Thursday, November 26, 2009

A nibble of something ELSE for you today

Because everyone needs a change from that turkey today, I am giving you an exquisite (and exclusive) serving of my new cherry, AT HER SERVICE, out MONDAY at
NOT only is this romantica, but it is a romatic suspense set in 1208 England!
Feast on this, my lovelies!

She licked her lips. He’d teach her how to use them on him.
She spread her arms out. He’d show her how to welcome him into more than one embrace.
On cat’s feet, he padded across her little carpet and kneeled on the bed. It rolled beneath his weight. Yet, she lay there still and waiting for his lead. His cock stirred. He had never been so painfully hard and he had to sink himself inside her soon again or die of her lack. With a flick of his wrist, he peeled the fur away. The pale ivory of her skin had him pausing, fighting down a compliment to the beauty before him. He did it mutely, quickly, running his palm over her shoulder, her shapely arm, her long fingers, the indentation of her waist and the swell of her hip to the curve of her calf and the delicacy of her toes. Ah. He would begin with those.
He shifted to the foot of the bed—and with his move, he detected she gave a sigh of relief. But he had finer plans in store.
With one giant hand to her left foot, he wrapped his hand around her arch and bent to suck her little toe. She jerked in surprise, but he was ready for her and held her to the ticking. She froze. He smiled no smile and set his tongue along the ridge of her other toes. In objection or delight or mayhaps both, she rolled to her back. The glory of the Countess Atherton was spread before him once more—and this time, he had the patience and the presence of mind to absorb the sight of her perfection. Fingering her big toe on one foot, he grasped the other ankle and held her to the bed. For conquest’s sake, for his own delight, he forced her feet apart to view at his leisure now that most vital place that was solely his to lick and suck, to savour and to fuck.
Her cheeks grew pink. She grunted and tried to loose her feet from him, but years of training in the lists and scores of battles in the East, had built strength his delicate Elise could never match. Still, she tried to kick him off. To no avail. She sat up to pummel him. He yanked her ankles with such force, she fell back on the mattress with a yelp, the bedclothes and her glorious big breasts bouncing in the effort.
He slid his hands up her calves. The skin so soft he almost wept. Her knees so rounded, he kissed their flawlessness. Her thighs, so plump but firmly muscled, he squeezed the indentations in admiration for the way she must have held her horse as she rode the beast. The way she would now ride the beast in him.
His hands reached her bushy mons. The wealth of hair that covered her mount of Venus when he’d glimpsed her in the pond years ago as they’d swum together had blossomed in these ten years like a forest. Her cuny hair was a whiter hue than the gilding of the hair on her head. But this—he splayed one set of fingers into her froth of curls—this was his to tease and please, to part and claim. He fingered her labia apart. She moaned, but did not thrash, her duty to let him have her converging with her aged and her newest desire for him. Her glistening cuny lips were drenched in rosy colour that made him narrow his eyes. The smell of her—the meld of her liquid spice and her delicate soap—flared his nostrils. And he bent to spread her fruit and feast on the meal spread before him. He had always enjoyed eating a woman, but Elise was his one true love. The brew she created intoxicated him better than the finest wine and he could feast on her forever and never grow tired of her sugary fare.
In one long swath, his tongue laved her from her cream-covered core to her tiny pearl of love. His fingers holding her open for him, he kissed her jewel and with the tip of his tongue, he circled her and gave her tiny little licks of love that drove her to a mute keen. She arched in delight, but he ran one hand up to her stomach to gentle her.
“I give you more than any man, Elise,” he soothed and caressed her skin down to her groin, then plunged a finger inside her liquid walls. “I always have.” He pulled her heavy lips open with one hand while he stroked inside her with the other. But he could tell one finger was not enough to abrade her and so he shot another inside her. And in approval, she growled deep in her throat. He returned to her rosy hard button to kiss it, lick it and press loud little sucks against it and make her whimper with delight.
He grinned as she ground out, “Have me, Simon. End this torture.”
But for the desolate years that he had dreamed of this, her plea coupled with these two brief fuckings was small recompense. Torture, she called it, torture, she deigned it. She had not one inkling of the meaning. He would show her. He would make her acknowledge him. He’d make her talk to him sweetly. He’d make her linger with him for hours. Before he lifted a finger from her fabulous form, he’d make her sing in mad delight and beg to keep him inside her cunt forever.
So he ran his hands up to her ass cheeks, nuzzled her curly little mound once more, licked her navel and with one swift move, lifted her and flipped her over in the bed. The air left her lungs as she fell face down. She moaned in protest, but he hovered over her, giving her no time to rise, as he scooped her up under her waist, pressed her buttocks to his groin and reached down to invade her cuny once more with determined and demanding fingers.
“You think you know torture? This is it, Elise.” He swirled his fingers over her tight, dew-soaked nub and swept down into her cunt to gather more of her love liquid and bathe her lips and cuny hair with it. “This is what torture is, my countess. To want a fuck. To need a cock. To need one special one, but to have none. To be caressed.” He demonstrated with deft fingerings. “To be rolled and petted into a frenzy and to yearn for the only hand that can give it you. But find no relief.” He pulled his hand away.
“No! Simon!” She panted, trying to grab his retreating hand.
He eluded her.
Instead, he forced her hips back against him while he inserted his cock between her ass cheeks and shifted to get himself up higher near her flowing cunt. Then, as he had her where he wished, he stroked her slit with his long aching member.
But he groaned. The need to have her hot little quim surround him and squeeze him dry made him shudder. The night was long, was it not? And he was just beginning.
But to fuck her face-to-face again when her mind was still so far from him roiled him. And he growled in his own frustration and ran a hand up her back to press her down. He bent and licked the perfect plump ass cheek that rose to greet him, then claimed the other with a wet lashing of his tongue. She gave a small cry and tried to turn. But he wrapped a hand around one thigh, hoisted her higher and with one open palm tapped her slit. The yelp she made died into a cry of delight. Smiling at her joy in his wicked ways of love, he promised himself to spank her harder and longer another time. For now, he sent two fingers inside her cunt to draw forth a thick coating of her white cream. She moaned, thinking probably that he would caress her more there. Instead, he withdrew and drove one finger inside her tiny nether hole. And she froze.
“There is more to a fuck than you’ve learned, my lady.”
(Copyright 2009 Cerise DeLand)

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Musings on turkeys, pirates and what I've learned from my broken wing!

As I relearn how to type with my broken left arm, I will regale you with a few new ideas that have come to me.
NOTE: Some are light, others not. All center on what I will be grateful for next Thursday...but am really thankful for every day.
1. Having only one good arm and hand has given rise to thoughts of those who are physically disabled.
Living close to the US Army's major burn center and rehab unit for amputees here in south Texas, I see out and about many men and women who have given their limbs and risked their lives for us. I often thought the men and women who fought in Vietnam to have been extremely brave--and I saw many of them when my spouse was in the Army and we were stationed in the Orient.
But this new wave of young soldiers seer my heart and mind.
My own disability these past 4 weeks has given me a fresh look at the moment-to-moment choices they must make. How to put that shirt on. How to floss my teeth. (NOT easy!) How to get in and out of the shower, off balance as I am. How to style my hair. Oh,boy, as my buddy Janet Evanovich would say in a Plum novel. I CANNOT lift that hair dryer which I recently bought that weighs, ye, gods, 8 pounds and now feels like 50!
I have even more compassion for these veterans of war and loss and daily challenges. (When we were in the ARmy and abroad, I often had nightmares of being left alone on a battlefield when no one could hear me or come for me, wounded as I was.)
I have even more desire for peaceful solutions to world problems.
We have enough hardships in our day-to-day lives.
2. Turkey. Ah. The bird I hate to wrestle with. But do. Have done.
And now, next Thursday? I am grateful that I...
Yep, MY broken wing means no bird shall sashay into my kitchen!
What will we eat???
Cerise will tell you, my lovely readers who have hungered (I KNOW, I know) for more AFTERNOON DELIGHTS, lo, these past few weeks of my disability.
We will have (with 3 cooks doing the work): (in order of appearance)
Coffee with home made scones. Blueberry. Served with French Quince marmalade and butter.
Then we will meander along, making omelets of cheddar and salmon, green onions and fresh parsley from our herb garden. THIS is accompanied by a tall, tall pitcher of Bloody Marys. I may have one too. My first alcohol in weeks, since I am still on happy pills for the pain.
What next?
Later in the day. Three perhaps. We'll sit down to a crown roast of pork, stuffed with fresh stuffing of thyme and rosemary (from our garden, too!) with porcini mushrooms. Mashed garlic potatoes and a wonderful saute of asparagus with almonds and parmesan.
To go with?
A pinot noir! Hubby loves them from Oregon.
3. My last thought is short and not so sweet. But I did want to register my growing anger at the number of pirates out there of our work. WHO DO THESE PEOPLE THINK THEY ARE?
This is rape. Theft. Criminal activity.
I am appaulled that we authors and artists of other mediums can work so hard only to have idiots splash our works everywhere and take the money.
OFF with their heads!
Down with pirates!
Ciao, bella.
Write to tell us what are you grateful for!!!!

Monday, November 16, 2009

Welcome guest author, V J Devereaux with NIGHT MOVES

Welcome V J Deveraux and her new release, NIGHT MOVES, with this muy caliente cover!
Go over to to purchase this one NOW!
Here is a nibble:
Unlike her last internet date, at least this was a high-class bar. It was dark, as all bars were, but there wasn’t any plastic. The accents were brass, not chrome, and the bar was real wood—soft, warm wood. That was promising. Even better, they had a piano player softly singing old standards as background music, not Muzak or vapid fake jazz.
Raphaela—Rafi to her friends—walked into the room confidently, negligently tossing her chestnut hair over her shoulder, hoping to hide any indication of uncertainty.
She wasn’t intimidated by the luxurious surroundings, or even the circumstances. Not really. Though some considered her job blue collar, that didn’t mean she couldn’t handle herself in these circumstances. She was pretty certain she could handle most situations, certainly in a place like this.
Nor was she uncomfortable with men’s eyes on her. She had gotten used to that about the time she had grown breasts. While she had been something of an early bloomer, she had bloomed very…healthily…as someone had put it. She didn’t have a problem with it. She liked sex a lot more than most, it seemed. But sometimes men forgot that there was a woman attached to the body, a person.
What was worse though was that it sometimes seemed as if one man weren’t enough to satisfy her. She was affectionate by nature and that had become a liability, rather than a bonus. Her love life hadn’t been stellar lately and her choices were a bit limited. Her hours were unpredictable and her job not very glamorous.
Internet dating had helped to narrow down the options, except when people lied. They lied a lot. They posted ten-year-old pictures, took off coke-bottle glasses. How could you start any kind of relationship well when you started it with a lie, a lie that indicated that you didn’t like yourself that much? A few extra pounds did not mean looking as if you were trying to smuggle a basketball under your shirt.
Frankly, she was getting a bit tired of it all but she was lonely and there were days when it would be nice to have someone to come home to. And to play with. She was normal, more or less, and healthy, with a slightly overactive sex drive. She smiled a little at the thought.
Still, what was a girl to do? She wouldn’t meet anyone remotely interesting any other way.
There was the usual assortment of businessmen of various heights and sizes sitting around the bar, one or two who looked intriguing and were probably married. She wouldn’t mind making a little conversation though, if this didn’t work out. Intelligent conversation.
One of her favorite songs was playing as she made her way to the bar, sat and ordered a drink.
Michael watched her walk into the bar, pleased to find that there were no surprises there. She was exactly as advertised, if anything, the picture hadn’t quite done her justice. The camera couldn’t capture that slight air of wry amusement. While she wasn’t classically beautiful, she was lovely, her eyes very pretty, bright and curious. Those pretty eyes were blue, a little stormy, her mouth finely shaped and firm.
She moved in rhythm to the music, her hips swaying, a small smile playing on her lips as she walked to the bar. He liked that too.
Her body?
He sighed in pure pleasure. That was very nice, just shy of hourglass, her breasts high and firm, hips rounded but tight, proportional. The dress was marvelous—fluid silk in a color to match those incredible eyes. It shifted over her body as she walked, the neckline revealing enough of her breasts to entice. Her legs were phenomenal, shapely and well muscled, with a dancer’s taut calves.
According to her online profile, she had eclectic tastes—everything from music to literature. That was important. He liked well-rounded women. He had to be able to talk to them. She liked almost everything he liked—most music but not the kinds he loathed, had read everything from the classics to fantasy and admitted to liking romance novels rather than acting as if she were ashamed of reading them. She seemed fairly open-minded as well as honest. That was also important.
Overall, he liked what he saw. Now, if only he liked what was inside the skin. He watched as she leaned an elbow on the bar to wait.
Michael walked toward the bar as she turned to see him coming.
Now, Rafi thought, that is very nice.
He was tall, a little shy of six feet or thereabouts, with a thick head of wavy black hair that fell nearly to his shoulders. A little long by today’s standards but at least he hadn’t buzzed it all off as so many men did these days. She didn’t want to run her fingers through something that felt like a horsehair sofa or a plush doll, she wanted to run her fingers through hair…and that was hair to run your fingers through.
Then there were his eyes, a brighter blue than her own, beautiful. His mouth was a little full, sensual. His features were aristocratic, his nose slightly aquiline. But that mouth…had she mentioned that she really liked his mouth?
He was undeniably handsome. Then there was his body. She took a breath. He moved loosely, easily, gracefully. That was very promising. Men who moved that well vertically tended to move that well horizontally too. There was a hint of muscle beneath the dress shirt, the suit fitting him beautifully, obviously tailored. She couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like naked. What was hiding underneath that marvelously fitted shirt? She wouldn’t mind running her hands over that crisp material to feel if those muscles were real.
Sex just seemed to pour off him, from the light in his eyes to the way he stood, the way he moved.
A rush of heat went through her. Maybe she’d get the chance to find out. There was a strong resemblance to the picture on the internet. She’d hit the jackpot. He was walking straight toward her.
It seemed that he was her date.
(Copyright 2009, V J Douglas)

Friday, November 13, 2009

A nibble of my new cherry, AT HER SERVICE

AT HER SERVICE is my first erotica in medieval period of 1207, England. Historicals offer an author such a range of issues that aren’t available to a writer in contemporary settings. So I am thrilled to introduce in this book, Simon de la Poer, Knight to King Richard of England and now to his younger irascible brother, King John.
A man renowned for his skill fighting the infidel in the Holy Land with Richard, Simon has also served as a mercenary to the Knights Templar and the Knights of St. John.
Now he is home in England and sent by his sovereign to save a lovely young countess from her childless predicament.
Countess of Atherton, Elise Dumond is married to an old and dying man. The earl cannot give her a child and therefore, cannot save the extensive lands of Atherton from ravenous neighbors. King John approves a risqué plan by the old feeble Earl of Atherton to hire Simon to sire a child with Elise.
Torn by her vows to a man who has not been a sweet or loving husband, Elise fears she will lose not only her soul but also her heart to the man she once knew as a boy and the one she loved above all others.
Needy as both Elise and Simon are to culminate years of longing for each other, they must also contend with those in the castle who would tear them apart with lies…and murder.
Here is a taste of AT HER SERVICE!
Winter, 1207. Cumbria, The Marches, England.
The smoke from the tapers made her guests’ eyes water, and though she brushed a finger under her lashes to rid herself of one tear, Elise Dumond could still see Simon de la Poer at the back of the great hall. God preserve her, she would see him if her eyes were closed. If she were blind. Indeed, if she were dead, she would see him in hell. And, oh, would it not be sweet succour to die and know she would remain in his company forever and end this torture of being parted from him for all these endless years?
She fiddled with the stem of her goblet and drank back more red wine. Then drank again, unnerved by the sight of the man who had taken her in his arms as a youth and put his firm, hot lips to her own with sweet promises of a lifetime of love.
Who had he delighted like that these past twelve years?
Ha! She took another draught.
Who had he not ravished in his bed? In Londontown, the fabled knight Simon de la Poer was reputed to have bedded any woman of noble birth desirous of spreading her legs for him and paying him her weight in gold to compensate him for his services. Elise caught back a sob of jealousy for all those women he’d touched, for all those he had kissed and to whom he’d whispered pretty words of devotion as once he had to her.
She put forth her cup for the maid to refill. The girl scurried over, understanding her mistress was in the mood to drink. Drink myself to distraction. Drink myself to oblivion. Unbidden, her eyes drifted towards the back of the hall, past the tiny man and the tall, dark Oriental who were Simon’s odd companions. Her gaze locked on the man she wished she did not see.
Christ in His Glory, this man was unmistakably the warrior they called Knight Divine. Simon de la Poer, who had earned his moniker attacking the Infidel in Jerusalem with his lord King Richard of England, possessed all the imposing aspects of a man with whom any woman would desire a night in heaven. He had matured to a massive build. Tall as the sconces, broad in the chest as two men, muscular in his black velvet tunic, his grey hose hugging his bulging calves, he seemed Herculean.
She wished she could tear herself away from eating him up with her eyes. Wished she could ignore his quicksilver stare that met her own. Wished she could refuse her husband’s order to offer up her immortal soul to keep what was hers here on earth. Yet she had no choice but to obey her husband and strip herself bare then lie down with her noble lord in their marriage bed tonight—and invite Simon de la Poer to join them.
(copyright 2009, Cerise DeLand)
Available at November 30!

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Welcome guest, author Teri Thackston!

Howdy, Cerise, and thanks soooo much for inviting me to guest post on your blog. This Texas girl is recently home from an exciting trip to the northeast part of our wonderful country. Pennsylvania and Ohio are gorgeous at this time of year—all the colors and that nip in the air and those winding, hilly roads.

I visited one of my sisters and her husband for a bit in PA, and then she and I hit the road for Richfield, OH to take part in the very first Romanticon. This reader/writer conference was hosted by Jasmine-Jade Enterprises, the mother company for Cerridwen Press and Ellora’s Cave Publishing. Workshops and focus groups, food, friends, and books—and of course the “Cavemen” cover models— were available in abundance. We even danced the night away at a psychedelic sixtie’s party—in bellbottom pants, love beads and miniskirts! This was a truly first-class event that I’m already putting on next year’s calendar.

One particular cause for celebration for me was the news that western romances are still popular among readers. That’s great since my newest book from Cerridwen Press is a western romance. THE SALVATION OF CAPTAIN BEN CHANDLER is the follow-up to my first western romance THE ABDUCTION OF MISS JENNY CHANDLER but it can be read as a stand-alone book. Here’s a quick summary:

“Heading home to Texas after the Civil War, Confederate Captain Ben Chandler catches Clarity Breckenridge stealing the stallion he bought in Kentucky. Clarity says she owns the horse but Ben heard that Clarity is dead. When a killer tries to permanently keep her from proving her identity, Ben whisks her—and her horse—to Texas.

“Ben’s family is dead, his lover is gone and he suffered so many near misses during the war that he just wants to hide back home. When Clarity’s presence threatens to bring him painfully back to life, he resists his growing attraction to her.

“Meanwhile Clarity’s vow to return home and prove her identity is strained by her growing attraction to Ben. But a horrific event in her past makes her afraid she could never fully offer her heart. They have to flee a killer—and their own pasts—to find love and new lives together.”

And here’s a short excerpt:

Clarity didn’t know if she wanted to cry or kick Ben Chandler in his backside. The latter action would certainly ease some of her tension.
As he turned his back on her and went back to covering the dead men with dirt, she looked at his rear and considered it. It made a fine target and it wouldn’t take much for her to lift her foot and swing it.
He leaned down to scoop up another shovelful of dirt and his britches stretched tight over his backside. The heat that burned her face when he’d threatened to gag her had been a simple warm ray of sunlight compared to the inferno that shot through her now. She’d never known a man’s backside to be such a compelling sight. Why, the way he stood, she could see the outline of almost every muscle and—
Whipping around, she clutched her injured wrist against her stomach and strode away from the gravesite. “Wicked thoughts, Clarity,” she muttered. “Wicked, wicked thoughts.”
Reaching the spot where the Rebel had piled the belongings of the dead men, she knelt to study them. Her tailbone protested as she did so and she found herself longing for a warm bath in which to soak her aches away. But she probably wouldn’t see a warm bath for a long time yet.
Reaching out with her uninjured hand, she picked up one of the wallets and opened it. To her surprise it was filled with crisp Union currency in large denominations. She counted it quickly.
“Oh my.” She turned toward Ben Chandler. “One of those men was carrying more than a thousand dollars.”
He dropped a last shovelful of dirt over the grave and then turned in her direction. “Did he carry any identification?”
She looked back inside the wallet and found several sheets of paper. Drawing them out, she unfolded them. “These look like letters. Addressed to ‘Brother Samuel’.” She turned over the first letter. “This one is signed ‘Seth’.”
“Is there an envelope?” Carrying the shovel, Ben started toward her. She noticed that he was limping again.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
He walked past her to his horse and opened one of his saddlebags. “Is there an envelope?” he repeated, his voice tight.
She looked inside the wallet again and found an envelope. Drawing it out, she looked at it. “Yes. And it’s addressed to Samuel Lott with the Seventeenth Kentucky Regiment Infantry. One of those men must be Samuel Lott.”
“Good. Now we know who to return the money to.”
Something seemed to fill her throat for it became a little difficult to breathe. She watched Ben as he limped toward her with a battered cotton haversack hanging from one hand.
“You’re going to return these things to their families?” she asked, eyeing the empty sack.
“What else would I do with them?” He held out the sack. “Put everything in there.”
Clarity smiled as she took the sack and put the wallet and the letters inside it. “You see, Mr. Chandler? I was right about you. Only a good man would do something like that. You could easily have put this money in your own pocket and just ridden away.”
Ben released what sounded like a breath of frustration. “Hurry up.”
She scooped up another wallet, some loose currency and a couple of pocket watches and pushed them into the sack. She started to hand the bundle to him but then drew it back against her chest.
Ben cocked his head to one side. A rather unpleasant smile curled one side of his mouth. “Only a good man would return those things to their families, Miss Breckenridge. You said it yourself.”
She got stiffly to her feet, still clutching the sack to her chest. Ben Chandler had saved her life but, honestly, she didn’t know that he was the good man she suspected him of being. Maybe he’d agreed to bury them just so he could get his hands on their valuables. She didn’t want to believe that of him but how could she be sure?
“But a thief would take those things and that money and run with them.” Ben advanced toward her as she backed away. “Some men might figure they’d earned that money by saving a young woman’s life.”
She stopped backing up and he stopped advancing. For several moments they stood in the road, surrounded by horses, watching each other. Shame brushed through her as she debated whether or not she could trust her rescuer with the possessions of the dead men.
Finally, he stopped smiling, turned and walked to his horse. Mounting, he walked the mare close to Sir Robin, reached down and picked up the end of the rope that hung from the stallion’s neck. He turned to look back at Clarity and then, tipping a finger to the brim of his hat, he rode away.
Stunned, Clarity watched him trot down the road with her stallion trailing behind. Determination gripped her and she walked to the dappled mare. Looping the drawstring of the haversack over the pommel, she mounted with one-handed difficulty and then set out after the man who she wasn’t quite sure she could trust.

Thanks again, Cerise, for inviting me to your blog. Happy autumn, everyone!

Book Length: Plus Novel
Book Type: Ebook
Publisher: Cerridwen Press
ISBN: 9781419921544

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


Dear friends,
Yep. I flew too high to the sun 2 wks ago Wednesday--and broke my left arm & sprained my left ankle!!
Because one is never enough!
And 2 seems so much more exciting!
I am a good patient, if not patient, at all!
I promise to return soon.
One thing being disabled does do is require you to feed your mind with that towering TO BE READ pile! I HAVE HAD A DELICIOUS TIME READING my buddies' works!
Back soon with AFTERNOON DELIGHTS. (Saw RACHEL RAY use one of my recipes on her show today!!!!!!!!! HUMPF!)
Also do admire my updated cover for first in my new SWORDS OF PASSION medieval erotica series AT HER SERVICE to debut Nov. 30 at!
Video coming soon!