Well it’s a week since launching The Painted Heart and a few reviews have come in:
“Officially the best book yet!! – Best book by Elsa Holland so far! I love how she can create a world that sucks you in instantly and never lets you go. I found myself reading this at every opportunity, and thinking about it when I wasn’t.” Amazon Reviewer
“Oh my! This book is so good that you just don’t want to leave the world that Elsa Holland creates. Its my favourite book so far, and I say so far because I think this author is going to keep surprising me and I can’t wait. Overall the book is a sublime mix of gothic, sensual and clandestine overtones – it’s a must read.” Amazon Reviewer
“This is a marvelous addition to the Velvet Basement Series. Each story captures your attention and the sensual journey to a happy ending makes these books a pleasure to read again and again. Enjoy!” Amazon Reviewer
“This is easily the best book of this series. The world of the Velvet Basement explores different areas of sexual interest. This book includes living canvases, living art – full body tattoos – that are owned and shown off to other wealthy collectors. The Painted Heart is the first book with a plot that extends outside the kink and the couple and the first book to include a mystery. Both are wonderful.” Amazon Reviewer
I have had a promotion for The Bound Heart running which is doing well and generating interest in both The Veiled Heart and The Painted Heart which is great. Best rankings so far have been:
The Bound Heart:
Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #5 Free in Kindle Store
#1 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Romance > Gothic <3
The Painted Heart:
#16 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Romance > Gothic
#17 in Books > Literature & Fiction > Genre Fiction > Gothic
#21 in Books > Romance > Gothic
I think many readers felt here was a big difference in story type and focus between The Veiled Heart and The Bound Heart, with the release of The Painted Heart I think that distance has been narrowed and the three come together as a more cohesive group as we re-visit The Velvet Basement, the world of The Collectors and re-meet characters again.
The Painted Heart also launches the world of The Painted Sisters and is a prequel for my second series The Painted Sisters. It will be 4 possibly 5 books to be read in order with a touch more thriller / mystery than The Velvet Basement. I am excited to already be a long way through Painted Trust, Edith’s story as she flees the dangers of a fledgling Skinner and places herself in danger in order to uncover the members of the resurrected outlawed sect of Collectors. I have Pinterest boards that give a mood and feel of what’s to come in that series.
For those of you who have read The Painted Heart. The leather wolf mask Blackburn and Evie are looking at in The Velvet Basement belongs to our hero in the next book in the series called The Fur Heart . The next three in The Velvet Basement series as sinking a little deeper and darker into the world of human needs and desires. The stories I think show that we are beautiful in our complexities and broken-ness, in our secret wants and needs. We are infinitely more beautiful and whole with them as a part of our lives than pretending they are not a part of us.
A big thank you to those of you who read my work and support me. The creative process demands that we release what we create into the world to have a life of its own, to have it witnessed. It is a very rewarding process to get reviews and emails about the books, thank you!
Michelle Augello, writes creative fiction, erotica and is also an editor for Siren. For those of you that want to publish edgier work go have a look at what Siren does.
Her blog is here https://michelleaugellopage.wordpress.com/
Michelle has some works available and come article links.
I chose the poem below from her blog to share. I am slowly working on a series of erotic shorts around a circus and one is of a knife thrower, the poem reminded me of it. Part of my process writing is that as I start to connect with a story as the mood and ‘swell’ of it starts to come through, I collect things like a crow that relate to what that swell feels like. A collection of symbolic moods and visuals that wraps around the story idea and modd like a caterpillars chrysalis.
This is one of those shinny things my inner crow collected.
I love you like a woman
pinned to a carnival wheel
blindfolded, I spin
taut against splintered wood
my body is a temporal thing
skin, blood, bone
you throw knives
at the negative spaces
between my fingers, along
the line of neck and jaw
I hold my breath. I do not
speak. I don’t want to break
and risk a slip in direction
the sweat on your brow
is glistening in the hot sun.
“July” is one of the poems in My Mother’s Daughter, a collection of poems I wrote between 1998-2002 and published in 2012.
All the writers I hang out with have a muse of sorts. When writers describe their muse it ranges from a distinct presence to a form of inspiration or internal guidance. Some relay a sense of communication from within and others that it is somehow greater than them and more connected to something universal.
No matter what form they take, writers agree Muses are all demanding and moody task masters.
I experience my muse as a sensation. We communicate through a link, a golden thread connected to my belly that sinks deep down until it gets to very dark waters and dangles into it. Communications come as a swell that travels through the thread and back into my gut, creating a kind of fullness that needs to be transmuted into pictures, words and feelings which then take shape on the page as characters and story. By the time they are taking shape on the page they are quite formed. I don’t consciously create and ‘make up’ the characters and dynamics. I also don’t feel that I ‘make up’ the story, rather that they are all given to me. My job is to express it and if I fail to write it, someone else will.
Having said that, I do think there is a ‘simpatico’ between my personal life themes and the stories I am given. As if by the very fact I have the resonance of those themes I call to me stories with a similar vibration and frequency, if that makes sense.
I’m a pretty amicable sort but I regularly manage to upset my muses. For something so anciently archetypal they are pretty thin skinned, or maybe just inflexible task masters. Generally this ‘falling-out’ happens when I want to take the lead in the story and say something like “no, no we aren’t going to go that way, this is much more interesting… or this is closer to genre” well they dig their heels in and the swell stops and that great idea I had sucks and the swell that feeds me is gone. Eventually I head back to that awful idea the muses’ had and start it up again and wham, in comes the swell. I feel like I’m the typewriter and they are the fingers…
I asked some writer buddies to express some of their experiences and grumbles about their muse.
So, when I started writing I didn’t realize I was getting into a relationship with this motherfucker called Muse, and I say that with affection. Well, some affection. You see my muse and I have been at war since August last year. Mother. Fucker. Just once I’d like my muse to be easy but he/she never has.
Most of the time I think of my muse as a he—there is an abruptness to him, he comes when he comes and when he wants, he stays away. There is no cajoling him, no bartering, no demanding. It’s his rules. When he does show up, he likes to express himself in visuals, like watching a movie scene with the sound off but I can feel the characters emotions—joy, lust, pain, as if I waked in their skin, living inside them. Sometimes my muse does talk, not a voice but still in visuals. I see the words, like white lines on black, just dialogue with nothing to anchor it to a scene or place in the book. All of what my muse gives me is just seconds. Flashes. Random. A spark because he really has no interest in doing the heavy lifting, getting involved in the writing. He feeds me crumbs and the writer in me tries to fill up on it. And I can’t. The truth is writing is craft and mastery; the greats have unwavering discipline and my muse … my muse is all whim. He has moved on before I can even sketch what he’s shown me. Before I finish the book. Before I even germinate the story—the crumbs in my mouth turning to ash.
When I started writing I thought my muse and I were dancing. I didn’t see that we were not courting, or the battleground we were drawing. I didn’t understand that my muse is not my lover—someone I could call with a touch of my hand or still with my company. In some ways my muse will always resist. Always be an adversary. Always be a wonderfully, wild thing.
You can find more about Nicci HERE. She writes HOT BDSM and is working on a Anne Rice type Vampire series that I gobble up when ever she shares scenes of.Follow her on Tumblr if you like to blush while checking your phone.
Cassandra L Shaw
My muse as writers call what gives them story, has lived inside my head, taking me to wild worlds all my life. A mysterious creature, she cannot be found at a whim. She has no address, no phone number, no Facebook account or email.
She’s one of those friends who float in and out of your life when it suits them. The crazy friend who is fun and wild, and a tad whimsical, a little dark inside. She’s that friend who plants a goofy smile on your face and leaves your heart fuller as they waltz out the door, leaving you wondering or in this case—writing, until they once more return.
My fey mysterious friend often arrives when I’m writing a different story, urging me to change what I’m writing. She’s the one that whispers in my ear, no don’t write that, write this.
She throws open my door and waltzes in, wafting scents and images of other worlds.
It’s the images I write from. Pictures and flashes of scenes that play in my mind – as she urges me, write this down right now.
She’s like your favourite song, dragging you back to the dance floor even though you have blisters on your feet, or need to go home—or finish the story you’re writing.
She’s the reason I have several dozen partially written stories, just to get her images out of my head, the ideas down. But after messing up my routine, showing me alternative tales I try to ignore, she leaves.
I rarely disagree with her ways, though sometimes I have to dilute her dark side. I do however consider that a little dark makes the light seem brighter.
Cassandra Shaw writes Urban Fantasy, Shifters and Time-slip Romance. I love her writers voice, its versatile and strong. You can find more about Cassandra HERE.
Cathrine Winther Poetess and dark, dark writer shared this on troublesome Muses.
This is a very personal, reflective piece about my process with my muse. It is not a generalization to how other people experience writing or their muse.
My muse is a bastard. I love him but he is a bastard. That said, I wouldn’t change a thing about him. He is what he is and he does what he does very well. He feeds my creative drive. However, he largely does it on his own terms and in his own time.
I am not someone who sits around waiting for inspiration to strike. I write when I want to write, and if I have done the hard work, inspiration and my muse usually turn up. However, I am often writing blind. I tend to have a vague idea of where I am headed but many vital details are hidden from me until the moment comes that I have to write the details of that particular scene or character. This would be fine except for the fact that I co-write a lot of my books. My co-author (Leon) places a lot of trust in me that I will pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute when we write. In our latest novel I had to assure Leon that the villain of our piece would be fully fleshed out and present when it came time for me to write him… even though I had no idea who he was or what he was like right up until the day came and I had to put pen to paper. But, true to form, my muse pulled through and Malick, our villain hit the page running.
However, probably my longest ongoing ‘dispute’ with my muse is power. My muse doesn’t do things by halves. He loves writing very dark, powerful, dominant males. Although I value all characters equally, for me, there is something far more intense happening when I write these edgier characters. While this is exciting it is also incredibly mentally and physically draining. I tend to compare it to the idea of sprinting for two hours instead of slow jogging for two hours. After writing one of my typically dark and dominant males for two hours I feel like I have just done a two-hour sprint. As an ex, semi-pro sprinter I can confirm that sprinting for two hours is just about impossible.
Working through this issue is an ongoing, very conscious compromise between my muse and myself. I find it all too easy to sit down and start writing and before I know it, two hours have gone by and I have spent the whole time in the headspace of a dark, dominant male. More recently I have found ways to manage this better through routine and goal setting, but it is a battle because I am fighting instinct and emotion to keep my muse in check and take care of myself and my stamina. And in short, my muse is quite wild and doesn’t want to be controlled. Part of me loves that about him, the other part of me just rolls my eyes… Just like an old married couple.
You can find more about Cat HERE. I love her pomegranate banner image, the seeds that kept Persephone in the underworld with Hades.
Luckily, I am broken. I have been broken for most of my adult life.
They say your life runs in 3 and 7 year cycles, well I had a 7 year cycle from 15 – 22yrs which broke me three times. Breaks that each irrevocably shattered a chamber of my heart. I have written about a bit of that process HERE (there are three parts the links at the bottom of each post)
I have perhaps been overly protective of the forth chamber ever since. And having glimpsed people who have had the four chamber broken, I am not sure I am brave enough to walk that path.
Instead, much like the art of Kintsugi I have held the cracks and fissures together with gold. Valuing and allowing the beauty of those marks to shine as part of me.
When I run my hand over the past, over the raised scars, it still hurts. Yet that pain has brought with it some of the deepest wisdom and compassion to my character and life. It has given me a personal well to draw on, one that informs my life. And even more so my creativity. Ironically we don’t often write from the lighter happier experiences, more often we write from aches. We reach out into the collective unconscious and find the collective experience of that ache and work with it.
I don’t think I would write what I do without those breaks. I don’t think I would live with so much optimism while still seeing the darkness. The interesting thing is as veterans of these kind of wounds, you empathise with the wounds of others that are different. You can somehow step more readily into their shoes and feel with them their break.
Poets and artists have long known the windfall of damaged souls. This damage propels you into a landscape of shared humanity, of a shared vulnerability. As strange as it sounds, you start to worry the pain will leave and you will be left in a state of numb pleasantness that is the death to creativity.
‘Kintsugi is a Japanese craft that both repairs and beautifies broken objects using gold leaf. By accentuating the break rather than hiding it, kintsugi honors the history of the object.’ more HERE
This is taken from the beginning of the book where Elspeth / Miss James our heroine, has suddenly agreed to sign the contract Blackburn, our hero, has to make her his Painted Sister. A coveted prize to help him progress up the ranks of highly influential people called The Collectors
At the study they stopped.
“It’s not too late to head home. Pack your suitcase and scurry away.”
Her eyes narrowed, his mocking tone he knew would generate a rise out of her. “I don’t make my decisions lightly, Mr. Blackburn.”
A hum of satisfaction sat in his chest as he replied. “I’m pleased to hear it.” And he was. There were a few hurdles yet to be completed tonight that she would need some backbone for.
Leaning forward he opened the door. “After you.”
His beauty walked through with all the pride and poise of the aristocracy.
Blackburn followed her through, then closed and locked the door behind him. A quick glance confirmed the contract lay on his desk along with a pen. The contract which for all intents and purposes, would make Miss Elspeth James his.
This is taken from near the middle of the book where Blackburn, our hero, is having Elspeth / Miss James our heroine, sketched and measured in preparation for designs to be made to tattoo her body. Blackburn is entering the room after giving Elspeth time to get started and to display some sensitivity that Miss James may find it uncomfortable to pose naked if two men are in the room straight from the onset.
Blackburn gave them forty minutes before heading up himself. More than enough time for them to be well underway into the life drawing and for Elspeth’s nerves to have settled.
As he neared he heard her laugh. A relaxed sound that fluttered around him like a promise of happiness. A sound she never made for him.
His jaw tightened. He braced, like he had always braced when facing the realities of the world and they were usually that he wold never be given, if he wanted he would have to take.
Outside his upstairs parlor he stood at the door and listened, his heart, oddly beating faster than it should.
“Adam, you’re tickling me.”
Adam? His body stiffened.
And then that laugh again. A rich sensual ripple of… enjoyment.
Blackburn pushed the door open to find Mr. Patterson to be exceptionally handsome and with this hands around Elspeth’s waist, his cheek pressed against her soft white belly and a tape measure somewhere in the mix.
Mr. Patterson was now laughing, Elspeth had her hand on his head grinning.
Everything inside Blackburn stilled. The confirmation of her virtue not days past stopped him from doing anything dramatic. Years of training stopped him from doing what any other man from where he was born would have done. After all he was a tactician.
“Am I interrupting?” His voice was artic. “It seems I am in the wrong room for a rendering of my Canvas.”
Mr. Patterson hurriedly disentangled himself from Elspeth and stepped away.
Elspeth’s hand fluttered to her waist and then dropped. The softness in her face from just moments before replaced by a strained, tight look. The look she saved for him.
His brows drew together and tension pulled across his shoulders.
“Adam… Mr. Patterson was measuring me,” her voice challenged him to find the wrong in it. He had after all arranged for her to be sketched naked and measured by said Mr Patterson.
Mr. Patterson was at the rendering he’d done and began walking it over to him.
All Blackburn saw was her too fast breathing, the flush over her skin, the distended nipples. That soft line of her scar in the blond thatch at the apex of her thighs. Cold fury at the idea that Mr. Patterson now knew of that small scar pulsed behind his temples.
Blackburn looked at the rendering.
Elspeth shone off the page. And, it was complete, front, back and sides. An impossible task in the time they had just spent together.
“That was fast.”
“Well I took the liberty of starting at home. I know Elspeth… Miss James so felt confident to start the drawing without her.” It was clear that the young Mr Patterson was an idiot and was perhaps looking to be maimed. The thought of them as a possible couple, that Elspeth had wondered what it would be like to be the focus of Mr Patterson’s affections was again oddly flammable to his equilibrium.
“You were confident you could draw her naked from memory?” Blackburn stalked towards the young man. This was not about love or affection, this had to do with ownership and sexual access. Blackburn understood very clearly that had he and Elspeth established their sexual relationship these odd feeling would be less likely. Being possessive of his sexual partners had never been an issue for him but not having what he wanted and seeing someone else closer to getting it had always irked him.
“Oh for God’s sake.” Elspeth stepped down from the pedestal and grabbed a robe from the nearby chair. “You are being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” Blackburn watched as she covered up her skin, which by the way was his now. Every square inch of it.
He looked at Mr. Patterson who was scarlet. Elspeth, it seemed, was impervious of Mr. Patterson’s wayward thoughts. Or the implication of it.
“I just need the measurements and I am done,” Mr Patterson said.
Blackburn raised an eyebrow and shot Mr. Patterson a look that had the man stepping back. There were men in London, who for very little would break a mans fingers at every bone.
“Perhaps you could take the measurements?” Mr. Patterson hurriedly suggested.
“Perhaps you are done?” Blackburn took another threatening step towards the soft spined fop and the apparently not so brave Mr Patterson moved quickly to collect his things.
Elspeth huffed from behind him as if he was the oaf in the room and not the pandering Mr. Patterson. Well, she would be making very different sounds in a moment.
The Painted Heart is getting another postponement I am sorry to say.
I was planning to release later this month but it looks like that is more likely March 2017.
As consolation I am about 65-70% through Painted Trust which follows on from Painted Heart in the world of The Painted Sisters. It is part of a 4 book Historical Erotic Thriller series. If my rather hectic life permits I should have that out within a reasonable time after The Painted Heart releases.
My cover designer Hang Le is busy working on some wonderful branding for the new series which I hope to share with you shortly. Below is a peek, we are still fine tuning so still largely under wraps.
I also have plans for 3 more books in The Velvet Basement series. Be warned they are getting a bit darker. I have started the 4th book in the series, it is called The Fur Heart, (a Little Red Riding Hood theme). This series is really allowing me to explore the beauty of our dark secret selves and how that is often a symbol or metaphor of something more common in life or society. The Veiled Heart had neo-feminist themes, The Bound Heart held ideas of how we are constrained on the inside by our past, the role of art, the courage needed to live your passions. The Painted Heart again deals with neo Feminist themes around ownership, self-sacrifice and how freedom often is found outside of convention.
The other books in the series book 5: The Caged Heart (a Bluebeard theme) and book 6: The Silent Heart ( A Little Mermaid Theme). Again Hang Le has designed some gorgeous covers… below a sneak peek at The Fur Heart.
gulp 4-5 years of writing feels faint
Here is a Snippet from the Painted Heart towards the beginning of the book. It is at the end of their first outing which was part of last weeks snippet here.
Her heart pounded. Blackburn looked down at his clothes. Her eyes followed and pressed against his trousers the hard, long length of him was clearly visible.
Her breath stuttered. Froze.
Elspeth spun around.
She burst out the door and the balding Mr. Howard gasped as she rushed past and headed straight for the front entrance.
That blasted bell clanged as she threw the door open and took off down the street in solid strides.
Her lips burned and her whole body was alight. Her breasts were sensitive and tight against her bodice. Her petticoats as they moved over her legs were a thousand hands.
That tongue… that tongue had the taste of caramel still, traces speared her mouth in a way that felt so immensely carnal as if it had plundered her maidenhood as it took every secret she thought she had.
And there certainly would be no thoughts of the shape in his trousers. In fact, there would be no reason to think of it ever again.
Here is a Snippet from the Painted Heart towards the beginning of the book. They are about to go on their first outing together and Elspeth is bristling about the way she is being crimped and display.
What had Agatha said? ‘He’s most likely simply a self-made man eager to hide his humble or nefarious start in life.’ Which meant he was ruthless, manipulative and cunning. That he knew how to get people to do as he wanted.
Well, she was armed against that. And although she agreed with Agatha’s assessment, she added her own items to the list of Mr. Blackburn’s shortcomings.
All of that made what she was wearing unpalatable.
She was forced into one of the viewing corsets, it pressed her breasts up and out like a white dove’s chest; as if she would start cooing at the sight of him.
Then there was her hair which was twisted into some fashionable coiffure. Her face, in fact everything, had been scrubbed, rubbed, and preened for the last two hours!
The girls were gushing over the ‘romance’ of it all and no amount of counter-argument on her part was heard or believed.
It was ‘love at first sight’, ‘a passion to be written about’, a ‘Cathy and Heathcliff in real life’.
The man had no idea of the hell he had unleashed into her well-ordered, if somewhat constrained life.
She wanted to stretch, needed something more but not this.
Someone asked me recently.
‘Where do you get the ideas to write what you write? Why do you write about the topics you do?’
I hadn’t really thought much about it until I watched a recent interview with Kate Grenville and she said:- writers write to answer a question…. that they are by nature curious.
I thought about that, about my own writing process and I think it is true, I do ask myself questionsand I am curious about the things that I choose tow rite about.
It starts with something that captures my imagination. Something that makes me ask.. how does that work?
The Veiled Heart started as a writing exercise. I was given ” a teacher and mechanic meet in a shop buying condoms and end up having sex in a car’. We I had to rejig that a bit for a Victorian story but the question I had to ask myself was:- why would a normally reserved and respectable Victorian woman have sex in a carriage with a stranger?
It’s true, I could have just had a liberal promiscuous character but that wasn’t interesting to me. I wanted to know what would make anyone of us do something like that, what circumstances would make it a step we would take.
The start of the story gives insight into the culmination of life events that made her take such a dramatic and unexpected leap into the sensual world. The rest of the novel was seeing what would happen after that event and resolving the aspects of her past which drove her to take that leap.
The Bound Heart came from a character my writing friend threw out one night with a group of writers… Jamie, the bookbinder, who was into bondage. We all laughed but days later the idea of a bookbinder.. a man of precision and into rope.. I started to wonder what kind of rope, who he was, why he was the way he was, what he was looking for. It left me wondering where the passion for rope work might come from, what some of the underlying elements were, the philosophy, the beauty. I wanted a story that explored that. I wanted a story that would take readers who might have images of bondage as a dark act, one of pain and humiliation and show a world of rope that was all about beauty, about sensuality and connection, that had a deep sense of history.
I also wanted a story where it was not so much the heroine being drawn into a sensually dark world but a man being broken by a sensually light world. I wanted a story that showed the power of intimacy rather than what acts you do.
With both Novels I feel I answered those questions….to my satisfaction at least!
The Painted Heart, the next story coming out in The Velvet Basement series, is a beauty and the beast story. I’m looking at what the alchemy is that turns a beast into a prince… Why can we sexually want a man or woman he don’t necessarily like. And how sometimes getting what your heart really wants is the scariest thing of all.
The Painted Heart
“Doesn’t it bother you that I hate you?” Elspeth asked.
“No, no I don’t believe it does,” he replied.
People ask whether these were the first fashion photographs.
Here is a Snippet from the Painted Heart towards the beginning of the book. They have gone on their first outing together to see if they can ‘rub along.’ It has not gone well.. however it has clarified combustible attraction despite Miss James dislike of the the cold self made Mr Blackburn.
Blackburn’s jaw tightened. He ran a hand over his face and hair as he stood there in the dimly lit landing. His heart still pounded and the taste of her coated his tongue in something far more delicious than those damn caramels. His body hummed from the chase through The Velvet Basement. It hummed with the residue of predatory elation on catching her, on pinning her to him. Every muscle in his body was wound and waiting for a release that wasn’t happening anytime soon.
Certainly not with the help of the surprisingly passionate Miss James.
The clang of the cracked bell at the bookshop’s door heralded her exit.
Blackburn straightened his clothes, moved out into the bookshop after her, watched as she marched outside into the flow of pedestrians, past the front window, skirts swishing and elbows swinging.
An odd sensation sat with him, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint that tugged strangely on the inside.
For those of you not sure how the scene in The Bound Heart, with the calligraphy brush might have looked, this will give you some ideas of how large a calligraphy brush can be and the art it creates.
There is a dynamic ..of movement, of time and of space
Here is Fabienne Verdier:- Artist / Calligraphy Artist.
Her website is here: http://fabienneverdier.com/news/
Here is a Snippet from the Painted Heart at about the half way mark. The book is about a woman bought to become living art as a Painted Sister, women tattooed into living works of art. Our hero Mr Blackburn a ruthless self-made man is measuring Elspeth, our heroine, to accompany some life drawing that will be used to map out a design to be tattooed onto her body. He was been pushing her to sign a contract granting him sexual access to her. She has stubbornly refused. He is using a range talents to change her mind.
Blackburn pressed his cheek against her belly and wrapped the tape measure around her waist.
No hand came down to rest on his head. No fingers in his hair.
His jaw tightened.
He rose, wrote the measurements on the piece of paper on the polished mahogany side table, then squatted back down, threaded the tape between her legs and round her upper thigh.
The top of his hand passed close to her sex.… his knuckles brushing the soft down that covered it.
He looked up.
Elspeth’s eyes were close. She was closing herself off. No doubt in her mind she was negating all the want that was leaking out of her every pore, egging him on.
In front of him was her soft thatch… he looked at the thin white scar he was coming to think of as his.
Damn her but she could try and ignore this.
He pressed forward, curls brushed his nose, pressed against his lips.
Her shocked intake of breath made him smile into the soft damp of her folds. His tongue flickered out.
And there it was, the weight of her hand as it rested on his head, the fractional tilt of her pelvis as she moved closer to his mouth.
This is in the beginning of THE BOUND HEART….
He stepped closer between her thighs. Her skirt riding up her legs. Her white pantaloons, seemed overly bright exposed between them.
His fingers traced the small foxes, rabbits and birds she’d embroidered on the soft cotton. His mouth lifted at the corner before he leaned closer.
Heaven help her, the heat of his body radiated up over her chest to her breasts. Her head tilted, her lips an offering begging him to accept.
“Did you use the threads I gave you for these?”
Her hands lifted and pressed softly against his chest.
“Yes.” She whispered it between them.
Yet he waited.
For what, she didn’t know.
A crease formed between his brows.
He leaned closer. Gazed at her lips.
Olive followed every change, every small movement he made, every shift of his muscles, his breath, even the change in the shape of his lips.
Her pulse beat at her clavicle. It thumped through her. Hungry beats as she moved forward.
Then he was at her mouth.
“The Japanese say, beware a beautiful woman, she may be a fox goddess in disguise. An Inari Okami.”
His breath flowed over her lips.
“I could be the rabbit.” Her breath shuddered out in return, a kiss of sorts as the air ran over their lips.
“Oh, no… you’re definitely an Inari Okami.”
Olive curled her fingers in his waistcoat and his mouth touched over hers.
PRINT BOOK COMING MARCH 2016
Sign up to my newsletter for extra information scenes competitions and opportunities.
Snippet: from The Bound Heart.
It’s been a while. Working to push the books out in a 6-8 month window has drawn me away from my blog since mid last year. Apologies. I’ll start to share more of The Bound Heart over the next few weeks. It is a story I was worried about publishing, not sure my readers and supporters of The Veiled Heart, would make the jump with me. Thank you…you did.
The characters of The Bound Heart, Jamie Edwards a Shibari master with some particular sexual preferences and the persistent Olive Thompson, they are very close to my heart. Their emotional vulnerability and courage I found very moving. I love how they are who they unapologetically and that they recognise that in each other.
Here is a sexy snippet from the start of the book. Jamie is leaving his job as a bookbinder, where he gets to see Olive every week. So along with it he is stepping back from Olive… but not before he has a taste. They are in the bookbinding workshop in the attic of the Bond Street Bookshop, Jamie has Olive siting on a work table, her skirts pressed up over her thighs and he standing between them. They have been kissing…it’s escalating…
“One more taste, Olive Thompson,” he whispered over her mouth.
Those soft lips pushed against his, her mouth open, and her warm, hungry tongue pressed against his.
Long, languid strokes and he was as out of breath as she was.
His fingers worked her jacket, loosened it as they kissed. Her breath hitched as his hand slipped down her chemise and over her breast. A hard nipple pressed against his palm.
She moved forward and pushed against his thigh, her hands pulling him forward. Her breath dragged through her mouth as they kissed.
He was going to lose control.
In this moment, he didn’t care if she deserved better.
He moved her hand down to his pants and pressed her against the aching need they contained.
She rolled her palm over him, bit at his lip. All he could feel was her. All he wanted was her.
Her hands worked at his trouser buttons.
A slight shift in posture and he reached down between them, found the opening in her drawers and pushed his fingers through.
The soft damp curls against his fingers, the wet folds a slick satin as he slid through them.
The doorknob rattled.
Three knocks on the door.
“Mr. Edwards, are you in there?”
The kiss stopped. They panted in the silence.
The door rattled again.
PRINT BOOK COMING MARCH 2016
Feature image Dasha Friedlova
Château de la Mothe-Chandeniers