Sarah Masters's Blog, page 2

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Oh, God. The laundry bin is full AGAIN. Don't you just hate that? Especially when you emptied it the day before.


My laundry bin is rather large. It has to be with six people living in this house. If I miss just one day of doing laundry, I know all about it. The dirty clothes spill over the sides and end up on the floor. Yesterday I did eight wash loads. Granted, two of them were bedding from five beds, but come on! Six general loads just because I wrote Sunday and didn't do laundry?

Now this morning I see it's full again. Spilling over full. Even if all six of us put our clothes in there from yesterday, plus our nightwear, it should only be half full. Yeah, the bin is that big. I can only surmise people in this house haven't been putting their dirty washing in the bin. Bedroom floors spring to mind. So when the washbin has been emptied, they go and refill it.

I must have relations who like to fill things once they're empty, in manic-like fashion. Sort of: Quick! There's an empty receptacle! Fill, fill, fill!

I say this because yesterday I also emptied the kitchen and bathrooms bins.

Both. Are. Nearly. Full. Again.

Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug!

*I shall now return to my regular schedule of putting up a couple of reviews then doing some writing.*

(Breathe, Em. Breaaaaaathe!)

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I think everyone has a favourite type of author voice that suits them for various reasons. I've found that I'm most at home reading Brit-voice authors. 1, because I'm a Brit, and 2, I have no trouble understanding the nuances and meanings, the way the prose flows with that unmistakeable Britishness that only another Brit can fully understand because they've lived hearing it all their lives. I have several US authors I love too, but today I'm talking Brit.


Since reviewing for Miz Love Loves Books, I've had the pleasure of finding two new-to-me Brit-voice authors who have written books that have touched me so deeply just because of that Brit voice, among other things. Prior to Miz Love, I had read M. King, whose prose wowed me beyond anything that had come before. I am a serious fan of M. King, and now I add two more Brit-voice authors to my list of those I don't think I'll ever tire of reading. Rachel Randall and Lynne Connolly.

These three women have given me so many wow moments, so many misty-eyed moments, all due to me feeling so at home while reading that it brought me to tears. That sounds absolutely nuts, I know that, but when someone writes how you think and speak, it kind of gives you that feeling that you belong just by reading their books.

M. King: She has a fantastic turn of phrase and plays the written word like a well-tuned instrument. She gets right into a character, digs very deep, and I love the way she tells us so much more with what she doesn't write—she's a "between the lines" author, where you sometimes have to use your noggin to work things out for yourself, and the reward, when you get that "Ah!" moment of seeing things how she intended, and when you spot those hidden nuggets, is priceless. My favourite book of hers is Breaking Faith. I will never forget it.

Lynne Connolly: She writes a historical romance like you wouldn't believe. For me she is perfect in every way. The wording, the sentence patterns, the absolute perfection that comes across leaves me speechless. I have read five of her Richard and Rose series and can honestly say I don't think I'll ever read a historical like them. They are amazing, and her attention to detail, her lush, fantastic phrases that give images so clear you'd think you were there yourself, really do make me get goose bumps.

Rachel Randall: What can I say but oh my goodness. This author's voice is something I grew up hearing. London, that distinct sound, and those word choices, when strung together, took me right back into the past. My first taste of Rachel Randall was with His Christmas Present, and even though the tale itself wasn't one designed to make the reader cry, I cried. I felt so "home", so in my comfort zone while reading, it was as though, if I had chosen all the ingredients for the perfect author designed for me as a reader, I had found it in Rachel Randall.

Each of these women have their own distinct voice, their own patterns, their own ebbs and flows, and I love them all. So long as these three write, I will be a happy reader. I would love for you to check them out too!

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Eden Riley left her high school geek days far behind. Or so she thought. But when she returns to her hometown and comes face to face with the local heartthrob, sparks ignite like a chemistry set on crack. Super-smooth Nick Lancaster sets her nerves jangling and thrusts her libido into overdrive. But can the former geeky girl overcome her insecurities and jump his sexy bones?

Nothing suits former jock and debate-team star Nick more than sparring with the one-time nerd. He's just itching to get up close and personal with her high-velocity curves and tangle with her on the nearest horizontal surface.

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, all bets are off when Cupid draws back his bow and Nick has only twelve days to convince Eden she belongs with him, in his heart and in his bed.

BUY NOW!

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Today I am going to be totally honest about my experience of being a writer. 


It's sometimes a heartbreaking profession. I've cried—sobbed so hard I couldn't breathe—I've sighed, I've got angry at myself (edits will do that to you!), I've wanted to scream because at times, when learning to be an editor, I just did not "get" those damn clauses and dangling modifiers and all those horrible, pesky little things we need to know. I've put my head on the desk and just felt worthless, depressed, shit. I've wandered around the house feeling the same. Allowed my dream to take over my life. Allowed people to upset me. I have upset others. Been taken the piss out of, talked about, reamed, accused of plagiarism—Jeez, all manner of things that made me want, several times, to shut off this computer and walk away, never to return. No word to anyone, just go. Fuck this for a laugh.

Sound familiar?

Sales: I'll share my experience. Obviously it won't be the same for everyone. To get straight to the point, and I've said this before, I don't make much money from writing. Back in the day, when I first started writing, money didn't even enter my head. I wrote because I wanted to, I loved it, and it was just something I "did". Then I got to know authors, was privileged enough to be on the inside of a few publishing companies—via editing and cover art—to see how a publishing company works. I saw sales—or not—how trends worked, how everything worked, from submissions to published tales. Then making money from writing seemed an option.

Some people make big money at this gig—and no, I'm not mentioning any names! I have been studying the way things work this past year. For those of you who know me from "way back then", you'll know I made last year my "get published shitloads of times" year. I shut myself away, barely emailed a soul. It was just something I felt I had to do. Something for me. Without getting out the violins, all my life I've given, given, given to others—mostly my choice, oftentimes not—and I was stubborn, dug my heels in, and was what some might see as selfish. I don't see it that way. I took time out, did something I wanted to do for the first time ever (on such a big scale anyway), and it felt good.

I gave myself a goal of publishing 20 books. I exceeded it. Job done, yay me, whatever. I had a blast too. The reason for this insane amount of writing last year—and at the last count it was 425K; not bragging, just stating the facts, ma'am—was to see if having lots of books out there increased sales. It's common sense, right? To have many books out there means you'll rake in the cash eventually, yes?

No, it doesn't.

I will admit that some royalties made, and still make, me laugh so hysterically that I border/ed on looking like some nutter in an institution. If I didn't laugh I would cry. All that hard work, all that fucking effort, for something like $3 a month sometimes.

I'm not joking.

So, I had been very depressed at that three bucks, especially because it came from a place where you'd think that once you're published there you're loaded. It's a myth, guys! I see every publisher the same now. It's not the name of the place you're published at that makes sales, trust me. It's a combination of many things, I suspect, if we wanted to look at it in an analytical way so we knew what to do and how, so WE could then make big money like those who do, but as with all things in life, what works for one person may not work for you and me.

There we are, flapping around in a sea full of others flapping too. Some aren't flapping. No, they're swimming strong, know their direction to shore, and some even have the luxury—be it from hard work (and bloody good for them too, because they deserve the rewards) or sheer luck; right place, right time etc.—of a yacht coming to collect them to save them even swimming. Good on them, much respect going their way, no animosity whatsoever. Now. In the past I railed it wasn't fair, it wasn't this, it wasn't that, but shit, as you mature you realise that what other people are doing distracts you from doing what YOU'RE meant to be doing. So, Bright Sunrise makes loads of money. So what? And it IS fair that she does because she's worked hard, writes the books, has found that magic formula or whatever.

It is fair.

Saying that, I now believe there IS no magic formula. Some are destined to win through hard work, some aren't. Some are destined to win by fate, some aren't. Some aren't flapping but swimming—but getting nowhere fast. Treading water, unable to do what's necessary to move forward. The currents are against them. It just doesn't matter to me anymore whether I "make" it. I'm tired of trying to understand it all. I had the dream, no longer have it, of becoming a household name in books. We've all had that dream. Our books as movies etc., and you know what? I don't want it. Truly, not deep down. If it means having to be something I'm not, to do things I detest doing, being uncomfortable with who I'd become, wishing I could get the old me back, all to have people fawn over me, thinking I'm this person I'm not, using me for my brand, what I can do for them… No. Thank. You.

We're all people, whether we're "famous" in this little e-publishing world or not. We all shit, eat, sleep, fuck, hate, like, love, dislike. Putting a sash on that says "best-selling author who everyone loves and adores and swarms around and pats on the back and licks their arsehole so much their nose is permanently brown" is not ME. I don't speak to people who are "famous" any differently than I do those who aren't. You're all the same to me. I couldn't give a toss whether you earn $7,000 a month, $50,000 per year writing ebooks—and yes, there are people out there who earn that; please don't shit yourself on my carpet or throw up on the sofa; the bathroom's that way—because earning that money doesn't make them any different to authors who make fuck all. All it means is the high earners can afford holidays, nice things etc.—BUT THEY ARE STILL PEOPLE! If they gad about like they're royalty and I'm beneath them, I don't want to know them anyway.

Good advice would be to drop the "I'm famous" mantle when dealing with me, because it just doesn't wash. Also, I've noticed since becoming Natalie Dae, that people treat ME differently, giving me the time of day they wouldn't had I not been published by Ellora's Cave. Thanks! [Sarcasm intended—I clearly wasn't worth knowing pre-EC.] Please, stop it. I'm still this person. I'm not some woman elevated in status because a publisher decided they liked my books. You want to talk to me, talk to me because I'm me, but be prepared for getting a response from a boring old cow who sits here day after day at her computer either writing or creating graphic art. Just me.

I was just about to go further into a rant about brands and how being attached to one makes you "different" but I won't. It'd be ugly. I dislike it immensely.

So, after that interlude of something I clearly needed to get off my chest, let's get back on track.

Some people make good money at ABC, some don't. Some people make good money at XYZ—and God, aren't I just being so original with my publisher names here? LOL—and some don't. It's a lottery. It doesn't matter how big the publisher is, there are far too many other elements to consider when it comes to sales. The publisher can only do so much, then it's up to you to build your name. There are so many authors out there it isn't surprising most of us fall by the wayside. The stampede to reach the top is too much for me, I've realised. I'd rather just stroll along nicely, stop along the way to eat an ice cream, have a sunbathe. You know, chill a bit.

Promotion: Does it really work? So far, in my experience, no. I have an "experiment" going on right now with a friend, and if the type of promo we're doing still makes no difference, then you know what? Fuck promotion up its soul-destroying arse, because promotion costs time and money—I don't have either to waste, neither does my friend.

Blog posts, blog tours, scavenger hunts, dropping links on groups, adding promo to the end of normal, everyday blog posts, paid advertising, sending books out for review, dropping links to our books/reviews/whatevers on Facebook and the like,—it's just something we DO, a time-consuming effort to build the brand, to be noticed among the thousands of other people doing exactly the same thing. It works for many but fails for many too.

Myself and my friend are TIRED, but we'll see this experiment through until the end, because there's a burning desire to know, once and for all, whether promotion actually works.

Getting your "brand" out there: This involves being a member of several groups and online networking sites. The only one I indulge in now is Facebook. I work mainly from my Emmy Ellis page, because that's me and exactly who I am from day to day. I can't be all people all of the time, meaning Sarah Masters and Natalie Dae (Charley Oweson is asleep right now). It's too exhausting, too time consuming. I used to think they were separate parts of me, cocooned in their different worlds, far removed from who I am as Emmy, but I came to realise they're not. They are all me, they just write with different voices, in different genres, and I found that keeping the bits of me all apart was making me depressed not to mention insane. I now don't give a monkeys who knows I'm all of these people—I mean really, who the hell cares? What does it matter in the grand scheme of things? For those who are not aware of many personas, here they all are:

Charley Oweson (formerly M. E. Ellis) – horror writer
Natalie Dae – Het author
Sarah Masters – m/m author
Owner of Miz Love Loves Books – review site
PoshGosh, cover artist 
Emmy Ellis – me, editor, proofreader, mother, nanny, daughter, sister, wife, blah-de-blah-blah-blah

Getting your brand out there brings the risk, quite frankly, of getting on people's tits. You join in on the conversations, bring your own experiences and opinions to the table, boost other authors, congratulate them, sit using up valuable time that could be spent writing, by shooting the shit with other people who are doing exactly the same thing as you—all out there pushing their brand. Don't get me wrong, I've made some effing brilliant friends by being on these groups and sites and I wouldn't change having been an active member on them for the world because of that alone, but, jaded as it might sound, I didn't relish sitting there bullshitting with hundreds of people just so my name was "seen" by…other authors! We don't want to just target other authors, do we? Yes, authors are also readers, and yes, they may well buy our books, but for Pete's sake, think about it: Why are we pushing ourselves at other authors who, if we were all honest and came out stating what we earned, can't justify the expenditure on others' books anyway?
Readers, those who are loyal to the written word, are the ones we're supposed to target, but, if you're like me, I hate "pushing" myself at people. It feels like that to me, anyway. That I'm saying, "Hey, you there! I'm talking to you, and I really do give a shit about what you're saying—and I do!— that you broke your leg and your dog just shat on your neighbour's lawn and your neighbour is banging on your window, irate as hell and gunning for you, but are you going to buy my book or what?" It's a horrible way to go about it, a horrible feeling, something that may well only be a thing I feel, but feel it I do. Also, who the buggering hell wants to listen to me warble on anyway? And NO, absolutely-bloody-no, I'm not saying that so people will say, "Oh, Em, we want to listen to you." NO! I'm saying it because God, I wouldn't want to listen to me if I wasn't me, so why the hell would anyone else?

All these feelings, these worries and insecurities, make Emmy Ellis crap at promotion. I've done it, am doing it, and in the past have seen NO CHANGE in sales. So, like I said, this last experiment, and then I'm done. Either people will read my books or they won't. I will NOT break my heart over whether they don't. Nope, just won't do it anymore. It hurts, and why the eff would I want to hurt myself intentionally?

Reviews: Oh, gone are the days when I shit myself over them, when the link makes my guts roll and I'm excited as hell to see what someone thought of my book. Now I ignore them if possible. The ONLY time I read them is if a friend sends me the link saying the review is good. The last time someone sent me a link to a bad one and said I ought to read it—it was a bad one, very, very bad—was because it was so bad they knew it could damage me/my brand. That person quite rightly knew I should know about it, and I went along to read all about how shit my book was, how it was incorrect in places—Research, do your research, Sarah Masters, for in my opinion you know fuck all!

You know what I thought? Aww, leave me the hell alone, there's a dear. I'm not here to step on anyone's toes, to overtake anyone's genre, I just. Want. To. WRITE.

My book was apparently porn. It was so bad that it should never have been published, if the reviewer was to be believed. And that book was so bad, so snark-worthy, that they bought the second book and trashed that too. I had, in my opinion, written a book that stepped on a few toes and it wasn't acceptable. At the time, I felt they were saying I'd written in a genre that I wasn't aware belonged solely to them, that they were implying I ought to step away from the keyboard, away from their genre, and hide my arse. They may well not have thought/meant that, and they had the absolute right to express how they felt about my books, but their reviews taught me something: Don't read reviews ever again if you can help it. What you don't see doesn't hurt you. Don't give someone else the power to upset you—if they didn't like your book, tough shit.

I'm not saying you shouldn't read your reviews. I'm just talking about me and mine. They just make me shudder when Google alert informs me I have one, and I close the email and forget about it.

Anyway, we've all heard it: Reviews are just one person's opinion.

Besides, it's our fault they have our books to review anyway. We wrote them, we chose this profession, so therefore we must expect, when something of ours is out there to be picked at, to receive some negative responses. It becomes clear when reviewers are out to purposely harm, clear when they haven't actually read your book properly (I had a review where the reader admitted to skimming then said things didn't make sense. Perhaps because she skimmed and missed the information she needed, hmm?) and you get to work out which ones are genuine in their constructive criticism—that's the key words right there!—as opposed to those who have fun reaming your arse in public because they woke up on the wrong side of the bed that day, your book didn't do anything for them, and rather than put it down when they first decided it was the biggest pile of shit they'd ever read, they continued, reading every painful word, putting themselves through misery—are they fucking NUTS?—in order to tell anyone who reads the review how much they HATED your tale.

Whatever. Floats. Their. Boat.

At one time, bad reviews hurt, made my cheeks get so hot they itched, made me want to cry, but now? Hell no. You don't like my book? Shame, that. Move on and buy someone else's, someone you DO like, because spending money on mine, wasting precious hours of your life—which, let's face it, is very short when you get all maudlin and think about such things—is just plain silly, isn't it? This author no longer gives a crap whether a reviewer spews vitriol about her work. It's a "shrug" kind of response these days. An "Ah, well, better luck with the next book you pick up. I'll still be writing whether you like me or not, because I want to, I love it, and it makes me happy. That my books don't give you the same warm, fuzzy feeling as they gave me is unfortunate, but shit, there are so many books out there you can get the warm fuzzies from, that fucking up by reading mine will soon fade in your memory."

So, if you get good reviews, I'm genuinely pleased for you. If you don't, just don't sweat the small stuff. It doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It's just one knockdown of many we'll all receive in this crazy career we've chosen. Expect it, know it's coming, and then you won't be disappointed.

So where am I now?

This year is art year. I did the manic writing thing, now I'm easing back. Still writing when I have time but it isn't my main focus. Graphic art is another of my loves, I've discovered, and fate showed me the way in December on this subject. As with writing, making money on cover art isn't something you can expect unless the publisher pays flat fees per cover. If the book you created the cover for sells, great, you make some money, but if it doesn't, well, you don't.
As with writing, I create covers because I love it. I haven't really been pissed off with not making much money. I've created numerous covers for free, numerous blog revamps for free, numerous icons, avatars, banners—you name it, I've done it, because it felt RUDE to charge.

How mad is that? To feel rude for charging for my time, effort, and yes, money I spend on some pictures I've used. I'm a seriously odd person like that, but I didn't want to charge authors for something I myself would have wanted but couldn't have due to not earning enough royalties to cover the charge. People want a nice blog, a nice cover, and the rates people charge—and I only realised this recently, had never looked into the prices on stuff like this before—is EXTORTIONATE! I would feel even ruder asking for that kind of cash.

So, I generally work for free. And please, much as I'd love to help you out prettifying your sites and whatnot, I can't now. I've had to stop doing free work for people, not because I can't ask for payment and it makes me feel uncomfortable when I'm offered payment, but because I just do not have the time. Close friends, that's different. People I've done sites for in the past, that's different. The small jobs I'm asked to do on those sites is related to what I did in the past and all comes under that umbrella. It's new projects I can't do—unless I offer them, and when I do it means I have a lull going on.

(A lull? What the fuck is THAT?)

Anyway, as I've been prattling on about sales in writing, I may as well touch a bit more on sales in cover art. I've mentioned the royalty version. Now we come to the flat fee version. Some e-publishers pay anything from $50-$300 a pop per cover. I knew about this but never approached any of them because I didn't feel they'd want me. Friends told me to apply, but I didn't. Now we come to where fate stepped in. I got a contract with a publisher for a short ménage, and I wrote to my editor asking if I was allowed to provide my own cover, which I sent to her. Some publishers let you, some don't. Anyway, the length of my book meant I would get a generic cover, but the publisher wrote and chatted with me about my artwork and asked if I would like to work for her. She mentioned flat fees, and because my experience with that company had been brilliant on the writing side of things, I agreed to do cover art there.

This has drastically changed our life. Without going into my private details, flat fees make one hell of a difference. On some books I might lose out—the royalties, had I been paid this way, will well outshine the flat fee, but on other books I will have come out on top. This suits me fine. I love working with this publisher, get along well with the owner, and I'm happy to say that at last things seem to be going right for us.

WIPs

I have a few WIPs sitting in files. There are three I really want to finish because they've been promised to publishers, but there is no great desire in me to write like a fiend anymore. Perhaps it's because I have the art thing going on, or perhaps I've got a block somewhere because writing and having very few read your work is a tad disheartening and kinda makes me not want to bother any longer. Oh, I'll still write, but the raging fire for it has gone. Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. I am happy, can say I'm happier than I've been in a very long time, and to me that's more important than anything. If I'm happy, Hubby and my kids are happy.

Have I grown up?

So I wonder, have I finally grown up? Have I seen the light on what life is really all about? That what truly matters is happiness? I have no idea, I really don't, but right now I feel I'm in the place I was meant to be all along and that everything I went through before this was for a reason. I needed to understand the publishing world, to be on the groups, to try and promo, to learn the craft, to work my arse off. It all gave me the perspective I have now, led me to where I am now. Just because my dream with writing hasn't come true, it doesn't mean my art one won't. The art avenue has already fulfilled everything I could have hoped for, and I bless the day my short ménage was rejected elsewhere and I chose to sub to where it landed up. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be where I am. Fate. I believe in it.

So it wasn't all a waste of time.

No, it wasn't. Like I said, I needed to do what I've done. It's given me experience of life, of people, and I've made some damn good friends. I look back at my achievements and realise that even though stardom and riches didn't come from penning my books, the fact that I have many published is a dream fulfilled in itself. Some people dream of just having one out there, so I'll stop griping and be pleased with doing what I have.

The girl who thought she'd never amount to anything did good.

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All her life, tomboy Bradi Kincaid has wanted two things—a career as a veterinarian in her hometown Grayson, Texas…and Mason Montgomery. Problem is, he's her best friend and according to him she's "one of the guys". Convinced he'll never see her otherwise, Bradi comes up with a sure-fire plan to get over Mason—flirt a little, dance a lot and get laid.


What Mason imagines doing to Bradi is just all kinds of wrong. But the woman on the dance floor isn't the girl he grew up with. She's hot and sexy and turning him on. Him and every other man in the bar. She's also had too much to drink and is unaware of the trouble she's inviting. He does what any friend would, he steps in, then sets out to teach her a lesson.

But before the sun rises, Mason discovers Bradi has a thing or two to teach him.

This story contains spanking, biting and some "tie me up", bucking-hard sex.



An Excerpt From: BUCKING HARD

Copyright © DARAH LACE, 2011

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.


Mason crested the hill overlooking the creek and reined in Rocky, his favored mount for riding the range. He'd heard the bawling calf a quarter mile away and figured he'd find it stuck in the mud. He hadn't expected to find Bradi Kincaid. In fact if he'd known she'd already ridden to the rescue, he would have headed the other way.

But here she was not ten feet away, ass in the air, up to her knees in green slime and mud, her arms around the struggling calf's neck, and she still managed to light a fire in his gut. And dammit, that was just all wrong.

They were best friends, for Christ's sake. Practically raised in the cradle together. They'd fished and hunted side by side, ridden drag to bring up the tail end of cattle drives. And they'd gotten into more trouble than a switch could whip out of them. She was his best bud, one of the guys.

So why did his dick suddenly become a divining rod every time she was near?

She wasn't unattractive. But Bradi was nothing like the women he preferred. She wasn't sleek or polished or sophisticated. Her fingernails were cut close to keep the dirt out instead of long and meticulously painted to match her outfit. Her dirty blonde hair was either in a ponytail or a braid, and as far as he knew, had never been streaked, colored or cut to the latest fashion. And she might carry ChapStick in her front right pocket to ward off the blistering Texas sun, but that was the extent of her makeup.

Bradi was Bradi—natural, earthy and blessed with athletic grace that made ranch work look easy—and more often than not these days left him wondering what that lithe and flexible body would be like in bed.

"You gonna sit there all day, or are you gonna help me?"

Leaning forward to rest his forearm on the saddle horn and hopefully hide his growing erection, he tilted his head to one side and smirked at the picture she made. "I don't know. You look like you're doing just fine on your own."

She blew wispy bangs out of her green eyes and gave him a withering glare over her shoulder. "Throw me a rope."

"Where's yours?" He looked around for her horse but the only other animal in sight was a cow waiting for Bradi to rescue her calf. "Wait, don't tell me. You were riding Dahlia."

That damn horse had a habit of leaving Bradi high and—his gaze wandered over her again—not so dry. Covered in muck, the front of her faded yellow T-shirt was wet and clung to her breasts. Breasts he'd known she possessed but never really noticed until two weeks ago. His gaze locked on the words peeling across the chest. Not that he cared what they said with her nipples prodding so diligently through her bra.

Mentally castrating himself, Mason sat up and reached for the coiled rope attached to his saddle. "When are you going to take that piece-of-shit horse to the glue factory?"

"Just shut up and throw me your rope."

Ignoring her demand, Mason swung the lasso and sent it sailing over the calf's head. He pulled the rope taut, wrapped it around the saddle horn, and directed his horse to back up. The little bull cried louder as the mud slowly relinquished its hold. As soon as the calf's legs found firm ground, he dug in, resisting the pull of the rope.

Bradi laughed and reached for the calf just as it wrenched to one side and kicked. Twisting, she dodged a hind leg, but her feet were still stuck in the mud and she went to her knees. Another kick and brown sludge splattered her chest and neck. "Shit."

Mason chuckled. "Yep, I imagine so."

Shooting him another scathing glare, she struggled to stand. "You're an ass." Able to finally extract one leg and then the other, she trudged out of the creek toward the calf. "Give me some slack."

He signaled his horse forward and Bradi deftly slipped the rope from the calf's neck. The bull bolted for its mama and together they ambled up and over the high bank then disappeared. Looking back at Bradi, Mason wished he hadn't.

She'd moved up the creek and knelt in a spot of grass to wash the mud from her hands. Tight faded denim hugged her heart-shaped ass and his hands itched to palm those mounds. She stretched to wet a bandana, causing the waistband of her jeans to dip lower, and a strip of hot-pink lace played peek-a-boo between it and her shirt.

His jeans tightened as his cock strained against his fly. He'd never thought about what kind of underwear Bradi wore—she was naked in his recent fantasies—but if he had consciously thought about it, he wouldn't have figured her for the lace panty type. Last time he'd seen her in her panties, she'd worn white cotton with a Barbie logo. They'd been six and he'd wanted to brag about his Ninja Turtle briefs.

As she rose, he looked away to gather the rope. He stowed it behind him and turned to find her standing beside his horse with her hand out. Fuck. She wanted a ride. And god, he wanted to give her one.

"Well?" She thrust her hand higher. "Give me a hand up."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He hadn't thought this far ahead when he'd decided to stick around and help, and his brain certainly wasn't working now. All he knew was he couldn't have her sitting behind him, her tits rubbing his back, legs spread… Fuck. "You're covered with mud."

"Um, yeah. I kinda noticed that." She stared up at him with expectant green eyes. Why hadn't he ever noticed the flecks of gold or the ring of black that reminded him of the sun coming through shadowed forest trees? At his lack of response, her hand fell to her side. "You're going to make me walk?"

"I don't want that shit all over me." Damn, he felt like an ass. He was an ass. He couldn't let her walk. He'd just have to survive the ride home…and make sure it was a short one.

Before he could offer his hand or an apology, her eyes flashed with anger. And maybe a bit of hurt? "God, Mason, when did you turn into such a pussy?"

She spun around and the metallic whir of a zipper crawled up his thighs and into his balls. Lust rose high but panic shifted into overdrive. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Taking off my clothes so you won't get dirty."

Oh, hell no! There was no way— Shit. She hooked her thumbs into the waist of her jeans, starting the downward motion that revealed a hint of one cheek.

"Just get on the damn horse." He pulled his foot from the stirrup and stuck out his hand. "But I can't take you home." His place was closer. "I have things to do."

A long second passed, then the zipper made a return trip up. His dick jerked in disappointment as she latched on to his hand, shoved her boot into the stirrup and swung herself onto the horse behind him, mimicking his irritated tone. "Things to do."

The warmth of her body seared his back as she settled into place. His gaze dropped to one side, taking in the slender thigh nestled close to his. The thought of those long legs wrapped around his waist made his balls ache. If she had any idea what she was doing to him, she'd be glad to walk home. Hell, she'd probably run.

But Bradi wasn't wired that way. He doubted she ever thought about sex. She'd never dated in high school and she never talked about anyone in particular at A&M. The only conversation they'd had about sex was short-lived when he confided his loss of virginity to Katrina Forbes and Bradi made it clear right away the subject of sex was off-limits.

The odds of her still being a virgin at twenty-five were slim, but somehow he couldn't imagine her having sex with anyone.

Anyone but him.

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Hiya! I've been very busy this month of January, and gladly so. What have I been up to? Cover art, an art design job, a bit of writing, and creating a newsletter. Today I'll be diving into my Victorian, trying to get at least a chapter down in between catching up on my housework. Oh, I've tidied every day, but I haven't done the big clean. You know the one, where the cobwebs are removed, complete with grotty little spiders, and the dust bunnies are chased out from under the bed. And you think I'm joking? Sadly, I'm not. While in bed the other night, I looked at the ceiling and saw an array of–okay, a SWATHE–of cobwebs dangling from every corner. They weren't there last week, I swear it, or if they were they had disguised themselves ACROSS the ceiling, but having got too weighty, I suspect, they've fallen down in long, wool-like strands.

Appalling. I am a dirty bitch. I need to clean.

So, here are a few of the covers I've created this month, and once I've posted them, I'm off to attack the grey wool in my bedroom. I figured that by me shaming myself mentioning them here, I will deffo go and get rid of them.

If you fancy some eye candy this bright and sunny Monday morning, nip on over to Lily Harlem's blog. She's got one of my fave guys on show in all his glory. Well, not all of it, but enough to get the imagination going. LOL! http://www.lilyharlem.blogspot.com/

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Thanks so much for having me at your blog today, Natalie, it is always great to hang out here. For those of you who don't know me I'm an author of contemporary erotic romance writing for Ellora's Cave, Total-e-Bound and Xcite as well as featuring in numerous UK and US anthologies. I got my big break into writing by entering an erotic fiction contest with the first steamy story I'd ever written titled Madam President. Much to my delight I won first place which gave me the confidence and the enthusiasm to continue with my naughty stories. So, with that in mind, I just want to tell any aspiring writers about the Love Honey/Filament Magazine's latest competition, but you'll have to be quick – closing is Monday 31st Jan. Hey, you probably weren't doing anything over the weekend anyway!

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As Robbie Harding belts out hit song Jenny to a packed Wembley Stadium, my heart tears, my mind fudges and my insides heat to a lusty, pulsing boiling point.


Why me more than the other 90,000 screaming fans?

Because I'm Jenny—he's singing about me.

The guy is sex on legs with a voice to match and has starred in all my hot dreams since the day boys became interesting. For three precious years, it was more than hot dreams. Turns out he wants me back in his life and his bed. How can I resist?

So with lots of naked, sweaty and downright dirty time to make up for, I wield my backstage pass, hunt him down and refuse to be starstruck by the boy next door. Seems Robbie agrees, as he insists on tuning in to my needs and rediscovering our rhythm before we even reach a bedroom.

BUY NOW!

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What kind of couple do you prefer reading about? Do you want them both to be strong, to possibly clash a little with their ideas—which makes for some good sexual tension—or do you like the male strong and the woman less so?


When Tess MacKall and I began writing Black Cougar Curse, we knew Sam, our hero, had to be strong. Of course he did. After all, he'd been cursed and had carried the burden of that curse for too many years to count. He'd endured more years on this earth than anyone, roaming the mountains, waiting for his one true love to come along and break the curse. He longed for love, to be released, yet I have to wonder…wouldn't that be scary? You've lived for a long time, mainly alone, and the prospect of your life changing drastically upon the appearance of your soul mate must be a daunting thing.

Sam copes with it beautifully, embracing the changes Lucia brings. He's an adorable man who helps Lucia with her grief and also in telling her something about herself—something of which she had no clue before she arrived at his mountains.

So then we come to Lucia. Did we want a woman equally as strong as Sam, or did we want her to defer to him for the most part? No, we wanted a strong woman, someone to match Sam in every way—the perfect combination that was right for those characters.

I suppose each book demands different personalities. What works in one book with one h/h may not work in another when you take into account their lives, what they're doing, and where they are headed. Toss in their personalities, and you're left with deciding which one should be the stronger character, or whether they should be of equal strength.

That's the beauty of writing, though, isn't it? You get to choose, and sometimes your characters choose for you. For me, that's always the best way. When characters appear already formed, their personalities and idiosyncrasies built in before I've even typed the first word…ah, the exquisite life of a writer!

Blurb: Deep in the mountain wilderness, Lucia Chavez searches for closure to her father's death, and the mythical black cougar he sought. Drop-dead sexy Cherokee Indian guide Sam Starr knows more than he's telling. After he saves Lucia from being swept away in a mudslide, the bath they both need turns steamy indeed. Sam and Lucia are living proof that near-death experiences can bring two people closer together—they can't keep their hands off each other.

Amidst danger and mystery, Sam and Lucia explore the lust that burns between them. If their desire gets any stronger it could bring down the mountains. Ancient secrets hold the key to their unbridled sexual need. Was their passion written in the stars?

One man. One woman. A curse that binds them—and could tear them apart.

Get your sexy on and read an excerpt here:

http://www.jasminejade.com/productspe...

Subscribe to Risqué! the hottest newsletter around featuring once-a-month news from erotic romance authors Natalie Dae, Regina Carlysle, and Tess MacKall. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/risquen...

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In what's become her favorite class, Jaycee Hanson sits behind Tyler Johnson, ROTC captain and star of most of her erotic fantasies. She doesn't think he'd ever be interested in her, because in all the time she's been watching him, she's never seen him in the company of a white woman. She resigns herself to her thrice-weekly fantasy session during Psych 301.


But when an accidental touch near the end of class turns into an impromptu foot rub, Jaycee is more than willing to follow Tyler wherever he might lead. She doesn't expect the stairwell.

Tyler isn't sure what to make of the woman in his arms. She's smart as well as beautiful. If he'd had any idea before today that she was interested in him, he would have made a move, but each time he looked her way in the past, she avoided his gaze.

Objections to their relationship come from an unexpected source, causing Jaycee to second-guess herself. She and Tyler have more than sexual chemistry, but will it be enough?