Book Trailers
 Match Made by Moonlight
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 Sea of Pearls
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 Lady Six Sky
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 Seeds of Garnet
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 Scandalous Profession
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 Enchant the Dawn
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I’ve been having a lot of fun on my blog tour this month, with visits to many excellent destinations, including Scribal Love, Starla Kaye, Moonlight Lace and Mayhem,and Deborah Melanie, with more to come soon, including a radio interview with Desmond Haas. But the big news is of course the release of Magic Eights!
Blurb:
A casual wish by a frustratingly horny wife results in a most unexpected bit of magic…
Susanna walks into her kitchen to see two copies of her husband of eight years, William. When they both seduce her, she’s helpless to resist. Who would want to? When another copy walks in and makes love to her, and another, she ceases to ask why, only, how much can she take?
Seven copies, one original, and all of them want to push her to the very brink. Can she handle them all? Sinful satisfaction is the best anniversary present, and eight is Susanna’s lucky number.
Excerpt for Magic Eights
I had so much fun writing the world of Magic Eights that I’ve been extending it into two more books which followed the story of Esme Morgan, the witch who gives Susanna Wong the Magic Eight ball that starts all the fun in Magic Eights.
To give you a taste of the next book in the series, here’s a taste of my work in progress, an urban fantasy tentatively titled “Memory Lapse”
Anton Boroi whistled softly under his breath, hands in the pockets of his wool trousers, not once noticing that in his long-sleeved shirt, waistcoat and tie he was not dressed for the steamy weather of Mexico City. He practically skipped from one patch of shadow to the next, a man who’d made a decision and was engaged in preparation for follow-through, without another care in the world.
He didn’t notice the once brightly painted buildings, or the bars on the windows, or the potential danger of a neighborhood that held no interest and no danger for him. He had his last appointment with a buyer, and then he was done with the hunting business. Finito. Isprăvit. Flown the coop.
Gone courting, finally.
He took a shortcut through a market, always an excellent place to find enough shade. The scents of spices and sweat, old cilantro and mildly rancid frying lard were foul, but not unappetizing. With the exception of the more subtle breeds of alcohol, he had little interest in the tastes of humans. The din of the football match on the radio, the listless mariachi players half a block away and the thousand sounds of dispirited hawkers making half-hearted attempts to garner business in the late afternoon were merely a background noise to the thoughts in his head, contemplating his next great project.
Given the man’s intense focus, it was rather remarkable that he was distracted by a patch of soft color in the odd mix of dusty brown and garnish fluorescent that made up the cheap wares of this Mercado. He turned his head, and at a clothing booth saw a rustic blouse in a rich butter yellow, the exact shade she wore when she first sat by his side in a chemistry lecture in 1889.
Cynthiniel. How he missed her.
He pondered if he should come to her door with a gift, and his mind pictured her in this blouse, her hair swirling around her like a cloak of honey gold, her green eyes smiling at him as her presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers in return for a kiss.
Bah. He was a sentimental fool.
The scream of a child and the chitter of a howler monkey meshed together in to a cacophony that sounded like a threat, and he turned his head, grey eyes turning red and tension evident in his pose. The smell of blood rose thick in the heady air and he salivated. Once again, a flash of memory, this time the red of Cyn’s blood dripping down her arms as she struggled against the iron manicals restraining her magic, her eyes lit with fire as she fought for their lives, the silver-robed priest droning on between them, ready to sacrifice them both.
Pushing the monster back down, he stalked down the aisle, where the stall owner was gripping the arm of the victim and yelling at the inquisitive little girl with pain in her eyes who was sucking her bitten finger.
Looming over the little man, Anton smiled tightly. His Spanish was probably too influenced by his years hiding in Galicia to be any good in a barrio, but he did his best. “Perhaps if your cages were cleaner, your animals wouldn’t be so libel to bite potential clients.”
The man blinked up at his six foot two and gave an ingratiating smile. “Oh, Senor, are you interested in exotic animals?”
The girl made good the opportunity to escape. He always did like clever children. Perhaps because he couldn’t have any of his own.
He would have rudely turned around and stalked off, his typical solution to sticky situations, but again a patch of color caught his eye. He turned his head, and in a tiny, cramped cage in the darkness of the stall, there was a rodent sleeping in a little ball, long green fur sticking up at all angles.
In his experience, most mammals didn’t come in green. At least not in this reality.
Perfect present for his Cyn. She’d adore it.
The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog issued the following challenge:
Use the picture below to guide you in your story’s theme or setting, but you must include the following:
Post your story–500 words or fewer–on your blog or someplace you’d like the rest of us to visit. Then drop a link in the comments here, and we’ll include a round-up of entries with the next challenge.
Here’s your prompt:
My response:
It had seemed a good idea. Drive away from her life, far away from her dead-end mail room job and her student loans and her alcoholic mother. Drive until she found some idyllic small town, somewhere in the heart of America. Find a waitress job, serve people coffee and pie and listen to a thousand stories and then write that best seller and maybe some screenplays and make all her dreams come true.
But there was nothing in Kansas but corn and Walmarts. Highway 70 was one straight road across a state flatter than a pancake. After she’d passed Abilene, she just kept turning on smaller and smaller roads, determined to find that slice of Americana that suited her dreams. Now she was lost somewhere between Beverly, population 199, and Tescott, population 319, according to her GPS when she’d last had a signal. Now, her car was out of gas. And she was surrounded by nothing but corn.
After spending an uncomfortable night cramped in the back seat of her Neon, haunted by the complete absence of city noises and the loud sound of her own heartbeat, she figured that it would be better to try to walk somewhere, anywhere, no matter what the weather.
It was the end of September, and it should still be hot as hell, but it was cold, bone-chillingly cold in the pre-dawn light. The corn reached up above her head toward a grey sky swirling with dark clouds. She wondered if it would rain, if life could throw another boulder in her path. She’d started driving straight from her office in no-name suburban Chicago. All she had was her purse, her gym bag full of sweaty clothes, and half a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Pulling the scrunchie off the turn signal, she tied back her frizzy black hair. She unzipped the grey gym bag and took out the lime green athletic shoes that had never seen anything but the steps of an elliptical. Changing her sensible black pumps for her garish but comfortable sneakers, she stuffed her purse into the gym bag, clutched the Diet Pepsi like an Olympic runner would her torch, and stepped out of the car. She didn’t even bother to lock it, deciding it was easier not to give a damn.
She walked determinedly down the pebbled road. Maybe some hot farm boy would pull up to her in a dusty blue pickup and sweep her off her feet to a life of baking apple pies and milking cows. Maybe some lone serial killer would slash her to ribbons in the corn rows and they’d find her body with her ovaries tied in a neat bow. Maybe a van stuffed full of Mexican migrants would pull up and take pity on her and offer her a ride into some kind of civilization.
It wasn’t even dawn, and the day seemed endless.
But it least she wasn’t back in that damned office. At least today, something was different.
I love writing to prompts! If you have one, feel free to tickle my fancy with it!
Hello everyone,
I’ve been sick and stressed, so I haven’t gotten much writing done, but I’ll post a short snippet from my Hawaiian Magi book that I’m working on now. Set in 1888, Emelia is a baker in Waimea, on the Big Island, and her brother-in-law, Mateo, is trying to woo her after her husband has died in an accident. Mateo was meant for her all along.
From “Seduce the Soul”
Her skin smelled sweet, like flour and sugar and the hot honeyed perfume of plumeria, almost too sweet to stand, until he reached out his tongue to taste that skin and the salt of her sweat made it bearable, more than bearable – it was divine. It was magic. She shuddered under his touch, like a bird trapped in his hand, and he wanted to draw her song from her, make her sing at his pleasure.
But she was no bird to be caged. His brother had tried, and his brother had broken both their hearts instead. The tip of his tongue drew down the center of her spine, and underneath he could feel her awareness, the careful control that she expended not to move, to barely breathe. It was that which gave her away. She didn’t have the laxity of the sleeper, the deep even breathing, and she didn’t have the skill to fake sleep convincingly, especially from his power. He knew that she was soaking up his touch, wrapping it in the feigned innocence of sleep and gifting him with the sweet indulgent delight of a stolen caress.
Magic Eights has been accepted for publication with Ellora’s Cave. I’ll have more info soon. For now, here’s a snippet of my latest work in progress, a Steampunk short for a Steampunk Shakespeare anthology:
Solar Roses: Sonnet Seven
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
Sammy saw the storm coming in the distance, the sand blowing in swirls and eddies that were almost beautiful as they bridged between the sky and the dunes outside the farm. She squinted up at the sun, just over the horizon and not yet so bright that it could send a flare of pain straight through her skull. Her headache was already fearsome, and didn’t need any aid to progress to rabid. Cursing herself for a stupid fool to be dazzled by the most dangerous things in the desert, the sun and the sand, Sammy snapped her smoked goggles over her eyes and wrapped the length of embroidered blue silk over her frizzy auburn hair and round face. Her mother always had wanted her to wear hijab. Now she had no choice, or the sand would scratch chunks out of her skin.
Batzorig was waiting peacefully, as always, the rapid flicking of one ear the only sign that he was nervous about the encroaching storm. A steppe fox snorted at her from a nearby rock, clearing announcing her stupidity for not making her escape and she had a ridiculous desire to stick her tongue out at the wry little face. But she was a decade past the age when such behavior was acceptable as anything but a waste of much valued water. That was the entire point of this madcap endeavor. She was definitely not a child any longer.
She turned to look at her farm, at the dozen crescents that smiled or frowned at the dawn. There was no blinding light from them, not now when they were encased in undyed ivory silk, waiting for the oncoming assault. Her beloved mirrors would not produce any water today, not with the sandstorm coming. Perhaps, if she was very lucky, she’d get a few curious boys or brave girls from Turpan village to help her remove her precious silks and reveal the coppery glow of her own personal horde.
She couldn’t wait any longer, but she wasn’t about to try to ride for the dubious safety of her mud brick hovel. It wasn’t any kind of place to wait out a storm, and as it was she’d have to shake the sand out of her blankets for a week before she’d be able to sleep without skritching. And there certainly wasn’t enough room for Batzorig in the tiny structure, and she didn’t have the heart to leave him out to be pummeled.
With one long last look at her mirrors, and a lip-biting assessment of the stability of her latest base welds, she pulled up the hatch lever at her feet and revealed her own little sanctuary. It wasn’t near done yet, not enough to sleep in regular like, but it was broad and deep, carved out of the dry desert soil by her own hands and any curious youngsters she could bribe to help. The walls and the floor were covered with scrap metal flooring, and most of a rusted out box car that she’d refinished with finesse. It was large enough for herself, and once she got the plumbing working and the air vented rigged up to the lower level, she would…they would…have plenty of space.
Now, the only “they” she had to worry about was her own sorry bulk and the lackadaisical takhi horse that would no doubt try to eat her trousers if the storm lasted much more than an hour. Next time she planned on being stuck with Batty in an enclosed space, she’d better remember some hay.
Too late now. She pushed Batty down the carved out steps and with some distinctly displeased brays and much gnashing of teeth from both woman and horse, both of them were firmly enclosed in the echoing dark. She shut the hatch behind her just as the distinct howling of the storm seemed to crash against the thick bottle glass window she’d poured herself only a few days ago.
Skirting past Batty in the now-pitch dark, Sammy managed to locate on a shelf two tallow candles and her strike lighter, after having knocked over only a full canteen, a tin cup full of calligraphy brushes, a small statue of Hanuman, and her favorite glass scoring knife.
Once the two candles were lit and their greasy smell began to fill the little box cave, Sammy made a firm resolution to improve her system of organization, and to make herself a couple of decent oil lanterns as soon as possible.
She contemplated working on said project now, while she was stuck underground with a takhi horse snuffling at her elbow and nothing better to do than worry about the state of her mirrors. But her body, up since the first storm warning drums in the pre-dawn, had firm plans. As if reading her mind, Batty lay down on his side, his exposed flank beckoning like a soft feather bed. She lay down and curled into the soft warm of her horse, and slept within the span of two deep breaths of dusty horsehair against her cheek.
Her dreams were full of the sun, reflected around her in all his glory, yet always dancing just out of her reach.
Been working on a new Work-In-Progress called Magic Eights (and a related, as-yet-to-be named tale with “Esme” as the working title). Up now is a very rough draft for teaser Tuesday:
Magic Eights
Soapy Wishes
Blowing a frizzy strand of reddish-brown hair from in front of her face, Susanna Walker-Wong tried valiantly to relax into the suds of her bath. Rose and chamomile scents floated into the hot air of the bathroom, which truly was calming, and hot water always soothed away the tension she held in her shoulders. But all these luxurious bubbles and steam didn’t really get to the core of her problem.
She was horny. Despite, or perhaps because of all the stresses in her life, she was ready to burst with the need for someone to touch her. Well, not just someone. It would be really really fabulous if her husband would get a clue and look up from his computer screen long enough to notice her panting after him.
But instead, she took a bath. Really, she shouldn’t be this desperate. It was their eighth anniversary and that morning their son had been taken to his grandparents house where he was likely being spoiled rotten. For lunch, Will had worshipped her thoroughly this morning before taking her out to a sumptuous dinner that they enjoyed and debated like the foodies they were. It should have been perfect, she should have been completely satisfied.
Her career was humming along, though she was only working on contract, part-time, what with Nathan being only four-years-old and just starting pre-school. Yeah, the dishes needed to be done, and there was yardwork that needed to be finished and the floor needed vacuuming. But if she ever finished her entire to do list, she’d be dead, right? She should be completely content.
So, why was she absolutely burning with lust? Every time William breathed, she watched the rise and fall of his chest and wanted to tear off his T-shirt and run her hands over his pecs and lick his nipples until he groaned. She wanted to thread her hands in the blue-black of his unkempt hair and tousle it even more while she pulled his lips to hers. She wanted to knock his laptop on the ground and climb astride him and ride him until he screamed her name and woke up the neighbors in the next condo.
She moved slightly to get her shoulders deeper into the water and relieve the tension there, and the soft rose scent of the bubbles rose up to try and console her, along with the subtle spiciness from her present. She sighed, her hands drifting over her clit, only to retreat quickly to her side when the door swung open.
Will stood in the door for a moment, taking in the soap-obscured view of her naked body and flashing her a brief but devastating grin that still made her heart go pitter-patter like a teenager.
“Hello my water nymph. How do you find your bath? And is that incense I smell?” He turned away from her and to the toilet, nonchalantly taking a piss, while she observed the curve of his ass in the ancient pair of khaki shorts that he wore.
“Bath’s searing hot, just like this nymph likes it. And no, the scent is something Esme sent us for our anniversary.” She looked him up and down. “Care to join me?” Her voice dripped with invitation, but she knew he didn’t share her particular fetish for baths.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s like ninety five in the house, and it’s only going to get hotter. How you can stand to take a hot bath in this weather is beyond my ken!” With a drip and a zip and a quick wash of his hands, he turned back to her, his eyes eating her up and making her throb even more that she had been. With his dark shining eyes carrying that edge of lust and his wicked goatee reminding her how much she liked the drag of his chin against her thighs, she was practically melting with need for him. But she didn’t let it show. Her appetite for him was simply ridiculous after all the years they’d been together, and she’d never been completely comfortable letting it all out. He was everything she could have ever wanted, and she didn’t feel like scaring him off now!
Will seemed to read something in her expression though, and he looked apologetic. “I promise to take a bath and have fun with you when it’s not scorching hot. Besides, I just got a call from work and the server is having a meltdown. I’ve got to log on and fix it before the CFO starts having kittens. Which would be bad, because he’s very allergic to cats.”
Susanna crinkled her brow and blinked. Will always did have a cock-eyed sense of humor. She loved it, and the unexpected twists his brain would occasional make. “But you are supposed to relax this weekend! You’ve been…”
“I know, I’m stressed out and I desperate need to get away from the computer. But I’m an addict, what can I say. And I think I’ve done quite a bit of restorative relaxing.” His eyes flickered over her once again and that lazy lecherous smile appeared, the one that could make her blush like a sixteen year old virgin. “So, let me go off and slay some electronic dragons, or fix some bugs, and I shall return to indulge in all the bounty milady has to offer.” With a wink, he’d turned around and shut the door, leaving her in the swirling steam and foamy water of her bath. All alone.
His parting words had sent all kinds of naughty images tickling her brain, and the minute the door clicked shut her fingers went straight to her clit, rubbing furiously. Her other hand thrust fingers deep as she could get, and though it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Will, at least the sweet fast taste of climax took off some of the edge to her lust. Now, she could hope to relax.
Able to almost think clearly once again, Susanna remembered the anniversary present she’d brought in to her bathtime escape. Her best friend from college, the one who’d actually introduced her to Will, had sent another bizarre gift. Esme Morgan never gave her typical presents, like a bottle of nice lotion or a candle or, Lord forbid, a gift certificate. No, Esme was a hippie born in the wrong age, a fan of wicca and broomstick skirts, but one who could not live without her double espresso mocha lattes in the morning. Esme was the best graphic designer she knew, but there was always something mysterious about her, something that only made Susanna love her more. And for her anniversary — Esme never forget a birthday, a holiday or an anniversary– Esme had sent a very heavy box. Inside was something Susanna had sworn was a bowling ball, but it turned out to be something even cornier — a magic eight ball. Well, not the conventional magic eight ball, made up to look like a billard ball with the number eight. No, this was lushly covered in a paisley print in shades of gold and crimson, almost like stylized flames. There was still a number eight, but it was formed from the bodies of two phoenixes curled together.
It was also vaguely useful, in that it contained a scented oil that emitted a lush vanilla and cardamom odor when it was turned, along with a rich heavy scent that Susanna couldn’t identify but loved. That was why she’d taken it into the bath. She was almost out of her favorite bubble bath, and so the scent would add to her little hedonistic haven. Shaking the suds from her hands, she picked up the ball, contemplating the weight of it in her hands, the slight shimmer of its lacquered surface, and the hint of spicy scent. Not even forming a question, she turned it over and in the red tinted window the die floated lazily to rest in the window.
Wishing never hurt anybody.
Susanna laughed, a bright sound that echoed in the humid confines of the green and white bathroom. If she had a wish, a selfish wish, not health and happiness for her son or world peace or something like that, what would she wish for?
Wealth wasn’t interesting, and she doubted she’d ever be willing to give herself over to her microbiology work enough to merit a Nobel. The things that flickered through her brain were so much more mundane. An empty sink and all the dishes washed. A nice home-cooked dinner on a weeknight. The tiny garden she tried to maintain in the front of their condo not being quite so riotously overgrown. More time to play. More time for Will to take her hard over the arm of the sofa, his cock driving deep into her and making her see stars on every stroke. For Will to let her take care of him for once, letting her rock his world and being selfish in his pleasure instead of always, always concentrating on her until she felt like she wasn’t doing enough. And maybe trying a few new things in a bedroom. She wasn’t dissatisfied, but she’d been with Will for over a decade, and routine could get a bit — routine. There was still a lot of sexual landscape to explore.
She smiled into her bubbles and tipped the ball over again, filling the air with the scent of cardamom and vanilla. Once more back to the enigmatic little window, and the multi-sided prognosticating die floated to the top, declaring:
Your wish is granted.
Once again her laugh rang out, her amusement at the mundane contents of her wishes battling with the absurdity of wishing at all. She set down the ball on the wide edge of the tub and then decided to live dangerous and forget keeping her hair dry. She plunged under the soapy water, feeling the caress of warmth all around her. The water seemed suddenly to pulse with life, brushing her in a caress that was instantly arousing. All the aching need that she had thought to banish with her playtime in the bath returned threefold. Oh damn it to hell! She held her breathe for another moment, but finally she needed air.
When she emerged, wet and breathless, the suds slipping over her skin, she heard noise outside. Lots of noise. What the hell was Will up to? Didn’t he claim to have work to do?
Kitchen Duties
She climbed out of the tub and the rush of air over her skin was lovely and cooling and she tingled with need. She grit her teeth, determined to ignore it. Maybe a dry technical journal?
After a towel dry with the super plush terrycloth she indulged in, her hair was efficiently wrapped up in a towel and she donned the terribly ugly but comfy maroon silk robe that her mother had gotten her for Christmas last year. Why her mother got her freckled, red-haired daughter things in such colors, Susanna never understood. Still, it was short enough that Will liked to admire her legs and the August heat was such that she would really rather have worn nothing at all. One of the benefits of taking a searing hot bath in August, was that it fooled her body into thinking that the air was cool, at least for a little while. Then she’d simply retreat into the air conditioning of the bedroom and curl up with a book or a technical manual and try not to stare beseechingly at Will to come and fuck her some more.
She sighed softly and opened the door, determined to find out the source of all the commotion outside.
The hot, humid air of the bathroom gave way to the hot, stuffy air of the hallway. It wasn’t supposed to get this hot in San Francisco! It was supposed to be foggy and overcast and sweater weather in the middle of “summer”. It was not supposed to be hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. She cursed the weather gods and the condo complex’s rules that only allowed them to put an air conditioner in the bedroom. She would have followed Will into the bedroom and tried not to think about jumping his bones, but Will must be in the kitchen give all the noise. Given how much he hated the heat, that seemed very unusual.
Sure enough, Will was right there, in the kitchen, in the midst of cooking one of his incredibly intricate meals. Practically naked, except for his apron. And, Will was right there, in the kitchen, standing at the sink and scrubbing away at a mountain of pan. Again, almost bare, except for an apron and apparently boxer-brief that cupped his great ass with TLC.
Soapy water dripped on to the kitchen room floor from the overloaded sink and the scent of sautéed garlic wafted up into the air as she stared at the men in her kitchen. Two men. Both completely, familiar. Her husband, and what appeared to be his twin. Unless Will and his family had been hiding something from her for years.
“I’m dreaming. I fell asleep in the tub and I’m about to drown any second.”
Will…Wills…oh hell, both of them looked up at her with a smile. One said, “Hi, sweetheart!”
And the other, “Are you parboiled enough yet?”
Susanna was pretty sure that if she had been the fainting type, she would have collapsed. As it was she pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and slumped into it, not noticing that her robe gapped open invitingly.