currency short-term, depreciated.
Malachi moved to the worn brown leather sofa and sat down, leaning forward, his gaze held to the hardwood floor. He suddenly found himself smiling sheepishly as he thought about Cole, whose name he had not forgotten — a name that carried a certain presence and authority that was both attractive and intimidating. His smile broadened and his cheeks heated with embarrassment as he thought about Cole, just moments before, standing in front of him naked, insouciant. Malachi carried the image of Cole’s narrow blue eyes expressing unremitting desire, hopeful friendship. And Cole’s short, pointed nose that drew attention to the runnel above his thin red lips and the dimple in his chin. There was something genuine in those penetrating eyes, something comforting that prevented Malachi from negating the warmth, and the ensuing joy, that had swelled within him as he and Cole lay in bed together.
It seemed strange, surprising even, when Malachi woke up to Cole beside him and did not feel alarmed, which he was convinced he would since he had ignored his own rules. He had set “rules” for himself when it came to one-night stands, like a covenant that he had signed his name to, secured by the whole of his being. When Cole had approached him at Groove, the lone gay bar in Claredon that Malachi did not frequent often, he had broken his cardinal rule of first names only by introducing himself as Malachi Bishop. That was hardly significant at the time, since he was not planning on hooking up with anyone. He had ended up at Groove because of Shane Martin, his best friend, who had wanted to go out for a night on the town. Malachi had reluctantly agreed more so to silence Shane’s insistent nagging than any real desire to go. He did not consider himself into that scene, drinking and dancing to the early morning hours and suffering through the next day hung-over and tired.
Cole had pleasantly surprised Malachi, dragging Malachi onto the dance floor and making him laugh. And when they ended up at Malachi’s, locked in a crushing embrace, it wasn’t that they had had sex that distressed Malachi but that he had allowed Cole to sleep over. That was the most criminal of all. He had always been diligent about shepherding his “guests” out of his home quickly once orgasm was achieved, especially when the sex was mechanical, routine, boring. Of course he would give them time to catch their breath, clean up a bit — perhaps even shower — but once they were dressed, he guided them to the door in an awkward silence. No pillow talk. No revealing of unnecessary details about himself. No planning a future hook-up. And at the door, “Do you have everything? Wallet? Keys?” That somehow made it easier for him to accept having given himself over to desire, and the unprecedented role desire played in his life.
Malachi lifted himself off the sofa and made his way to the bedroom, his body trembling, and silently hoping for a final glimpse of Cole’s naked butt that had excited him earlier. Cole came into the bedroom from the en suite bathroom as Malachi was pulling the sheets off the bed. Cole, wearing a blue ringed T-shirt and blue jeans, patted at his dark brown hair that looked black as it was still wet and fell flat against his head. They looked probingly at each other until Malachi gestured Cole out of the bedroom and followed him down the hall, stopping just outside the entryway to the kitchen, Cole staring intently at Malachi and Malachi, with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking at the floor.
“This is awkward,” Cole said ruefully.
“I suppose.” Malachi raised his head. In a darker, more pressing tone, he added, “Do you have everything?”
Cole, in a trance-like state, nodded. “Yes, I think so.” Cole was thinking about his past, and how he had somehow managed to always lose control. He wasn’t sure if he believed in fate, but for once in his life he wanted to act as though he was in control, that his present and his future were in his hands. Smiling, he touched his hand to the side of Malachi’s face. “Well, no, actually… I mean, I’d like to see you again.”
Malachi took a step backwards as he slipped his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms, scrunching his eyebrows and pursing his lips all at once, and then shaking his head. Here they were, two grown men who were alone in the world and trying to romance the notion of love into perfect firsts — first glances exchanged, first hellos, that first touch. “How pathetic we must seem,” Malachi thought. Was it childish, foolish even, of him to conceive of one-night stands as the hopeful vehicle through which he may fall in love — and not necessarily with Cole but with anyone? Didn’t that make one-night stands utterly corrupt, deceptive, immoral? Even as they stared at each other with wild lusting eyes Malachi, who let logic and reason guide him more than his heart, foresaw that the scene had only one ending.
Cole cupped his hand to Malachi’s shoulder. “Let me buy you breakfast.”
Malachi lifted Cole’s strong hand off his shoulder and said, “Cole…” hoping that the edge in his voice would make his point.
Cole said, “Surely you can see beyond the moment —”
“It’s all a bit muddled,” Malachi said with a bluntness that surprised even him and then moved into the living room. He stood with his back to Cole, a way of taking refuge, and clasped his hands to the back of his head. He glanced about the sparsely furnished room that he loved for its airiness but now, with Cole there, felt constricting.
Cole scrunched his eyebrows. “Muddled?” Was Malachi too jaded to even try to see beyond the moment? Maybe. And Cole was too nervous to ask: Who had broken Malachi’s heart?
Malachi spun around, his arms dropping to his side. “Look, Cole, last night was fun…” He shifted his eyes uneasily between Cole and the door.
Cole made his way over to Malachi, and when he was close to him, said, “That’s why I want to see you again.”
Malachi gave a wary laugh. “That’s just not possible.”
Cole let out a low, exasperated sigh. “Maybe you’re right,” he said and walked heavy-footed towards the door. Cole suddenly imagined that Malachi might be difficult to handle, the type of guy who makes the rest of the world uneasy around him — not a diva, just a man used to having everything his way. In the foyer, Cole slipped on his shoes and retrieved his black leather jacket from the closet. Before putting on his jacket, he reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a taupe-coloured business card and set it on the narrow rectangular console table next to the closet door. “If you change your mind,” he said, and gave a languid shrug of indifference. He slid his left arm into the sleeve of his jacket and then his right arm into the other sleeve. “I’m in town a few more days. You can reach me at the number on…”
Malachi shook his head. “Oh, I see.” He frowned, and then came the disparaging chuckle, and it seemed only natural for him to follow with, in a testier, sharper tone. “Seeing me again is less work for you.”
“Yes, it is —”
“Just another quick…?”
Cole folded his arms and then unfolded them, only to shove his hands in his pockets and immediately pull them out. “You know what?” he said, as if finally coming into the truth of the matter, “just forget it,” and grunted as he pulled open the door. Cole had been daring, put himself on the line to implant himself in the present, as though it really belonged to him, and he was still dangling, searching for something he knew to be completely abstract. He knew he must have looked pathetic, desperate, like he was clinging to a fairytale. He was about to step into the hall when he turned and looked at Malachi, with quiet admiration, and then, piously, “How long can you wait on happiness before it completely escapes you?” and disappeared into the corridor.
Malachi looked on as the door swung closed on its own, and at the sound of the soft thud of the door hitting the metal doorframe, he collapsed onto the sofa. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling both relief and disappointment, unable to see the paradox of his own world.



Barnes and Noble

Author Bio

Marcus Lopés (Canadian, b. 1973) is originally from Lower Sackville (Nova Scotia). He obtained a B.A. in French Studies from Dalhousie University in 1997. In 1999, he relocated to Ottawa (Ontario) where, while working in both the private and public sectors, he pursued his writing, and later his painting. His first essay, "On Being Black," appeared in Other Voices Magazine in 2003. Since then, his writings have appeared in several national and international literary magazines. Primarily a self-taught artist, Lopés began painting again in 2004 after a long absence and made his Ottawa debut in 2005 with his first solo exhibition, Unquiet Mind. In 2008, Lopés was one of 25 artists whose work was selected for the 1st Ottawa Timeraiser. He moved to Sherbrooke (Québec) in January 2010, where he writes and paints full-time. Freestyle Love is his first novel.


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Lily x

Sunday, 19 February 2012

Sunday Snog, Cross-Checked.

Welcome once again to Sunday Snog :-)

As promised last week on The Big Blisse Kiss here is another kiss between Carly and Brick, taken from a little further in the book. They have just reached his hotel room in The Waldorf and Carly has made him promise to do as she tells him to. She is also desperate to find out if he was telling the truth about his cock ring.

“Get on the bed,” I said, stepping away. “And lose the pants, shoes and socks.”
“You better be quick with whatever this is you’re doing, honey, ’cause I’ve been wanting to be naked on a bed with you for some time now and my control is pretty much on zero.” He toed off his shoes and yanked at his socks. He shoved his smart black pants into a heap on the floor then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Lie flat.” I pointed to the pillows.
His big body stretched out, from the headboard right down to the bottom. I could hardly keep my eyes off the cock tenting his black Calvin boxers. All I could think of was the ring in the end. I imagined I could see the shape of it through the material. But I couldn’t be sure. Was it really there?
“I’m all yours, honey,” he said, shoving one hand beneath his head. His chest rose and fell quickly and his biceps were bunched.
I crawled onto the bed next to him, being careful to keep the spikes of my stilettos upward. “I know you’re all mine,” I said, reaching for my purse. “That’s why I can do this.”
I pulled a pink silk scarf from my bag. Holding each end, I snapped it in front of my face as if showing off its strength.
His brows lifted.
I moved up the bed. Captured his free wrist in my hand and slid the silk beneath it. Tied a double knot.
He looked at my handiwork with a mixture of curiosity and surprise.
“I’m helping you out with that ‘jumping my bones’ problem,” I said as I threaded the scarf behind one of the thick oak slats on the headboard. I pulled and created a tight knot that lifted his hand right up to the board. It was well secured.
“You think that will stop me?” A cocky glint shone in his eyes.
“Mm, maybe not one, but two will.” I pulled the second scarf from my bag and reached for the wrist angled beneath his head.
I tugged at his wrist. Licked my red lips and felt his muscles give as he let me lift his hand from beneath his head. I twisted the scarf around his wrist and, like the other one, secured it to the headboard.
I sat back on my heels and studied him. The perfect specimen of the male species, harnessed to a bed, practically naked and desperate for it. I sucked in much-needed oxygen as my gaze floated down the underside of his arm. Paler skin led to wisped underarm hair and then on to the faint outline of his stretched ribs.
God, I wanted him. But not yet. The last thing I needed to do was rush. This was all about timing.
“So now what?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and shifting his hips.
I stuck my hand in my bag and pulled out my new raspberry lipstick. Slowly I took off the lid, rolled it to full height and added an extra layer to my mouth “Does this color suit me?” I asked, rolling my lips in on each other.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s real sexy.”
I bent and placed a kiss on his stomach. Just above his navel. It left a bright, glossy mark on his skin.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Sure. A bit lower would be really good though.” His mouth tipped into a smile.
I moved up to his chest, placed a red lipstick mark over first his left and then his right nipple.
“Mm,” he said, “very artistic, but not quite what I had in mind.”
I placed a gentle kiss on his collarbone. The lipstick was fading so I rolled it up again and reapplied. I settled over his face and, with my hair hanging down like curtains, kissed his left cheek and then his right, marking him with my lush red pout. I traced the seam of his mouth with my tongue, very lightly, very slowly. Tasting him, committing the contours of his lovely mouth to oral memory.
Suddenly his tongue darted for mine. I rose up and his neck lifted to follow. He groaned in frustration as I held myself just out of his reach. I smiled then dropped so we could kiss lightly. He tried to force his tongue deeper into my mouth again and once more I lifted up. The headboard creaked ominously as his powerful shoulders tried to follow me.
“Be patient,” I said, quietly studying his lipstick-smeared mouth. Scarlet gloss blurred the line of his lips and dashes of red had caught in the bristles of his stubble.
“So stop the damn teasing,” he said in a low growl that vibrated through his chest and straight into mine.
“I’m not teasing, I’m just doing it my way.” I sat up, reached for the clasps on my shoes and dropped them to the floor. I spun up the lipstick and reapplied, slowly, deliberately .
His eyes narrowed, following my every move, his breaths coming fast. I shimmied down the bed, sat back on my heels and curled my fingers over the waistband of his boxers.
His abs tensed, creating a neat row of bricks that angled across his tight abdomen. “The moment of truth,” I said, licking my lips and feeling a wave of heated lust race to my pussy. “Were you lying about the ring?”
“Why the hell would I make it up?” His eyes were blazing hot. “Go ahead, take a damn look.”
A thrill of delicious, primitive power went through me. I gave him a slow, sexy, merciless smile and studied the red lipstick marks that had branded him as mine. His mouth, his face, his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. Now I would claim his cock. Mark that as mine too. 

I hope you enjoyed today's sexy kiss. Have a wonderful Sunday.

Lily x