Attitude of Gratitude

We live on a street that borders on water along the coast. We consistently evacuate during potential disasters. It's what we're comfortable with. We trade personal safety for the risk of losing all of our stuff. We're good with that. After all, if it floods or a tree falls on the house during the storm, what are we going to do about it?

During last year's Hurricane Matthew, we lost fourteen trees, none of which hit our house. It felt like a miracle. No, it still feels like a miracle.

During this year's Hurricane Irma, we had almost no damage. Again, it feels like a miracle. For us.

Unfortunately, some of our family did not fare as well. My in-laws (mother, father, brother, sister, and our niece) live on a tidal creek that overflowed its banks and left water in both of their houses. Also, a tree fell on one of their houses. When it did, my sister-in-law fell of the sofa onto the tile floor and broke her elbow. She's now in a cast from her fingers to her almost her shoulder. She's right-handed, and it's her right arm. She, my brother-in-law, and our niece -- whose sixth birthday was Wednesday -- spent two nights with us here. We celebrated with a purple buttercream vanilla birthday cake with pink roses. I count that as a win.

Big C is looking into RV's for our next hurricane evacuation. This year our "safe spot" was in Irma's path. Even though it was only a tropical storm by that point, our friends lost multiple trees. Part of one hit the house on its' way down and scared us all to death. Another landed on power lines which left us without electricity for forty-eight hours.

I've found silver lining after silver lining through all of this as it affected me, but having family as victims of flooding? Even though they have a "glass half full" attitude, I'm hurting for them.

You know what? This world needs as many "Happily Ever After" story endings as it can get. That's something I can offer. I guess I'd better get writing.

Lost and Found

I love stumbling across old favorite romance novels that have been packed away somewhere and randomly turn up. We moved to Florida a year and a half ago, and Big C (my husband) just found my paperback copy of The Heartbreaker by Carly Phillips while unpacking a few leftover boxes in his office this morning. Woot! It's book three in her Chandler Brothers series, which is so incredibly fun!While it's not erotica, I enjoyed the series immensely.

Now that I have this back in my hands, it makes me want to reread the whole series. But it got me thinking, how many of you reread books? Do you have favorite parts? I reread sex scenes all the time just because I enjoy them. Do you ever do that? I'd love to hear about it either way.

The Winner: A (Very) Short Story

This very short, very hot story is a little gift to my readers -- and a tiny preview of what I write.

Yes, it's itty-bitty. It was originally going to go to a magazine, but now it's all yours!

Enjoy this visit to a bar that's maybe not so far away from you. ;)

 

 

 

His hips bump the back of my ass in my size thirty-four stonewash Levi’s when I bend over the billiards table. I'd called a three to the corner pocket, and he almost makes my experienced hands miss the shot. The pub is crowded but not so much that he had to make contact to pass me. In a straight bar, this can mean only one thing, and it makes my balls tighten.

 

He stands to my left with the onlookers. His sleek hair appears burnished where the light hits his firm jaw and sensuous mouth and leaves the rest in shadow. He keeps his hand on his beer bottle as it rests on the edge of the table next to the bills my opponent and I staked on the game. His other hand reaches across his muscular chest to scratch his bicep. He's Michelangelo’s "David" in motion.

 

My eight ball to the side pocket closes the game, and I pass off my pool stick to the next in line. I'm more concerned about losing my handsome prey than I am about collecting my winnings. I need not worry about either. He turns and places the folded bills in my calloused palm that itches to abuse his cock.

 

"Nice shot." His voice is rusty. He clears his throat, and I imagine it swallowing the head of my dick.

 

My hormones scream to dominate him. I shove the cash in my front pocket, take his beer from his hand, and down a long swig.

 

"Yes," he says.

 

A petite redhead reaches for my arm. "You play so well." Her fingers find their way to my fly.

 

I grab her wrist, bite her earlobe, and whisper, "Thanks, sweetheart, but not tonight."

 

I wonder if she knows I'm batting for both teams.

 

I arch a brow at my new buddy, and he nods. I've never picked up a guy here, but his forest green eyes wipe any doubts from my mind. It's not like I can be the only former frat boy here who was straight until the lights went out.

 

I cut a path past the crowd at the bar, and it swallows our trail. Past the bathrooms and swinging kitchen door, I push out the exit to a dank alley. It smells of grit and rain and brick.

 

I free my mental reins and allow my penis to swell in girth and length. I wonder if he knows what he's in for. Most don't.

 

He's a couple of inches shorter than I am and makes to grab the nape of my neck. He bites my lip. "God, your black hair is hot against your blue eyes."

 

I fist my hand in his gray V-neck T-shirt and take his mouth without apology. He tastes of beer and smells of expensive cologne.

 

Our tongues tangle as we fight each other’s belts and flies to access the packages hidden beneath. He's commando, his cock average and uncut. He gasps as he hooks my boxer briefs beneath my balls.

 

"Fuck. You're huge."

 

"And you're taking all of it," I say.

 

I fumble through my wallet for a condom while the stranger pumps his dick.

After an eternity, I have the extra-large latex on me and spin him around to the wall. I spit twice in my hand then rub the barbaric lubrication around his hungry anus.

 

His legs are braced apart, his fingers clench the mortar, and he tilts his ass at my cock. I hold his cheeks and let my penis guide itself to his hole. I lean in to let the head pop through then slide my shaft down his channel. Jesus, he feels tight. I begin to pump thinking it would be even better if—

 

The redhead from earlier slips out the door. We freeze. Will she scream? Bust us? Call security?

 

Instead she smiles. "May I join you?"

 

My dick is still in his ass as he turns to catch my reaction. When I shrug, his eyebrow goes up again.

 

"You ever been with a woman?" I ask him.

 

"Not since I tried to be straight."

 

"Then pretend she's a guy."

 

Red pulls a strawberry condom from her purse, lays her jacket beneath her, and kneels before the stranger.

 

I can't help chuckling to myself. He backs into me on a cringe so I reach around him to hold the base of his throbbing prick for the condom. She puts it on with her mouth so enthusiastically her saliva drowns my fingers and drizzles down his balls. Her soft palm passes over my own pair, and she squeezes.

 

The tight heat of the man's body. The pleasure of his dick in my hands. The soft warmth of a woman's fingers on my nuts. The threat of discovery. It's too much for my brain to manage, and my body takes over. Furiously I pump into the stranger's ass. The cacophony of sensations batter my soul which screams for release.

 

I find it in a haze of light behind my tightly shut eyelids. I release the stranger's prick as my come fills the condom. He throws his head back over my shoulder with a groan.

 

"She bet me she would have sex with me before the night was over." He pants. "I lost."

 

I laugh. "Nope. Fucked and sucked? I'd say you won."

 

<<<<< >>>>>



It's All in the Details

I am swamped, buried in technical nomenclature and schematics of guidelines and sample plans of details to be submitted to our new "community association" here at what I fondly refer to as the HGTV Dream Home we paid for (though it's not nearly as fancy or glamourous as those). Cexy and I are slogging through paperwork muck that makes a trek through the marsh across the street seem like a casual stroll. I sit down to write only to discover another document to review, another form to complete, another contract to sign. Buried in minutiae, it feels as though I've barely written a word.
I realize that these are totally First World problems. I now have a handsome young pool boy (and a pool to go with him) on a sizeable chunk of land in a preserve. Our neighbors like to keep to themselves, as do we. It's why we chose to live here. That even extends to inside our home. Our bedroom is on one side of the house while guest rooms are on the other--with an expanse of living room separating the two. Like I said, this is our HGTV Dream Home only we paid for it. So why can't I write?
Because we're still surrounded with boxes from the move? Because we're still giving away furniture to make room for the stuff in the boxes? Because we're planning to retire here in 20 years and only leave if we have to go to a nursing home so I want everything to be perfect? Because we want a fenced area for the dog?
There aren't enough "becauses". I don't believe in writers block. I've just got to get my butt in some chair and my hands on my laptop's keyboard and go. Ready, set...

Movin' on Down

Yes, I've just dated myself by taking a page from seventies hit TV show The Jeffersons. I have, in fact, moved on down...to Florida. I don't move well. At all. I inevitably freak out. Big Cexy and I argue over small details which, during a move, are monumental. So far I've been right on almost everything, as he's had to learn the hard way. I won't rub it in with an "I told you so" because I got the hell out of Dodge on Monday shortly after the movers showed up. That allowed him to do things his way and for us to stop arguing. Let's face it--when you've both issued apologies by 9 am, it's not good.

Instead I've spent the week in such unseasonably warm weather that I had to go buy short sleeve T-shirts and capris as opposed to the long sleeve T's, jeans, and boots I packed when I left Atlanta. (Okay, okay. So I bought a pair of sandals, too. Can you blame me?) It's supposed to be in the 70's when we move in our new house on Saturday. I was like Oh, hell no! at the thought of doing it in jeans and a snuggly long sleeve T-shirt.

Cexy is driving down after he finishes a meeting this afternoon.

The Ones You Love

No, I didn't write any Thanksgiving stuff on social media this year. A member of our family has been in and out of the hospital since August and was in hospice. His three sons came in from across the country on Thanksgiving Day to make peace with him and say their goodbyes. He passed away shortly after. His wife died suddenly on Thanksgiving Day four years ago. The holiday is destroyed for my niece who has lost both of those grandparents on it. I've told her we'll pick something random like Arbor Day to celebrate instead.

If you have read my books as Kristi Hancock or Kristine Bria, you know that I keep it real with family business. Relationships are messy. They can truly be love/hate. A child can spend their life seeking the approval of a parent who continually disrespects them. Siblings will compete for decades believing that the other is the parents' favorite and trying to prove their worth only to discover they were loved equally. Those are just a few scenarios. While none of them describe this particular situation, it's definitely a complicated one.

So while you've been eating your turkey, we've been grieving. You'll have to forgive me for not being "Rah! Rah! Thanksgiving!" Quite honestly, I can't even think about future ones.

Meanwhile, do me a favor. Hug those close to you. Call them. Tell them you love them while they can hear it.

And I promise to get back to giving you happily ever afters. I need them as much as you do.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...New Year's Eve? Sixteen Candles? Wh--?

Yes, everyone hates that the holidays seem to keep coming earlier...and, yes, we (Liquid Silver Books and I) know that Halloween isn't even here yet, but we are so excited about Fireworks for Four that we couldn't wait until December 31st to share it with you!

When a Dominant billionaire Craig experiences love at first sight with Caroline and enlists the help of his friends, Tate and Gabe, to seduce the body-painted model working his New Year’s Eve party, no one can stop the sexual explosion.

See what I mean? Really, once you read it, you might even be mad that we waited this long to release it.

Here's what's really crazy: when I was writing the story, I had this huge lightbulb moment when I realized that I was essentially writing about Jake Ryan from the movie Sixteen Candles as an adult. Craig Bishop has it all--looks, brains, money, his own company, a killer house that looks out over fireworks from Seattle's Space Needle, and a New Year's Eve party that people are dying to come to. You get the idea. What he really wants is to have a quiet holiday at home in front of the fireplace, but he hasn't found Ms. Right to share it with. In other words, he'd rather be sitting on top his dining room table with Molly Ringwald and her birthday cake than surrounded by a houseful of people who call themselves his friends.

That's when I had flashbacks of Jake's conversations with The Geek... The way that Jake opened up to Anthony-Michael Hall's character and said, Look around. You see all this? It doesn't matter. I want something real with someone who matters to me and who cares about me equally in return.

So of course I was all over IMDB looking at quotes from the movie and Googling "Jake Ryan" for memes that you can find on my Facebook page.

Yes, all of this while writing my first (light) BDSM GLBT menage. And I loved it. I hope you do, too.

HEADS UP! That's right, I said GLBT as in there are Male/Male sex scenes in this book in addition to the menage (that would be all four characters--one woman and three men having sex together). If that's not for you, that's cool. You might enjoy Dessert for Two instead.