My new novel for Mischief, Game is live for download, as of yesterday. It’s a follow-up to On Demand, following Lloyd and Sophie through a voyage of sexual and personal discovery.
Lloyd knew when he and Sophie got together that her sexual tastes were on the wild side – it’s what attracted him to her, after all. But Sophie is permissive with every part of her body except her heart. If Lloyd is to succeed in winning that, he will have to think creatively. A series of challenges takes Sophie deep into the core of her fantasies, not to mention her fears. She experiments with kink of all flavours, multiple partners, exhibitionism and more, in a bid to understand what she really wants. As the game intensifies, each new step into extravagant sinfulness reveals different options for her future. Will Lloyd feature in her final decision? Or will the ultimate risk he takes drive her away from him?
It’s available directly from Mischief, or from Amazon. Come back later on, when I’ll be posting a free snippet. Are you game?
The final stop on the Westminster Symphony Orchestra’s mini-tour is a very significant one, because Prague is the home city of our tempestuous violin virtuoso, Milan Kaspar.
Fittingly enough, emotional affairs come to a stormy head on this section of the trip, and Milan has to make some decisions – decisions that will affect the lives of his lovers as well.
The church bells were chiming eight o’clock as they entered the lobby and crossed to the lift. No tactical breaking of their embrace tonight – from now on, it seemed they were ‘officially’ a couple. A couple of flautists came out of the elevator as they went in and scampered off, whispering. As soon as the doors shut, Lydia and Milan fell into a passionate kiss that lasted all the way to the top floor.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered, opening his door and whirling her round and round the room until she fell backwards, laughing, on to the bed.
She wanted to remember everything about it, from the tiny cracks around the ceiling cornicing to the way his muscles moved in his face, skin stretching and slackening over his jaw and cheekbones while he mock-pounced on her. She wanted to remember the placement of each strand of unruly hair, the exact blue shade of his eyes, his neck and the V of his skin that was exposed when she undid the top button of his shirt while he loomed over her. The bed creaked and some of the orange-brown swirly wallpaper had peeled, but no room had ever held such promise and such joy – and such desire.
Milan dropped off the edge of the bed and pulled off each of Lydia’s shoes with a dramatic flourish, hurling to the far corner of the room, then he repeated the action with her socks. Launching himself back up with a springing movement ending in a low crouch over Lydia’s body, he unbuttoned her jeans and began to shimmy them slowly over her hips. Helping him out, Lydia arched her spine with an inviting smile. All of this was his, all of it could be his forever, if he wanted.
He uncovered her legs reverently, letting the denim slide slowly over inch after inch of thigh, then down past her knees, speeding up to rip them off her ankles and toss them aside. She opened her legs like scissors and clamped his hips, yanking him down with her heels on his buttocks for a long, lascivious kiss. They lay like that, feeding on each others’ mouths, for a long time. Lydia felt him grow and harden at the apex of her thighs, his erection pushing down and begging to be let inside her pussy lips, although they were protected by her knickers. She rubbed her heels up and down his arse in delight, loving the feel of his clothes against her nude skin. His kiss, always voracious, was also tender, and Lydia sensed that he wanted her to understand and receive his passion as a promise, a solemn vow of togetherness. Once she had allowed herself to hope, it was easy to slip into the consciousness of love and of being loved. Yes, there was a future here, at last, and yes, she meant to seize it.
I’ve a very interesting and busy week ahead – look out for the release on Thursday of Game, my novel for Mischief, plus a new anthology called Confessions featuring a story by me.
And if you go down to Coffee Time Romance today, you can take part in a scavenger hunt and win a copy of Highly Strung.
The Westminster Symphony Orchestra sweep out of Hungary and into Austria, where they engage in a Viennese whirl of sinful sensuality. Here is a tale from the Vienna Woods:
And here is another:
The gates opened, slowly and mechanically, and Lydia looked along a driveway of half a mile or more to where a handsome rectangular Schloss stood at the far end. Its long thin windows burned with golden light and vague shapes could be seen flitting inside.
“It really is a palace,” breathed Lydia.
“What did we tell you?” said Evgeny smugly. “Werner is one of the richest men in Austria.”
Milan and Evgeny helped Lydia from the cab and up the steps, where a splendidly uniformed man waited by the giant front door.
In German, he asked for their names, which Milan was happy to give in the same language, then they were led inside to a place of chandeliers and cherubs, pillars and porticoes, pink plaster and golden ornamentation.
At the entrance to a busy drawing room, the guests were announced.
Every eye fell on the trio. Lydia calculated that that made about fifty eyes in total, for there were between twenty and thirty other guests. Most of the men, like Milan and Evgeny, wore formal evening dress, though one young man sported only leather shorts and a leash around his neck.
The room glowed a glamorous gold, and its female occupants seemed to carry the theme over to their outfits, most of them in some form of metallic shiny garb. Lydia surmised that there must have been a dress code to which Milan had not made her a party.
Drawing closer, she was shocked to recognise a pair of very famous married movie stars and she dropped her eyes, fearing that she might not be able to stop staring if she didn’t. As for the rest of the people in the room, they represented varying ages and nationalities, but most were attractive and all were groomed to perfection. She felt a very poor specimen beside the modelesque women in their diaphanous column dresses, but Milan squeezed her hand at exactly the right moment, and she tried to dismiss her insecurities. She was here with one of the most famous violinists in the world.
A man with a red sash across his dress shirt strode forward, arm extended.
“Milan! So good to see you again.” His accent was distinctive but not thick and he wore small-framed wire-rimmed glasses over his large nose. “Though I keep reading about you in the international press. Your stock is rising, it seems.”
“Werner.” Milan and his friend exchanged brief embraces with backslaps. “You remember my friend, Evgeny?”
“Ah, we all remember him. It’s a pity our friend the gymnast couldn’t be here tonight. He was very taken with your Evgeny the last time you visited. And who is this charming young person?”
Lydia blushed and looked at her gold-shod feet as Werner’s sharp eyes rested upon her.
“This is Lydia, one of our violinists at the WSO. She’s an open and curious girl. She wanted to see what happens at your parties. I’m hoping she’ll find it to her taste.”
“So am I, so am I.” Werner held out a hand which Lydia shook shyly, a little disappointed that Milan hadn’t introduced her as something more than a work colleague. “Welcome, Lydia.”
All eyes in the room watched as she accepted a flute glass of champagne along with her escorts. They drew her into the midst of the crowd, Milan making confident smalltalk with everyone while she and Evgeny eyed each other. He seemed almost as overwhelmed by it all as she did, she thought. Did he feel like some kind of gilded accessory for Milan, the way she did?
Nodding in acknowledgement to the beautiful female movie star, a horrible thought occurred to her. Milan had said it was fine to just watch. But what if he wanted to join in? Could she really sit there and watch him make love to that Hollywood goddess over there? And if he could have her, surely he would not want a meek middle-of-the-road mouse like Lydia any more?
Another thing to love about writing my orchestral oeuvre – the possibility of making erotic things happen in exotic locations (well, exotic to me, at least).
The Westminster Symphony Orchestra takes a tour of central Europe, and the first stop on the itinerary is Budapest. My characters take to the waters on Margaret Island and eat pastries at Cafe Gerbeaud..and then they have a threesome…
As soon as the last crumb was eaten and the last blob of cream wiped from the tip of her nose, Lydia felt the mood shift. The day of innocent pleasures was about to morph into the night of guilty ones.
Evgeny seemed to tense, his eyes flicking rapidly between Milan and Lydia. Milan braced an arm on the backrest of his chair, letting his head recline against his hand, the pose too deliberately relaxed to actually be so. The playfulness in his expression swept away, replaced by serious shadows. He looked at Evgeny, then Lydia, for a long time.
“That was nice,” he said at last, as a waitress cleared the plates and cups and left their bill. “But there was a lot of sugar. I like sweet things sometimes. Sometimes I don’t.”
“Don’t talk in riddles,” begged Lydia.
He laughed.
“Okay. You are nervous, yes? You want to do this?”
She glanced over at Evgeny, whose face was open and relaxed. It reassured her, and she nodded.
“You are free to walk away any time,” said Milan quietly. The waitress took the coins, avoiding their eyes. She seemed to understand that the three customers were experiencing a Moment.
“I know that,” whispered Lydia. “I don’t want to walk away from you.”
Milan ran a hand through his hair, holding the fingers close to the scalp for a contemplative second or two before withdrawing them with a flourish and a tumble of locks – a gesture that never failed to quicken Lydia’s pulse.
He offered the fingers to Lydia, his arm reaching out to her across the table.
“Let’s do this then,” he said.
Lydia walked back to the hotel arm-in-arm with Milan and Evgeny, meeting the curious eyes of passers-by with a lascivious smile. Yes, both of these gorgeous men are mine. Aren’t you jealous of me?
Milan, alone of all the orchestral players, had his own hotel room, and a double at that. He invited Lydia and Evgeny to sit down on the bed while he retrieved a laptop from one of his travelling bags and began fussing with it.
“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, wondering anxiously if she should be touching Evgeny or getting naked straightaway. How did these things get started?
“I thought we could get in the mood with a little video. One of my favourites. You and Evgeny, that first time.”
“Oh, I’ve never seen it!”
“I know. Why don’t you pour us all a drink from the minibar, hey? Champagne might be appropriate.”
Lydia, grateful for the nerve-calming alcohol, poured the fizz into two wineglasses and a tooth mug, which were the only receptacles available. She took the toothmug for herself and tipped back a mouthful of bubbles while Milan placed the laptop on the bed in front of her and took his position at her rear, leaning over her shoulder while he clicked to open the relevant file.
At first, only a brownish gloom could be seen, but then there was a gusty sound and Evgeny appeared in shot, looking spectrally pale, his dark eyes burning coals. He leant forward, adjusting something, and the colour contrast improved dramatically. He took an elaborate bow to camera, then reached forward, directing it towards the bed in Milan’s Barbican flat.
Lydia breathed in sharply, seeing herself sitting on the edge of the bed, looking apprehensive.
Milan put an arm around her stomach, hugging her back into him.
“You look so scared, miláčku,” he crooned, kissing her hair.
“I was,” she whispered.
On the film, Evgeny’s voice rang out from just outside shot.
“Are you wet yet?”
Lydia-on-film looked disgusted and clicked her tongue. “Is that how you seduce people, Evgeny? Porn dialogue?”
“Oh, oh, oh, excuse me!” Evgeny swooped into shot, pulling Lydia to her feet and dancing lightfootedly around the floor with her. “Is that what you want? Seduction?”
She laughed as he whirled her around, a high, giddy sound.
“Evgeny!”
Hotness in Hungary continues…here’s the book, available now from Total E-Bound.
How apt a title is that for a book by Sommer Marsden, the wonderful, spirited writer who never rests? And what a beautiful cover, too. Take it away, Sommer!
Yay! Thanks so much to Justine for having me again. It’s always a pleasure to be here with one of my favorite writers evah! And especially happy to be here to pimp my pretty new novel Restless Spirit—I must cop to adoring this book. Big time!
One of my fave characters in RS is my damaged bad boy who’s oh so good, Shepherd Moore. I’m not sure what it is about the draw of one somewhat damaged character meeting another. I think it’s fascinating I real life and in fiction to witness such a hook up. Like love tainted magnets, people like Shepherd and Tuesday often seem to slide inevitably toward each other until *bang!* they connect. That’s where I come in. Setting them up so they sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide toward one another until the *bang!* happens. You do know how much I like the bang (Heh). And I’m happy to say that in Restless Spirit, there’s plenty of bang for your um…buck.
Below we get to spy on Shepherd and Tuesday as they meet for the first time…
Blurb:
Tuesday Cane walks out on her life and her abusive man when she inherits her grandmother s house at Allister Lake. There she finds plenty of distractions to take her mind off her loss with her sexy neighbour and handyman Shepherd, former TV star Reed and her old flame Adrian. But , as time passes, she senses that something is not quite right with her new life. And no amount of steamy sexual encounters can hide her anxiety. Surrounded by so many interesting men and erotic enticements, Tuesday has no intention of committing to one man ever again. But the more she insists she’s nobody’s girl, the more she wants to be somebody’s girl. Will she continue to be a restless spirit and run from love or will she be won over?
Excerpt from Restless Spirit:
Allister Lake was a greenish blue mirror. The clouds reflected in its nearly still surface and sunlight twinkled like tiny fairy lights. I sat on Nan’s deck with a cup of her coffee, so fucking strong that even I couldn’t water it down by using less grounds. The first few sips made me grimace but then I started to enjoy the in-your-face bold flavour.
‘So you’re the infamous Tuesday?’
I jumped, coffee splashing my black sweater. Thank God it was black. I hadn’t heard him sneak up on me – and by the size of him that was a fucking miracle.
‘Jesus, who are you?’ I gasped. ‘I mean, I’m sorry–’
Clearly he was a neighbour of Nan’s.
He smiled and it did something strange to me, I felt bristly and flirty and too hot in the face. He was about six foot six, the size of a small tree to be honest, and his dark brown hair was just long enough to technically require a cut. He sported a beard that hugged his lean face and it was shot with grey and silver.
Older man, yum …
I shook the thought off when he said ‘Sorry. I’m Shepherd. I live next door. Well, as next door as that is,’ he said, pointing to a white A-frame similar to mine but with huge mirrored windows that made me think of blind eyes.
Dark brown eyes regarded me and he grinned when I opened my mouth but managed to say nothing. My words had gone right of my head as I studied him. Broad shoulders, flannel shirt, jeans, big work boots that had actually been worked in. And that grin.
‘Um … hi,’ I said.
Brilliant!
He laughed softly and I clenched my hands into fists at the rush of attraction. It was rare for me to feel so drawn to a man. Especially a stranger, but here I was, attracted to Shepherd.
My brain kick started. ‘Shepherd?’
‘Moore.’
‘That’s an unusual name, Shepherd,’ I said, smoothing my hair. I took great pride in my bottle blonde cap of hair with nearly black roots. I figured one day I’d outgrow the pseudo punk rock I-don’t-give-a-shit look. But not yet.
He shrugged, putting one boot up on my floating deck. The term floating deck had always made me laugh but it was nothing more than a low wooden deck usually built off the back of the house. Still, it somehow sounded magical. When I motioned with my hand, he came all the way up and dropped into one of Nan’s–now-my padded deck chairs. ‘They wanted me to be a man of the cloth.’
‘And you are?’ I managed. I was having trouble breathing with him so near. There was maybe a foot between his jean-clad knee and mine and I swore I could feel the heat baking off of him even in the chilly morning air.
‘I was an ultimate cage fighter. Now I’m a handy man.’
I cocked an eyebrow. ‘A handy man?’
‘I’m handy, I know how to do lots of stuff.’ He winked and I had to shift in my chair.
‘I see.’
‘And you are …?’
‘Tuesday Cane.’
He laughed again and I wanted to climb in his lap. I bit my lips to force the dirty image away.
‘I know that, Tuesday Cane. You are a …’
‘Oh, I am currently unemployed. Former waitress. I sling a mean breakfast special.’
‘Ah,’ Shepherd said. ‘Well, I do know that Irving down at the restaurant is looking for a fill-in. Might not be full-time but if you know your way around a diner, he might go for it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry about your nan.’ He pinned me with that gaze of his. Dark eyes full of kindness. And something else underneath it all.
‘Yeah, hey, thanks,’ I said. I looked away, out at the lake for a moment. Letting it dazzle my eyes so I wouldn’t cry.
‘She loved you a lot, Virginia did,’ he went on. He stood, went into my kitchen, came back out with a cup of coffee.
He was stirring up emotions – things I did not do very well – and I wanted to be angry and pissed and snarky, but instead I just watched him move. Slow, economical, self-assured movements that made me wistful for a time when I might be so comfortable in my own skin. His time using his body for a weapon and knowing how to control it was completely apparent in his demeanour.
Shepherd Moore, big bad handy man with busted up boots, dropped back into the chair and said, ‘She thought you hung the moon. I heard you’re going to become a huge bestselling author.’
I snorted so suddenly I started to choke. And then I was laughing, but I was crying too. ‘Oh, yeah?’ I managed shakily.
‘Yeah,’ he said, and winked at me.
There was that urge again – to curl into his lap and just be held. Very strange feeling for me, to be blunt. I tend to shun any contact not directly related to sex. Or any contact directly related to simple comfort.
I’m tuning up for tomorrow when Book One of my new trilogy, Food of Love is released.
Highly Strung follows the fortunes of Lydia Foster, the new violinist at the Westminster Symphony Orchestra. She has long had a crush on the glamorous orchestra leader, Milan Kaspar, and is overwhelmed when he pays her some attention. But getting involved with Kaspar is no simple matter. Lydia soon finds herself mixed up in a menage and played like her very own violin.
One of the very best things about writing this was the chance to listen to lots of glorious music whilst choosing the orchestra’s repertoire on their tour of central European capital cities. I’ll start my series of musical posts with the tune the orchestra is playing when Lydia first walks into the rehearsal room – Weber’s Invitation to the Dance.
Here is a little snippet from the book:
Nobody noticed her when she pushed one door open and sidled in, as unobtrusively as she could, hiding in an obscure corner until an obvious moment to introduce herself arrived.
She took the opportunity to watch the orchestra, her eyes settling quickly and naturally on the person she most wanted to check out – Milan Kaspar.
Ohmygod there he was, in the flesh. She could only see his back and part of the side of his head, the violin wedged between firm chin and broad shoulder, his caramel coloured hair flying as he bowed. He always gave the music his all, thought Lydia, starry-eyed, her pulse jumping high. It was as if he and his instrument were one. What were they playing? Something Viennese and waltzy, by the sounds of it. Oh yes, Weber’s Invitation to the Dance.
The music made Lydia feel joyous and light-spirited; despite the long run up Vauxhall Bridge Road, she felt an urge to twirl around and dance. If only she were wearing a flouncy taffeta skirt instead of jeans and Converse sneakers. She bounced discreetly on the soles of her feet, swaying to the infectious beat, until the woman at the back on percussion caught sight of her, turned and smiled a welcome.
The music stopped abruptly and Josh Clayton, the conductor who had auditioned her, along with two of the trustees and a random violinist – Milan being away filming – shook his head and folded his arms.
“No, no, no, this is dragging. Some of you aren’t following my beat.”
“Some of us aren’t seeing your beat.”
The deep, accented voice was unmistakable. Lydia almost dissolved in a pool of lust on hearing Milan’s famously dark tones.
“Yes, well, we’ve had this discussion before,” said Clayton irritably. “And it always ends up the same way. Keep your eye on the baton, and you won’t miss a thing.”
“But we do!” A violinist to Milan’s right objected. “I didn’t catch the change in tempo at vivace at all.”
“What do you want? A signpost?”
Lydia grimaced at Clayton’s obvious exasperation.
“It might help,” said Milan dryly.
“Listen, I can’t make this any more obvious! I’ve never worked with such a bunch of mules in my life. What is wrong with you people?”
“Mules!” A cellist stood up, shoulders back, spoiling for a fight. Despite the aggressive stance, Lydia thought he must be one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, if you liked pale, delicate youths with eyelashes like roadsweepers. On balance, she preferred the more muscular Milan, but all the same, she found herself mesmerised by his depthless eyes. “Do not insult us! We are musicians, not animals!”
“If you’re musicians, prove it!” thundered Clayton, then, clutching his forehead, “Oh, you know what? Forget it. I’m done here. Fuck you. Good luck.”
He flung his baton to the ground and marched off, pushing Lydia out of his way by the shoulder so that she fell gracelessly to the floor in his wake.
There’s been a lot in the news lately about how the rise in e-reader ownership has boosted erotica sales because ‘people can’t see what you’re reading’. If this is true, it’s great – though I can’t imagine wanting to read erotica in a public place myself. Inconvenient. Unless that’s your kink, of course.
However, in the last few weeks I’ve seen my print titles fly off the shelves while Kindle sales, though good, have lagged a little. I don’t think print is out of the ring yet, by a long chalk.
Meanwhile, here is a little interview with me at the Mischief blog. Rachel asks the best questions!
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