This month has been so hectic I’ve barely had time to mention a slew of new releases, re-releases, re-packagings, reviews, media appearances and blah blah blah. So I’m going to have to pass by and move on, because what I really want to talk about here today is Hungarian Rhapsody.

One of Xcite’s innovative new Secret Library range, it features a velvety-touchable cover and three stories of passion and romance. Restraint by Charlotte Stein, A Sticky Situation by Kay Jaybee and my own offering, Hungarian Rhapsody.

My favourite things about the story are these:

1) The hero, Janos. He is a damn sexy man.

2) The Budapest setting. I’ve never been there, but I’ve been longing too for a very, very long time.

3) It’s so much fun.

4) There’s outdoor sex in a thunderstorm.

Here is an excerpt:

On my first night inBudapest, I woke up to find a strange man in my bed.

Now, while the decision to come here had been taken so rapidly that I hadn’t had time to do any research on the place and had little idea of what to expect, I was fairly sure this wasn’t normal. I’d had vague notions of goulash, gypsy violinists and splendid nineteenth century architecture. A strange man in my bed, not so much.

In the low dawn light filtering through the ill-fitting shutters, I turned my head fractionally – afraid of waking him – and tried to discern the contours of his head and upper body. Judging by the shape beneath the covers and the feet sticking out of the bottom, he was tall and well-built. His face in repose was peaceful and rather touching, but in a more animated state I could imagine it being proud and even fierce, or perhaps I was just projecting my own prejudices about men with large moustaches. Moustaches like that always seemed to come with a bayonet, in my mind. The full lips below the thicket blew out brief whistles of air whenever he exhaled. He had long eyelashes and thick, dark hair. Like most of the Hungarian men I’d spotted between the airport and the apartment, he was a looker.

But what the hell was he doing here?

Carefully, with infinite precision, I edged my body away from him. The heel of my left foot found the place where the mattress ended and my toes flexed, looking for the floor. Just at the moment I tried to pivot my hips away, he flung an arm across my chest. His arm was very heavy and I abandoned all my efforts to handle this situation calmly and screamed.

He grunted and muttered something completely incomprehensible and then his eyelids fluttered and I did my best to scramble away but that arm was just a dead weight, so I kicked him hard in the shin and tried to bite him.

That woke him up.

There was a horrible moment of pure terror during which I felt sure my heart would splat across my ribcage, then his eyes focused and his stare was every bit as shocked and appalled as mine, which was weirdly reassuring.

He sat bolt upright and stabbed a finger at me.

I don’t know what he said, because I don’t speak Hungarian and besides, I was too busy leaping out of bed and leaning flat against the wall, trying not to vomit with panic.

He spoke again, rising to his knees so that the covers rumpled about his hips, exposing his bare chest and the gold chains around his neck. He really was fit. Pity he was probably some crazed axe murderer who preyed on women alone in theirBudapestbeds.

This time I understood one word. The word was ‘Jodie’.

‘Jodie!’ I seized on this, nodding my head urgently. ‘She is gone.’

‘English?’

I nodded.

‘Jodie is gone? What you mean?’

‘She’s gone toLake Balatonfor the month. You know her?’

‘Lake Balaton? Who she is going with?’

‘I don’t know. Some guy she met. Sorry. Are you…her boyfriend or something?’

‘Who am I? Who in hell are you?’

‘I asked you first. And I think I have a right to know what strange men are doing in my bed.’

‘This is my apartment! You answer me.’

Holiday from hell, eh? Well, not quite, as it turns out… Throughout the writing of these I listened non-stop to the brilliant Hungarian Rhapsodies of Franz Liszt, my number one dead-composer crush. The one everyone knows is the 2nd – the one in the Tom & Jerry cartoon – but here is one of the lesser-known but just as good ones.

It’s Snogday again, and this time the theme is kisses by the sea, to celebrate the forthcoming Smut By The Sea anthology. I have a story in this, but I’m going to keep that one under wraps until nearer publication time, so for this occasion I’m going to relive a lovely beach scene from my Carina Press novel Erotic Amusements. Enjoy!

“Where is this?” she asked, struggling again with the chinstrap until Rocky stepped in.
“Smugglers Cove. Popular with smugglers, in days gone by, as the name suggests.”
She looked around the isolated inlet, beaming. “Really? Real smugglers? Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum?”
“Case of rum, more likely. And anything else they could lay hands on. Wrecking was the big pastime round here.” He held out a hand, which Flipp took, and began walking down the steep path to the shore. “They’d stand up there, on the outcrop, and shine lights out to sea. Sailors would mistake it for the harbour at Goldsands, head in and hit the rocks. Cue dozens of rowing boats stripping the wreck of its cargo.”
“God. People might have drowned!”
“Sometimes they did. These guys weren’t sentimental.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh, years ago. Not that similar stuff doesn’t happen around Goldsands now. It’s just a bit less primitive.”
She looked up at him queryingly, but he turned his face away and pretended to save her from tripping on a rock.
“Mind yourself.” His arm shot out to steady her by the shoulder; she found herself spun into him until her face connected with the warm maleness infusing his T-shirt. She knew she should pull away, straighten herself out, perhaps make some self-deprecating remark, yet she did none of these things. Instead she kept close, made no attempt to shrug his hand off her shoulder, marvelling at how she was compelled by his heat and scent and physicality.
Now they were on the beach, crunching across the pebbles to where the waves lapped ashore.
“So what’s your real name?” asked Rocky, keeping his eyes on a cargo freight vessel on the far horizon.
“Flipp. That’s my name. That’s me. Aren’t I real enough for you?”
He looked down, sniffing, registering her helmet-flattened platinum spikes and her mutinously set jaw. She needed to deflect him from this course. “Oh, you’re real enough for me alright,” he said, the words coming from a place low down in his chest. He moved his hand up from her shoulder to stroke gently at the shaved bit behind her ear. “Unless I’m dreaming you. I’m not, am I?”
“So corny,” Flipp scoffed, but her breath caught at the expression of naked intent in his gaze. “You’ll be asking if heaven’s missing an angel next.”
“The old lines are the best,” teased Rocky, tugging on a strand of ruthlessly-lacquered hair. “How did you like your first ride?”
“Yeah.” Flipp smiled, recalling the elemental joy that had coursed through her all the way along the ribbon of coast road. “Nice. I’d definitely do that again.”
“I’m glad to hear it. These are pretty. Butterflies.” Rocky’s gloved fingers were fiddling with her earring, rubbing at the sensitive spot behind her earlobe in the process. She inhaled shudderingly at the sensation of leather in that special place, looking at his other arm, bare and strong until the flare of the gauntlet announced the beginnings of his wrist.
“I like butterflies,” she managed to say. “I kind of feel them, you know. Their spirit.” She swallowed. Rocky’s thumb had reached slyly round to the hollow at the back of her neck and was pressing into it, unleashing spectacular sensation and a telling dampness at her crotch.
“You’re a butterfly? Can’t choose which flower to settle on?”
“In a way. I like to be free.”
“You want to watch someone doesn’t come along with a bloody great net, then. I can imagine someone wanting to pin you down by the wings.”
She dared to look up at his face. “Can you?”
“Ohhh, yes,” he crooned, and then he was leaning down and into her and the sharp tips of his stubble prickled her and lips that were hard and soft at the same time made their demands known.
Flipp had guessed he would kiss like this, imperiously and urgently, holding her fast with a hand at the back of her neck, but it still felt like a luscious revelation. The rush and clatter of shingle beneath the waves provided a fitting soundtrack to this unexpected passion strike, which was broken off only for him to urge her to discard the ‘stupid bloody jacket’, which she did eagerly, with jittery fingers, to press up all the closer. The layers of thin cotton did little to restrain their open-air ardour; their arms and legs intwined, their tongues twirled together and still they were not close enough, still they needed to close up every particle of space between them.
Stretched up on tiptoes, Flipp hooked an elbow around Rocky’s neck, clinging for dear life while he ravaged her mouth. At the base of her stomach, she could feel a hard, leathercovered bulge; she wanted to climb up this solid wall of man and sit astride it, feeling it where it needed to be felt – between her legs. She could see why Rocky treasured his bike – they were of a kind: powerful, attractive, embodying freedom of spirit.
As if he could read her mind, or her smell, or the frantic language of her hands, Rocky lifted Flipp off the shingle and perched her at waist level, so that she could wrap her legs around his hips, kicking her heels joyously against his tight leather arse while their communion kiss grew still deeper and stronger. Surges of pleasure and need whizzed along Flipp’s neural pathways, all over her body until they gathered in her groin, building up and up into a ferment of wetness and wanting that had her bucking herself into Rocky’s pelvis. Her denim miniskirt was rucked around her thighs now and her knickers must have been transferring their soaked warmth to Rocky’s T-shirt, even through her leggings. He pulled down the spaghetti straps of her layered vest tops and grabbed a handful of breast before wrenching himself out of the kiss to snarl, “You need a good fuck.”
Flipp could hardly disagree, but managed to gasp, “What? Here?”
“If you want.”

Saucy fellow, isn’t he? If you want to read on, I’m giving away a copy of Erotic Amusements to one commenter. The competition ends on 30th June. For more kisses and giveaway opportunities, check out the Blisse Kiss website.

Here in the UK, the summer of 2012 is going to be as hot as hot can be, whatever the weather. Why? Because we’re hosting the Olympic summer games and London is going to have the eyes of the world focused upon it for those few weeks in July and August. Anyone going? I’d love to know what events you’re attending. As for me, I’ll be able to see the sailing events from my bathroom window (not in London!) though I won’t have a clue who’s winning or losing. It’ll just look like a load of white triangles on a blue background…

For the purposes of this Sizzling Summer Nights erotica blog hop, though, I’m turning my attention to a different type of game. In fact, my new novel, Game, which released last month from Mischief books. The events featured in this book are not exactly Olympian, though if there were an Olympics of sex, protagonists Lloyd and Sophie might well win medals. Here’s the book blurb:

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?

Interested? If you want to win a copy, in epub or mobi format, all you need do is comment on this post. All comments will be entered to the grand blog hop prize draw and stand a chance of winning one of two grand prizes.

$100 to spend at online toy store, Eden Fantasys. OR

ALL OF THESE BOOKS!!!! Yep, every single one. You’d have to spend a long time on the beach to get through all these.

To optimise your chance of winning, why not visit some of the other fantastic writers taking part in the tour and comment on their posts too? Click the link to see the list of participants.

Good luck! And keep cool…

I’ve been tagged by Shanna Germain to participate in this bit of memey fun and, since it’s for Shanna, I’m going to play.

Here’s how it works: Go to page 7 or 77 of your latest work. Read down to the seventh line and then post online the next seven lines or sentences. Then head off and tag seven more writers.

I thought this would be a nice opportunity to air a little of one of the current works in progress. Summer of Submission is a novella, contracted by Mischief and due to be released (I think) in October. I’ve nearly finished writing it and hope to be in a position to submit it sometime this week. I’m absolutely all over this story and think I’m going to have to write a sequel, mainly because I have serious lust for the hero.

But I decided against it. I didn’t want anything to overshadow our picnic, and Will was just an unwelcome intruder from real life who had gone and would not be back. I stepped out of the shade, into the sun, back into my fantasy-made-flesh.

From the top of the slope I could see Jasper, sitting on a picnic blanket in a white linen shirt and light trousers, reading a book. A basket stood beside him.

I took some time to just look at him, let the sight of him fill me up, colouring in that greyness of spirit Will had left behind. I took a deep breath and began to walk down.

And now I have to tag seven more – I’m going to go for Facebook friends because they’re easier to alert, so I hereby tag: Jeremy Edwards, Lucy Felthouse, Victoria Blisse, K D Grace, Kay Jaybee, Tabitha Rayne and Teresa Noelle Roberts.

(If they want to, that is!)

Given that I set my first novel, On Demand, in a hotel, it’s not surprising that I was stimulated to respond to Rachel Kramer Bussel’s call for short stories in hotel settings. There’s no Luxe Noir decadence in my Suite Encounters story, though – no, this is a different proposition altogether.

Travelodge Tess arose from a slightly unhealthy fascination with motorway service stations. I’ve always found their air of monotony and anonymity unsettling, but they lend themselves brilliantly to a sordid, seedy, stringless kind of sex, and that’s what I wanted to explore. Here’s a snippet:

I spot him in Costa, lolling on one of those high stools, flashing his top of the range smartphone for all to see. As my sights home in on him, I tick off items on my mental checklist: handmade shoes, fake tan, splayed crotch in pinstripes. Or, to put it another way: ostentation, vanity, arrogance. Yes, he’s the one. He’s perfect.

I spend a lot of time in motorway service stations. It’s my job, you see. I have to inspect the facilities and report my findings to a consumer organisation. This place apparently rejoices in four star restrooms and an onsite barber shop. But it’s the motel I’m interested in today. And how can I rate a motel without testing the bed?

Everywhere I go, I see men like him. I imagine them coming off some production line conveyor as hair gel and aftershave rains down from overhead spray nozzles. Their circuits are loaded with business-speak and self-puffery before they are suited and booted and sent out into the world like a biblical plague.

I wasn’t too surprised, on drawing within earshot of my target, to hear him spouting some nonsense about baseline figures.

“Are we in agreeance then, mate? Cool. We’ll roll it out over the eastern counties then, once all the ducks are in a row. Yeah, I’ll catch you tomorrow for a visioning session. Ciao, mate. Bye.”

If it weren’t for the words spoken, he would have a nice voice, deep and slightly hoarse, probably the product of talking too much and listening too little. He is good-looking despite the over-styling, and he knows it. Coming up behind him, I note giant cufflinks and a whiff of whatever won the latest GQ Magazine Grooming Award for After Shave. I make sure I pass just an inch or so too close to him. My handbag skims the edge of his table and I hear him put the phone down with a faint clatter once my back is presented to his view. Easy, always so easy. Reaching the counter, I jut out a hip in its tight pencil skirt and ask for a cappuccino in my throatiest purr.

While the barista busies herself, I push out my arse and pretend to be reading the price list on the wall. When he puts his coffee cup back on its saucer, it makes a juddery, wobbly sound. Steady your hands, boy, you’re going to need them.

For a midweek afternoon, the café is strangely empty, so my table choice – directly next to his – can’t fail to be provocative. I set down my cup and reach into my handbag for my phone. When I cross my legs, letting the side split in the my skirt reveal the edge of my stocking top, I hear his breathing deepen and quicken.

I dial my home phone number and talk to my answering service.

“Hi, it’s me,” I say, with a quick glance at him. He is looking at me. “I’m at the services on the M4. Think I might book into the Travelodge.” I finger my necklace. He is still looking at me. “It’s been a hard day and I need to relax. So I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Yes, the meeting went well. I’ll be in the office first thing tomorrow morning with all the news. Bye.”

As I press the ‘off’ button he clears his throat. I inhale, waiting for it, waiting, here it comes…

“Did you get caught out by those roadworks just past Heston?”

I turn my face to him. He is smiling, a smile that makes him look like Jaws with better dental hygiene. His eyes, above the dazzle, have a hard, hungry gleam.

“Afraid so,” I laugh. “I’m so sick of the sight of cones now. I hope I never see another one in my life.”

“I hear you.”

“You aren’t deaf then.”

It’s exquisite to see the way his brow rumples and his smile fixes itself into a rictus. I didn’t mean to do it, but I couldn’t resist. But I must overcome this little self-inflicted setback and get him back on track – the track that leads to my motel bed.

I have a special soft spot for this story, because I got my acceptance in person from Rachel herself when she visited London last year. What a memorable occasion it was!

And you can also find stories from: Ariel Graham, Donna George Storey, Anna Meadows, Remittance Girl, Emily Morton, Suzanne Fox, Suleikha Snyder, Lily K Cho, Elizabeth Silver, Erobintica, Tahira Iqbal, Steve Isaak, Valerie Alexander, Andrea Dale, Tenille Brown, Ellie Vokes, Delilah Devlin, Michael A Gonzales and Rachel Kramer Bussel.