Tuesday, August 23, 2011

I'M BACK!!!!!!!!!!!

After several long illnesses and a world of computer pain, I'm back among the living.

To celebrate, I'm blogging with Marie Treanor at http://romanticthemeparty.blogspot.com/. Please stop by for an easy chance to win one or two my hottest Amber Quill books.

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, April 22, 2011


Born in England, Margaret West moved to the Kent countryside five years ago to get away from the busy life in London. She’s married with two grown children and has worked in various fields. She is a Clair-knowing medium, Crystal Therapist, Parapsychologist and Psychic development tutor.

Margaret has been writing for over 20 years and has numerous short stories, novels and articles published. She writes romance and paranormal novels, incorporating her spiritual experiences, into her books.

Below is a sample from her latest release.

Margaret West
ISBN 978-1-61572-282-2 E-Book
ISBN: 978-1-61572-283-9 Print
Eternal Press


Patricia is a mother who refuses to stay out of her daughter’s life even when she dies. Sally can hear her mother, but she can't see her spirit. At first she welcomes her return, but as the month’s progress she starts to feel increasingly peeved by her mother’s constant interference in her life. When she tells a few white lies on a dating application form, Patricia sets out to prove that lies are not a foundation for a healthy relationship.

Patricia sabotages a relationship between Sally and Emilio to prove her point, not realising her interference has caused a catastrophic chain reaction in the spirit world. The children allocated to Emilio and Sally can no longer be born. It is now down to the spirit of Emilio’s grandmother to put things right. But has Patricia caused too much damage for her to mend?

Sally opened her eyes and sat up. She wished for the courage to say, come in and scrub my back, darling. Although her thoughts were filled with erotic images, her life was more ordered and mundane. She got out and dried herself off, combing her fingers through her curls, knowing they would erupt on her head in a mad tangle of tiny springs as they dried. With her underwear washed and drying on a radiator, Sally wrapped a towel tightly around herself. Conscious of her nakedness, she left the bathroom. She saw Emilio seated on a biscuit-colored sofa, looking freshly showered and dressed in a clean, white shirt and blue trousers.

You are a sexy goddess, she told herself as she walked toward him.

She sashayed closer and an effervescent pleasure washed over her as Emilio’s eyes widened. She dipped her eyes and flicked her lashes, which she hoped looked provocative. Sally met his smile with a slow one of her own.

“I’ve ordered breakfast. I hope you don’t mind. I chose a selection. We can eat while we wait for your clothes to come back from the laundry. In the meantime, you might be more comfortable in this.” He handed her a heavy, blue, shapeless bathrobe.

Disappointment pushed the smile from her face. Her attempt at seduction failed miserably. She might as well wear a dust sheet. Embarrassed, she snatched it from his hand and stalked to the bathroom.


Learn more about Margaret West and her thrilling books on her website and blog.

Have a great weekend and a Happy Easter. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


KC Kendriks has created another sizzler in her outstanding Southern Cross series. TAMING TRITON, book two, is a strong compelling story and written with heart.

Southern Cross series Book Two
KC Kendriks
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-586-7
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure


Austin Michaels accepts his brother’s standing invitation for a Caribbean vacation at his island resort. Some time in the sun is just what he needs to map out a plan for his future. He gets lucky and meets a handsome teacher willing to have a little vacation fling with, as long as they can keep things fun.

Steve Guthrie’s secret longings have haunted him all his life. It’s time to face his questions and find the truth of who he really is beyond a staid college professor. His love of the sea prompts him to take a vacation at a Caribbean hide-a-way for relaxation and reflection. A sexy stranger with a tattoo tempts Steve to abandon his plans, enticing him to share a vacation romp.

Now Steve’s the student in a high stakes class of one, and to pass the course, he has to tame his very own Triton.

“You’re early. I need to get a shower.”

Austin's grin widened. “I’ll come wash your back, Steve.”

I put my hands on my hips and stared him down. “You’ll go get something to open that bottle later. It won’t take me long to get rinsed off.”

He set the bottle on the table, opened a drawer, and held up a corkscrew. “They think of everything at the Southern Cross.”

“I’ve known you six hours, and you’re not climbing in the shower with me, Austin.”

His gaze locked with me, gluing my feet to the floor as he stepped in front of me. “Me thinketh the lad protesteth overmuch.”

My heart stuttered, then beat faster. I wondered if he could hear it. “I’m not protesting. I’m taking a shower.”

His right hand reached out, coming to rest on my shoulder, briefly, before his fingers slid into my hair. The breeze coming through the open window cooled my heated face and brought the light scent of his aftershave to me. No musk for Austin, the fragrance was clean and icy crisp, like snow.

My knees started to shake as he leaned closer to me. His eyelids fluttered closed as his warm breath caressed my cheek. A drumbeat pounded in my ears, deafening me, as his mouth touched mine.

I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight.

There was a soft knock on the door. I didn’t need a rocket scientist to tell me who it was.

What did I want from him? An explanation? Or did I want to tell him to go have a nice life? I opened the door and took in his worried face. Austin stared at me, and his expression shifted to wariness.

“Steve, what’s wrong?”

Men lie to men all the time. Well, not me. I wasn’t sliding into that gutter. Ever.

“I saw you being very cozy with Colby Denton’s boyfriend.”

He flinched at the accusation, at my sharp voice, but his hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist.

“It’s not what you think. Let me come in…”

“Men lie to men--isn’t that what you said? Should I let you in so you can lie to me?”

“Babe, you should let me in so the neighbors on their terrace don’t get a good laugh, or call the front desk and complain.”

I hesitated a half-second too long, and Austin pushed past me into my suite. “Call Colby and tell him what you saw. Go ahead. Let him tell you didn’t see Theron and me sneaking around.”

Austin jumped as I slammed the door shut behind him. I rounded on him. “I fucking saw what I saw, Austin!”

“Yeah? You saw my brother give me a kiss. Is that really a big deal to you?”

The hot rage of his betrayal died in my belly, cooling as if it had never even existed. His brother? He’d mentioned a brother. My knees threatened to give out on me and I plopped down on a dinette chair. Austin took the seat next to mine and held out his hands, palms up.

“Steve, I’m sorry. I’d have gotten around to explaining how I know Theron and Colby tonight. I didn’t think…I mean I didn’t see any reason to tell you my total life story right away. There’s a lot we don’t know about each, and most of it won’t make any difference while we’re having vacation fun.”

I wanted to believe him, I really did. “So tell me about your brother now, and don’t leave anything out.”

That wary look he had teased at his features, a clear indication he had something to hide. If this Theron were his brother, there shouldn’t be any problem, but the trapped look on his face said more than words ever could. Anger licked at my guts again.

“Lie to me, Austin.”

He shook his head. “No. I won’t. Theron is my foster-brother. Let’s walk over to the main building and you can ask him to verify it. Just don’t cross-examine him because you don’t have the right, and his nerves can’t take it.” Austin reached out and took my hand. I yanked away.

Damn him. “Let’s just go our separate ways, Austin. I can’t trust you.”

Very slowly, he reached for my hand again, wrapping his fingers around mine. This time, something in the earnest way he looked at me, his posture, kept me from pulling back. He took a deep breath.

“I don’t remember my mother. She’s just a name on my birth certificate. I was put into the child welfare system early. So was Theron. We ended up with the same foster family, one that understood gay teens.”

“That’s the real short version, isn’t it?”

To his credit, he didn’t deny it, merely nodded. I had a choice to make. Accept his explanation, or ask him to leave. I knew I didn’t have the right to know every detail of his life story based on our short acquaintance, sex or no sex. The other side of the coin--I’d not told him anything about my life, either. I looked down at our hands. His grip tightened for an instant.

“Okay. So I’m an ass to jump to conclusions and have a little fit.”

Austin’s other hand gripped my knee. “No, you’re not. Theron and I are pretty close. The first time I came for a visit, I thought Colby’s head was going to explode when he caught us…You don’t wanna know yet.”

“The hell I don’t! You’d better spit it out now, Austin.”

“We, um, got a little drunked up. Colby came up to my suite and found us flopped on the bed together, giggling like fools, talking about old times.” Austin flashed me a sheepish look. “Babe, he was not pleased.”

A thought formed, growing stronger as a flush stained his cheeks. I closed my eyes, then opened them slowly. "Jeez, Austin, you and Theron were each other's first, weren't you?"

He didn't attempt to deny it. It wouldn't have worked on me if he had.

"Steve, it was a long time ago. We were two lonely teenagers with the same big secret-we were queers. Somehow the universe gave us to each other to take care of and made us brothers. He and Colby are all the family I have."

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I get it, Austin. I really do. I’m sor…”

His fingers pressed to my lips. “Don’t say it. Not for this. You don’t know me, so you’re right to question me.”

“For what it’s worth, I just learned a lesson about jumping to conclusions. Never too old, right?”

He leaned forward and kissed me, a tender pressing of his lips to mine. I kissed him back, more relieved than I should be.

This was a vacation thing. I needed to keep it that way.


Learn more about the awesome books by KC Kendricks on her website and blog. Follow KC on Twitter and check out her MySpace page. Be sure to join KC's mailing list for the lastest details on her new releases and appearances.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from Margaret West. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, April 15, 2011


Jenna Howard is here today with her electrifying new release SCORING LACEY, the consummate cougar novel.

For those of you who aren't familiar with this awesome author, here's a little on how her career began.

In sixth grade Jenn had to keep a journal as a class project. One assignment was “What do I want to be when I grow up.” Young Jenna carefully printed out, with her tongue sticking out between her teeth (no doubt) that she “wanted to be a writer.” Those words would guide her towards writing teen angst stories in high school to erotic romance, a genre her mother is soooo comfortable with. She currently resides in Calgary, Alberta, Canada.

Jenna Howard
ISBN 978-1-59578-820-7
Liquid Silver Books


Lacey Magerin never expected her husband of twenty years to leave her for a twenty-two year old. She never expected her fifteen-year-old daughter to blame her for the divorce. Lacey also never expected Shayne Donnelly. The NHL goalie is her brother's best friend and is ten years younger than her. Neither of them know the rules in this new game but that's not stopping either of them from playing or finding love in the least likely place - on home ice.

The olive green shirt made his eyes greener as it hugged all the muscley goodness that was Shayne. He took a chip loaded with cheese and peppers. Planting his elbow on the table, he offered the bite to her. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t want you passing out on me again when my hand goes down your jeans. Eat.”

She dipped the chip into the small bowl of salsa and studied Shayne. “Think that’s where it’s going, hm?”

Instead of answering, he leaned back in his seat, his eyes smirking his answer that that’s exactly where his hand was going to be later. She wondered what had brought him here. “What brings you to the Box?”

He took another sip then found the right chip he wanted. A thin strand of cheese stretched to the plate before he broke it with a swipe of his finger. He scooped a large amount of salsa and guacamole onto the chip then ate the entire thing. He sipped his soda and set his foot on the edge of her seat by her hip. “You.”

“Followed or summoned?”

His eyebrow went up in answer. Summoned. “What did my baby brother say to have you don your superhero cape?”

“That you were a pitiful mess who was into her cups and cheese.” Shayne pressed his foot against her hip and she toyed with the small cuff of his jeans. “Are you a pitiful mess?”
“Yeah,” she sighed, feeling a little morose.

“Wanna go hit a few pucks?” He nodded his head at the door. “Come on.” He grabbed his glass as he stood up, waiting for her to move her self-pitying ass.

With a sigh, she took her glass and followed him out into the night. Two people sat on the bench against the wall as they smoked. A goalie net that had seen better days was against one wall. A couple of hockey sticks were in an umbrella stand along with a bucket of tennis balls. There was even a goalie glove that had seen better days. “Hey,” Shayne said, greeting the smokers, then set his drink down.

His foot tapped the bucket, spilling balls over the concrete pad. He tossed a hockey stick at her and she stepped back so it didn’t smack her in the face. The sound of the wood clattering filled the space and she went to set her glass beside Shayne’s. When she turned, he had the glove on and was smacking the sides of the goal in a head nod to the hockey gods. “Okay, Magerin, bring it.”

She picked up the stick, using the blade to draw a ball towards her. The odds of her scoring on Shayne were as high as Carmen giving her hug right now. Her shot was pathetic and the ball rolled sadly to him.

He stood up straight and his sigh was loud as he kicked the ball back at her. “Jesus, you’re a Magerin. Hit the damn ball--don’t nudge it.” Once again he crouched down, his body relaxed in the pose.

That was annoying. Lacey hunched down like him and looked him in the eye. “And the puck is dropped. It’s Magerin versus Payne. Magerin grabs the puck and it’s a break away.” Shayne snorted as he grinned. “She goes left dodging Payne. Right. Left. Now it’s two on the ice. Can she do it? Can she score on the great Donnelly?”

She grabbed the front of her shirt, flashed him her lacy bra then shot. “And she does it! Ladies and gentlemen, Magerin has scored on Donnelly. The crowd here is insane.” She lifted a hand to her mouth and imitated a crowd roaring as Shayne looked behind him at the green tennis ball resting against the netting then at her. Even the smokers were cheering. Though she assumed it was for her bra and not her hockey prowess.

“I can’t believe you...” he tossed aside his stick and began to stalk her. “You flashed me!”

She was laughing by the time he grabbed her by the waist and dragged her out of the small zone.

“Way to go, baby!” One of the smokers shouted.

She heard the other one. “Can they play again?”

Shayne pushed her against the side of the building, the bright lights spilling right past them at the patio. “I can’t believe you flashed me.” His hands settled on her hips as he crowded her against the wall. “Let’s see that bra again.”

His mouth was on hers before she could grab the bottom of her shirt. He tasted of all things sinfully delicious in the dark.


Learn more about talented Jenna Howard on website and blog.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


Two excellent paranormal romance books with sensual loves scenes and graphic language.

Ella Vines creates strong characters and a world you won't want to leave in her historical HER DARK FAIRY.

Multi-published Mina Carter lives up to her reputation for writing "hot erotic romances with heroes to die for and heroines that can kick your ass with words alone" in her contemporary THRILL OF THE NIGHT.

Read on for a short tease on these two fiery stories.

Ella Vines


In October of 1858, a walk through the Mississippi woods behind her home changes Lucia Marks’ life forever. When she twists her ankle and blacks out, a gorgeous winged creature comes to her rescue, an alluring being of legend that haunts her days and nights. But what does he want from her, and who is he? More importantly, will he be part of her future?

He moved closer and her heart thudded. “I have been alone so long that I don’t remember family or friends. I have disguised myself and moved amongst you all virtually unseen for years. I never had a reason to show myself until I saw you.”

Lucia lurched back a step. He stood too close. She smelled the mingling of cinnamon and honey on his skin she had come to associate with him. If she reached out her hand, she could touch him.

“I don’t think I can—” She stopped as he moved closer, putting a finger to her lips.

“Don’t speak. I only want to be near you, to be able to talk with you from time to time. I know you have your life to live, and I have mine. Whatever may be…” His finger parted her lips as he nudged it into her mouth, over her teeth.

Heat seared through her, and she moaned without thinking. No man had ever touched her this way before.

“Please, come with me to my cottage for just a while. The sun hasn’t yet set.” His pale eyes glimmered, and she felt her body respond to his request.

“I suppose so—just to talk. But I can only stay for a little while.” She talked to herself as much as to him, remembering the story Hettie had told her. Had Berrigan told her the truth about his origins, or had he been in the forest for longer than he claimed?



Mina Carter


Part time diner waitress and hotel manager, Gwen’s days are filled with serving locals and making sure the sleepy back-road motel doesn’t have a crisis of epic proportions…like running out of clean towels. She’s a woman with a routine, a cleaning roster and that’s the way she likes it.

But Gwen is a woman with a past. A past which involves guns, knives and a whole lot of weird shit like vampires and werewolves. A past she gave up three years ago for the mediocrity of normal life.

She’s not sure she’s ready to go back to it but then a mysterious customer turns up in her diner. Hot and sexy as all hell, he sparks all kinds of erotic fantasies in Gwen’s sex-starved brain.

When she finds him bleeding from a were’s claws, can Gwen walk away? Or will she give into her carnal urges and risk being pulled back into her old life?

“Got a name, handsome?” I asked as I snapped gloves on. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit about AIDs, I’ll probably be dead long before anything like that puts me six feet under, but were infection? Not even going to risk it.


He sucked a breath in and glared at me as I irrigated the wound with swift, efficient movements.

“Oh, behave. Anyone would think a werewolf just tried to kill you.”

My voice was amused as I set about gluing the gashes in his skin and setting the butterflies in place. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve dressed wounds like this. Like I said, life on the road was hard. A hunter without scars was either new to the game, or…um, yeah, new to the game.

“Yeah. I’m freaking irresistible, aren’t I?”

He chuckled. It was a rich, low rumble that sent a ripple of awareness down my spine. I dropped my head a little, hiding behind the curtain of my hair. There was no way he was going to be interested, and after a were attack, probably wouldn’t welcome knowing how hot I thought he was. Life was a bitch, and then you died.

Fuck it. What did I have to lose? And, besides, I think we already established I’m not the sort of chick to take the sensible option.

“Honest answer?”

I didn’t look at him as I considered my handiwork. I’ve always been a neat hand with a needle, all that practice stitching up my mother as a kid. I was nine before I realized “needlepoint” mean stitching on fabric.

“I wouldn’t kick you outta bed.”


Be sure to check out Summerhouse Publishing for a great selection of well-written books at reasonable prices.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from Jenna Howard. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

The Naughty Ladies of Nice
Book Four
ISBN 978-1-60168-317-5
Aspen Mountain Press


Straight-laced children's author, Rachel Conklin, awakens on a deserted island wrapped in the arms of a sexy pirate. Convinced she's in a dream conjured from the pages of her breakout novel, Rachel casts her inhibitions to the wind. Guilt-free, she seduces the handsome sailor and rides the waves of passion.

Pediatrician Henri Bernier wasn't quite sure what to do with the sexy mermaid he'd pulled from the sea. Then she started kissing him and sent his libido soaring. Now the good doctor is ready to practice anything.


His mystery woman wiped mist from the cheval mirror. In the cleared glass, Henri caught her image. He stood in the bathroom doorway, frozen, staring at her through their shared reflection. She smiled at his shocked expression, probably enjoying the fact she had him at a disadvantage.

The bath towel dropped from her fingers, exposing her firm breasts. Her large, dark nipples drew him like a siren to the sea and his dick sprang to life. The desires to lave and suckle her flooded over him while his stiff cock demanded he bend her over and fuck her until he came.

Droplets glistened on the ringlets of her long hair, reflected by the late afternoon sun. Several beads gathered, then made a slow descent down her spine. He stood mesmerized by the rivulet, staring as it glided to the sleek curve of her hip, following it lower until it disappeared between her firm cheeks.

With her good hand, she pulled thick strands of wet hair off her back and draped it over a shoulder, exposing her delicate neck. She held his gaze and bent over at the waist, offering him a seductive view of her pink labia. In slow motion, she drew a pair of red panties up her legs, then did a little hip wiggle and tugged them into place.

The shiny panties caressed her rounded ass cheeks midway on her derrière, accenting the creamy bare skin and framing the lower portion. His hands itched to cup her, squeeze the firm muscles, but his arms were frozen at his sides.

The kissable white flesh rounded above legs that went on forever down to trim ankles and slender feet. He imagined those long limbs circling his waist, better yet, wrapped around his neck as he watched his cock slide in and out of her.

"Magnifique." The word slipped out hoarse as struggled for oxygen.

He walked closer, his movements dreamlike. The honey shampoo aroma filled his lungs when he finally reached her.

“You are beautiful.”

Merci, Henri.” A smile twitched her lips.

“Your wrist should be in the sling.” He held up the black cloth with his other hand.

“I agree, but there’s time for that later.”

She leaned into him and reached back for his free hand, hanging limp at his side, then laid it across her bare ribcage. Her smooth skin felt warm against his damp palm.

“I intended to hang it on the handle, but the door popped—”

“Henri, isn’t there something else you’d rather do right now than talk?”

His sex-engrossed brain finally registered her words. “Mai oui.”

He laid a soft kiss on her shoulder, nipping his way along the side of her neck until he reached the tender area behind her ear lobe. Her nipples pebbled with his gentle touch, encouraging him to explore more of her.

His fingers played across her abdomen, sending prickles of anticipation up his arm as they climbed higher. He cupped her breast, massaging the firm mound until soft moans slipped past her parted lips. The entire time he watched her reflection in the mirror while his thumb made slow, teasing circles around her areola.

She wrapped her warm fingers over his other hand and guided it across her body. The combination of soft skin and firm muscle was the most erotic sensation of his life.

Dieu, how he wanted to dip into her hot pussy, His cock, with drops of pre-cum seeping through the slit, demaded relief.

With shaking fingers, she guided his other hand lower until she stopped at the elastic band on her wet panties. He grazed the fabric across her mound and stopped, then moved his hand to her thigh and edged toward her nub. She wrapped her fingers around his forearm, encouraging him to travel beneath the thin cloth. Anxious to please, he glided his fingers under the damp fabric and into her wet hairs, searching for her clit. After a moment of teasing, he slid first one finger, then a second into her hot, wet channel and watched her expression turn to ecstasy.

“Come for me, ma petit.”

Her trembling body tensed. She clutched the basin rim, squeezing her thighs tightly around his hand, grinding her hips against him. Shivers coursed through her. Her whimpers turned to a scream of pleasure as she sprayed hot cum onto him. A unique feeling of joy settled in his heart.

He turned her limp frame in his arms, his fingertips skimming across her tender nipples. She melted against him, pressing her breasts into his chest hairs...


I'll be back tomorrow with Ella Vines. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, April 08, 2011


To successfully write a time travel or fantasy takes a special mindset. Few authors are so gifted. Lucky for readers, Robert Appleton is a genius in the field. His latest book, THE TEMPORAL MAN, is an awesome example of Rob's amazing talent.

Robert Appleton
ISBN: 978-1456595661
Moongypsy Press


Have you ever wondered what it’s like outside of time? For disillusioned young waitress Rebecca Green, those words become startling reality when a mysterious stranger arrives to literally turn her world upside down.

Sam Morrow is on the run. He’s being pursued across time by four dangerous men from his past, including the deadliest swordsman in France. But now that he’s found the girl of his dreams, it might just be time to stand and fight. Rebecca has an idea—to recruit the best swordsman in eighteenth century England—but will aristocratic Percy Torrance dare miss his wedding on Monday for an unprecedented time travel journey?

Pulse-pounding duels, sea battles and a daring mountain rescue punctuate this tale of romance on the edge. From the distant past to the far-flung future, there’s no hiding from fate. Hold on tight to The Temporal Man.


(From Part 2: 1798)

There was a boyishness to his every gesture, a sandbox joie de vivre in the way he handled the sword. As Sam sparred with him, I knew instantly that this was not someone we ought to remove from the natural order of the world. He was much too promising. Life loved him as much as he loved life. Quality informed the tiniest twitch of his blade, and in a smile both perennial and genuine, I saw rarity. Grace. A man the nineteenth century would need. Though he was by far the best swordsman we’d found in England, I didn’t want to recruit twenty-two-year-old Percival Torrance. Not for a fight to the death.

“What do you think?” I whispered to Sam, after Percy won his seventh point in a row.

“He’s bloody marvellous. I’m no hack with a foil, but he’s got the jump on me every time.” Sam wiped his sweaty forehead with a tissue-thin, silk sleeve, enlarging the wet patch he’d already made. “This is hot work.”

“Sam, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

“To him? He’s kicking my time travelling derriere. You should be more worried about me.”

“I mean if we brought him with us…and he got hurt. I’d never forgive myself. He’s too sweet.”

“I know. But what if we give it to him plainly, and let him decide for himself. This was your idea, remember? You said to find the best swordsman in England. Here he is.”

I nodded reluctantly. After all, Percy was my best hope for keeping Sam alive.

It was a humid afternoon, sometime in the month of August, seventeen ninety-eight, in the reign of His Majesty, King George the Third. We had learned of Percy’s swordsmanship by reputation, three of the five best fencing academies in London having sung his praises. The youngest son of a revered Admiral in His Majesty’s Navy, Percy was looking forward to his first posting upon being accepted to the rank of Lieutenant, something he was utterly confident of. “I know every knot and rivet,” he assured us, “and that’s just in the old man’s wooden leg. But seriously, anyone can be a seaman. It’s the thinking on your feet that trips so many up. Lucky for me, I’ve always been pretty agile in that regard, like the old man used to be.”

Stunning deep green covered the thirty-acre garden at the back of the Torrance estate. Cone-shaped, evergreen trees populated the grounds like giant arrowheads pointing to the sky. As Percy parried attack after attack with perfect alacrity, even nonchalance, I went dizzy. A realisation swarmed about me. I knelt to catch my breath. This had all existed over two centuries ago. The pollen, the gust, the evergreens, and young Percy Torrance. All had had their inkling on time’s unfurling scroll. His dreams, realised or failed, were already writ as historical fact. Nothing he could say or do would alter my past, the nineteenth century I knew. It was as if I held the answers to all his questions, the clasps over all his uncertainties, both naturally and unnaturally, for I sensed he would jump at the chance to do something extraordinary. And our being here, drinking his brandy, was nothing if not extraordinary.

After winning ten straight points in a row, he shook Sam’s hand and led us inside the house.

“Now then, Rebecca and Sam, might I ask what prompted your delightful visit? Your letter mentioned something about a singular proposition. I was intrigued. And if it does not involve money, I cannot even imagine what it could mean.”

His face was quite thin, with a small mouth and attractive, hazel eyes. His nose was aquiline, and his chin was finely cleft and very masculine. I couldn’t tell the colour of his hair, as he wore an expensive grey wig, but from his dark eyebrows and the few black hairs showing on his chest through his partially open shirt, I guessed at either black or mousy brown. He had a slim, almost wiry athleticism that gave him tremendous balance. I could picture him climbing up a ship’s rigging in record time, and then fighting a duel on the topgallant.

In other words, he would make an ideal ally in our fight against the Delgados and their Frenchman.

“First, I’d like to say that you’re the best swordsman I’ve ever come across,” Sam answered. He took a sip of brandy and then glanced around the exquisite living room for a few moments, his stare finally resting on the portrait of a lady on the wall above a mahogany sideboard. “Lovely.”
“My Aunt Sylvia. She taught me the piano…before she passed away.”


“You remind me of her, Rebecca,” added the youngster. “You possess a similar incongruity.”

“Oh?” I didn’t like the word when pointed at me. It sounded so…trigonometric.

He grinned. “That was a compliment, madam. I meant to refer to the time we live in.” Someone walked over my grave. He blithely went on, “The eighteen nineties have been so prosaic, don’t you think? One has to go out and find excitement. But you, madam, light up even this stuffy mausoleum. Aunt Sylvia was the same.”

I blushed. Either he didn’t have a clue how charming he was—quite probable, in this era of etiquette—or he just didn’t care that I was in love with Sam. We had announced ourselves as a couple in the letter, but either way, he wielded compliments as skilfully as he did his blade.

“Percy, we’ve come to ask you something…equally incongruous.” Sam cleared his throat.


To learn more about Robert Appleton and his intriguing books, visit his website, or swing by his blog. He’s also on Facebook and Twitter.

Have a spectacular weekend. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, April 06, 2011


Rick R. Reed is a talented author secure in his genre. When asked what inspired him to write TALES FROM THE SEXUAL UNDERGROUND, Rick was happy to share.

"I wanted to write about people who were not just out, but out there, people who lived their sexual lives in ways most of us could only imagine...and for whom the flavor vanilla had absolutely no appeal. I interviewed porn stars, prostitutes, self-proclaimed sex pigs, and delved into bizarre sexual practices. It was eye-opening, arousing, and a lot of fun (but never, never good clean fun). I also include here my favorite dirty stories. They all explore a side of life that exists not in the twilight zone, but in my favorite destination...the sexual underground."

Rick R. Reed
ISBN 13: 978-1-60820-140-2 Paperback
ISBN 13: 978-1-60820-141-9 Electronic
MLR Press


He knows me, so he knows the best time is a quiet one. We stay in. Dinner, drinks, and of course, the last part, the best part.

He starts off casually, wearing a pair of faded Levis, a white T-shirt worn soft, bare feet, hair still damp from the shower. There's a CD playing, low, maybe Oscar Peterson conjuring up Gershwin from his piano. He's got a few candles lit, but nothing scented. The air in his apartment is clean, with a trace of the soap from his shower lingering.

We sit on the couch and he makes me a drink. He already knows what I like, a dirty martini made with vodka, heavy on the dirt. We laugh about how I like things dirty, but not too much. We keep our minds out of the gutter, at least for now.

After the drinks, the music, the light fading to purple outside, we move to the dining room. Old oak pedestal table, mismatched chairs and cream pillar candles...used before. He makes a light meal, because he knows that later, we won't want anything too heavy weighing on us. A simple salad, arugula, red onion, plum tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. There's a chicken breast, poached in broth, lemon juice and walnuts, some rice. Strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar for dessert. A glass or two of white wine, an Alsatian Riesling.

We linger over the dinner, slow; the candles burn down. The sky outside fades from purple to navy blue, a glow to the south...city lights. We move to the bedroom, undress slowly.

He knows how to touch me. Knows where to make the pressure slippery and where to make it rough. Knows when to move slowly, when to increase the tempo, and when to slow it down again...he doesn't want things to end too quickly. He knows that my nipples are sensitive, and toys with them just hard enough so I will feel the ghost of his caress in the morning. All the while, music, orchestrated to ebb and flow, a soundtrack to our passion. We start off with Bach, Mendelssohn, end up with Crystal Method and Prodigy. Romance to filth. And he tells me, the whole time, about past lovers, knowing it excites me as much as his touch. Like the music, he starts off slow and romantic, telling me about his first love, Ron, how they were playful, in love, existing only for each other...so young. He tells me about a particular New Year's Eve, in a darkened bedroom in Florida, high on pot and champagne, bringing each other the most incredible gifts. But as our passion rises, so does the depravity. He moves on to orgies, nights with strangers fueled by Ecstasy, a frantic, furtive coupling with a Northwestern student in an alley by the el tracks one night in August, fucking each other sweatily while the train crackled and roared above, its human cargo oblivious. He tells me about backroom sex, the smell of poppers, leather, cum and spit in the air, groping, being groped, connecting with shadows. He tells me everything, moving faster and faster, until even his tales and touch blur, and I offer up my seed; it covers my belly in viscous arcs.

And I roll over and look at him...in the mirror. He is me.

He is me.


Learn more about Rick R. Reed and his award winning books on his website and blog. You can also follow Rick on Twitter and Facebook.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from awesome author Robert Appleton. Until then...

Happy reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, April 05, 2011


The Naughty Ladies of Nice
Book Three
ISBN 978-1-60168-293-2
Aspen Mountain Press


Interpol agent Claudette D’Laquois is on the run. Dull Uncle Paul and his rundown chateau in Nice, France are her only safe haven…but she never planned on the delectable estate manager who is even more dangerous than the Russian mob boss who wants her dead.

Three weeks of overseeing operations at his friend’s orchard seems like the ideal vacation to CPA Don Hobbs. And so it was—until a French sex goddess pulls him into a world of drugs, intrigue, and erotic fantasy.

The throbbing burst into her head again. She rubbed her temples. “S’il vous plait, do not make this more difficult.”

“Hey, I get it. You’re this tough woman who can handle herself in any kind of danger. But, you need to look at it from my point of view.” He stepped behind her and massaged her shoulders, edging up to her neck.

Instant relief.

She sighed with each knead that worked free the stress knots.

“Let’s just say this Cesar doesn’t come alone. You ever figure he’s not a good guy?” Sarcasm streamed with each word.

“I know him.” She shrugged off his hands and turned, her fists balled tight. “You do not.”

“I’m not stupid and I do know a bunch of bullshit when I hear it.” His words bounced off the walls. “You think this fucker is your long-lost savior. Not hardly likely, chickee, if he bailed on a high profile government job and left you to the wolves.” He squinted at her, a vein pulsed along his forehead. “Was your commander right? Did you and James Fuckingbond have a couple of rolls in the sack and now you think he’s gonna be the righteous man of the hour? Is that all it takes with you? A fast fuck and a couple of swats on the ass to make you bend over and suck mud?”

“You dare to speak to me this way?” Red flashed before her eyes. “One afternoon of sex and you think you own me? Know what my life is like? How it should be orchestrated? You assume the right to be my master?” Meeting him decibel for decibel, she yelled, “You are an idiot!”

She swung out her hand, ready to slap his face. Hard.

With an expression cold and fierce, he leaned into her.

“Don’t do it. Don’t do one fucking thing you don’t want done back to you.” He stood his ground, fists planted on his hips. “I’m a nice guy. A fucking gentleman until someone, and I don’t care if she is a broad, muscles me. You got that? Loud and clear? Has it sunk you’re your brain? I will not—”


A low growl came from deep in his chest. In slow motion, he rubbed his cheek along her red imprint, eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s it, baby, party’s over.”

He grabbed her wrist and spun her around, flopped onto the bed, and yanked her over his knee.


Her cotton skirt shredded like tissue as he yanked it up over her ass, exposing her boy shorts.

“I told you before you needed a good spanking and the time’s come.” The satin panties were ripped away.


His hand cracked down on her firm rear. The sting raced across her flesh, charging heat to her clit.

“Ow!” She struggled to get free, flailing her legs and arms, but his free hand pressed across her back, holding her in place. “You will pay for this, you le fils d'une chienne.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will, but not as much as you. And I’m not a son of a bitch. My mother is a nice woman.”


“Nice girls don’t talk like that either.”

Whack. Whack.

“Donald, stop before it is—”


“Too late? Too bad. Already is and I don’t give a shit.”

Whack. Whack.

His rigid penis pressed into her abdomen and dampness pooled in her panties. Pressure built between her thighs, increasing with each smack. She arched into him, loving it. Wanting this from the day they met.

Dieu, at this moment, he was her master. She wanted to be his equal, but not right now. Now, she wanted him to take control, had to know his brute force, needed him.

His hand slowed, then rested on her tingling flesh. He traced her butt cheek, edging closer to her perineum. She opened her thighs, praying he would slip between them.

He glided a finger along the crease, then dipped lower and stroked her swollen nether lips. Up and down, down and up, and she loved every stroke.

Cream seeped from her and her body begged for release. She no longer held back the moans.

“Had enough?” His words came out thick.

“Not of you.” She twisted around until she sat on his lap.


I'll be back tomorrow with the award winning Rick R. Reed. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, March 25, 2011


CHANCE ENCOUNTER is a plot driven new release from creative author Christiane France and a book well worth reading.

Christiane France
ISBN 978-1-61124-061-0
Amber Allure


In high school and through their first year of college, Jase Thoman and Matt Lester were best friends and lovers. But then Matt’s family moved across country, Matt transferred to another school, and the pair eventually drifted apart.

Now, ten years later, they meet again by chance. Jase is a private investigator, desperate to find his kid brother, Donny, who, in addition to two other teenage boys, has mysteriously disappeared after last being seen at a local gay bar. Matt is an undercover police officer brought in on the case by the local police department in the hope he can succeed where they have so far failed.

Matt is the only man Jase has ever really loved, but ten years is a long time. They’re not the same people they once were, and when Matt tries to pick up where they left off, Jase takes a step back. His first priority is finding his brother. As far as Matt is concerned, Jase feels how he imagines a deer would feel when caught in the headlights of a vehicle with little or no chance of escape—confused, unsure, and at the same time, positive whatever he does will be the wrong thing.

Can Matt help Jase solve the mystery of his brother’s whereabouts, while also convincing him to give their relationship a fresh start?

The man hesitated, frowning, but then his smile suddenly broadened, giving Jase the distinct impression the guy thought he knew him. “By all that’s holy… Jeez, I don’t believe it. This is really wicked, man.”
There was no recognition on Jase’s end. But then he constantly met all kinds of different people in the course of his job. Could be they’d crossed paths at some point, and he just didn’t remember. “What don’t you believe?”

“That it’s really you. I guess, after all this time, you’ve forgotten I’m basically a beer drinker, but right now, I’d rather have a nice cold glass of OJ.”

Forgotten? After all what time? As in I’m supposed to know you from somewhere?

Jase narrowed his eyes and looked the dude over more carefully. The lighting in the club was lousy, but somewhere between the glitter, the cheap glamour and false eyelashes, one of which was rapidly becoming unglued, there was something vaguely familiar about the guy. He searched his memory and came up dry. “Sorry, man, I think you must be mistaking me for someone else.”

The man gave a soft, sexy chuckle, raising hairs on places Jase had always thought were hairless. He flipped through his memory banks for a second time. He still didn’t recognize the face, but he knew he’d heard that chuckle somewhere before. Where or when, he couldn’t remember…but something about it reminded him of his college days and March break—cheap motel rooms, heavy breathing, sweat-soaked sheets, and the overpowering smells of stale beer and sex.

“S’okay, Jase. It’s been one helluva long time,” the guy said quietly. “And I know I have you at a disadvantage in this getup. But you were looking me over pretty good, so I figured I should say something fast in case you recognized me and blew my cover.”

“Sorry, man. Like I said, I think you’re—” Before Jase could finish what he was about to say, he realized the guy had used his name. Then, something clicked in his brain and the memories came flooding back…along with a rush of pure sexual need he hadn’t felt in a very long time. “You’re— Oh, my God, it’s— But it can’t be. You’re—”

Matt Lester in the flesh?

Jase stared at the guy standing beside him in shock. He and Matt Lester had been lovers, best friends, and roommates through the last couple of years of high school and the first year of college. Then Matt’s family had moved to the west coast, and a scholarship had caused Matt to transfer to another school. They’d kept in touch for a while and still exchanged cards at Christmas, but between distance and everyday life, they hadn’t seen one another in years. Jase wanted to ask if Matt was back living here in town, or if he was just passing through. However, before Jase could say his name out loud, Matt had him in the kind of lip-lock Jase couldn’t have broken even on a good day.

He let his body go limp and waited for the one guy he’d never thought to see again do the same. At least the idiot wasn’t using force. No tongue, just a firm hold and the pressure of his mouth to keep Jase quiet. Jase felt the rasp of five o’clock shadow against his own freshly shaved skin. He was also conscious of the faint smell of stale, sweaty clothes, and he wondered if living on the street was also part of Matt’s cover. With anyone else, it would have been a total turn-off, but with Matt it was working on Jase like the most expensive aphrodisiac. He was up, he was hard, and he knew with just a little mouth-action on Matt’s part, they’d once again be flying to the moon.

If he’d thought about it—and he had, quite a few times if he told the truth—Jase wouldn’t have expected to still feel this way, not after so long. But it seemed that was the amazing thing about memories. Sometimes they came flying back as fresh as the day they got started, and this one was what—close to nine, maybe even ten years old?...


Learn more about Christiane France on her website.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


Along with being a excellent author, my dear friend Dorien Grey is a talented photographer. He's in Europe, enjoying the sights and posting his wonderful photographs on Facebook. Be sure to take a look. But before you go, please read an excerpt from one of Dorien's books.

an Elliott Smith Mystery
Dorien Grey
ISBN 978-1-934841-40-2 Print
ISBN 978-1-934841-41-9 Ebook
Zumaya Publications



Aaron Stiles is dead. He's been dead for four years but doesn't seem to know it. He's waiting for his partner Bill to come home, and until that happens, he's not going anywhere. The trouble is, Bill Somers won-t be coming home--ever--because he's dead, too. The official verdict was suicide, but...

The last thing Elliot Smith needs in his latest renovation project is a ghost, especially one who won't let him sell the place until he solves the mystery of who killed Bill. He has John to help with the spectral side of things, but that just leaves him with the quandary of how to get information on the case. After all, he can hardly explain he's investigating on behalf of one dead man with the assistance of another.

While he made it a policy to have as little contact as possible with a building's tenants during the escrow period, Elliott felt compelled to talk with Mrs. Reinerio regarding her options. He didn't have her phone number, so he called the Wolinskis to ask for it, and to let them know of his intentions so they'd not think it strange for him to show up. As he expected, they had no objections.

Mrs. Wolinski reported they had found a small condo in a new retirement complex and would be moving within a month of the closing of escrow. He then called Mrs. Reinerio, who said she would be happy to talk with him, and would be home all day.

He drove over after lunch, noting that the weather was definitely cooler. Escrow was to close on a Tuesday; but badly as he wanted to get to work immediately, he knew that last-minute glitches often pushed the close back a day or so. To be on the safe side, he'd made arrangements for the sandblasters to come on the Monday following the official close date. He was fairly sure they could easily complete the work before the weather got too bad, but this was Chicago, and he didn't want to take any chances.

He was curious, too, about street parking around the new property during the day, and was relieved to see it wasn't too difficult to find a space. He took his time walking up to the building, pausing again to look at its neighbors. He was pleased to confirm his earlier observation that the entire block appeared to be relatively well maintained.

Climbing the steps to the front door, he rang Mrs. Reinerio's buzzer. She had opened her door by the time he entered the hall.

"Come in, Mr. Smith," she said, warmly.

"Elliott, please." He followed her inside, waiting as she closed the door behind him.

"Please, sit," she said. "May I get you some coffee?"

"If you have some made," he replied, taking the indicated chair.

"Of course. I'll only be a moment."

While she was gone, Elliott looked around. He'd seen the apartment during the inspection tour, but now had a chance to concentrate on some of the individual elements in the room. It was, he decided, definitely a grandmother's apartment--comfortable, neat, clean, and heavy with an indefinable air of the past.

Mrs. Reinerio returned a few minutes later with a tray on which were two coffee mugs.

"I don't hold much on ceremony," she said, a creamer, sugar bowl, and a small plate with several pieces of coffee cake. She put it on the coffee table in front of him.

Waiting until she had taken a seat across from him, Elliott got right to the point of his visit. He outlined what he perceived to be her options, emphasizing that he was renovating the building for resale, and that a rent increase under the new owners was almost inevitable.

She sighed. "I was afraid of that," she said, looking into her coffee, then hastily added, "I know it's not your fault, and that nothing is forever, but I've lived here for twenty-five years now, and..."

"I understand," Elliott said, and he felt he truly did. He then went on to tell her about one of his own rental properties that had a vacancy at a comparable rent, and that he would be pleased to have her as a tenant. He assured her he would be happy to assist if she needed help with the move itself.

"That's very kind of you, Elliott," she said. "Can I have a little time to think it over?"

"Certainly. I just wanted--"

There was a knock at the door, which Mrs. Reinerio apparently did not hear, since she showed no reaction to it.

"I think there's someone at the door," he said after a moment.

She looked at him and smiled. "Oh, it's nothing," she said. "It's just Aaron. I recognize the knock."

A shiver ran from the top of his head to his toes.

"Aaron?" John had already told him, of course, but confirmation from someone with a pulse still startled him.

Her smile never faded, and there was no change in the casual tone of her voice as she said, "Aaron Stiles. He lives ... lived ... upstairs. He died four years ago, poor dear."

"So you're saying..." Elliott finally managed to say.

She put her cup down and looked at him. "Yes," she said pleasantly, "I'm afraid you've bought yourself a slightly haunted house."

Elliott took a long sip of his coffee before saying, as conversationally as possible, "Well, that is interesting. Tell me a little about Aaron."

She sat back, laying her arms casually on the arms of her chair. "It's an incredibly sad story, I'm afraid. He was such a sweet young man. He moved in about six years ago. He was very quiet and rather lonely, I suspect. But he was always pleasant and helpful whenever anyone needed anything, and everyone loved him.

"Aaron never talked much about his past, but from what I was able to gather, he must have had a very sad life. He mentioned once that his parents died when he was quite young and left him with the responsibility of raising a younger brother, about whom he never spoke.

"Then, about a year before he died, he found a ... friend ... who subsequently moved in with him. I'd never seen Aaron happier! They seemed truly devoted to one another. I think they were even planning to buy a house together. And then, one day, his friend just disappeared and never came back. Poor Aaron was devastated. Two weeks later, he died. I gather he had a congenital heart condition that had plagued him all his life. But if you ask me, I think he died, quite literally, of a broken heart."

Elliott shook his head slowly but said nothing. He felt there was nothing he could say.

"But why the knocking?" he asked finally.

She sighed again, softly. "The day after Bill--that was the friend's name, Bill Somers--disappeared, Aaron went around to all the apartments to ask if any of us might have heard from him. None of us had, of course. But every few days he would come around again. I think he is still looking."

Just as Elliott opened his mouth to ask another question, Mrs. Reinerio's phone rang, and she rose to answer it.

"Ellen, dear! It's so good to hear from you!" She paused to look at Elliott, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. "It's my daughter from Los Angeles," she said. "We've not talked in some time."

Taking the hint, he got out of his chair. "I won't keep you, then," he said, outwardly casual but inwardly cursing the interruption. "Perhaps we can talk more later."

"I'd like that, Elliott. Thank you for stopping by." Removing her hand from the mouthpiece, she resumed her conversation with her daughter as he let himself out.

He was frustrated by the sense he had merely scratched the surface of Aaron's story, and wanted to know more. What about this Bill--the one Aaron was still waiting for? What happened between them? Why had Bill left?

He had the sudden urge to track him down and ask him for the full story, but he dismissed the idea for several reasons, telling himself he was not a detective, that he wouldn't know where to start looking, and that the whole thing was really none of his business. He rethought that last objection, however, and decided that having purchased a "haunted" building made it very much his business.

He did, however, fully understand now what John had said about Aaron's sadness, and he empathized.

He considered hanging around and returning to talk to Mrs. Reinerio but realized that was hardly practical and would undoubtedly cause her to question his reasons for the intense interest in a dead man.

As he left the building and returned to his car, he couldn't resist the urge to turn around and seek out the top-floor apartment window in which Steve had painted the figure Elliott had no doubt whatsoever was Aaron. He didn't expect to see anyone, and he didn't. It was just a window of an empty apartment.

There was no possible way Steve could have known about Aaron, yet somehow, on some level, he obviously did. John had said Steve was "perceptive," and Elliott recalled at least two occasions while he was trying to find John's identity that he and Steve had identical dreams, and at the same time. He hadn't known what to make of it then, and he still didn't.

He had never told Steve--or anyone else--about John, and didn't know how or whether to bring up the subject of Aaron. It wasn't for fear Steve would think he was insane--Steve had clearly stated his own belief in ghosts. Part of it was that Elliott still wasn't completely sure he believed in ghosts--and most definitely not as most people thought of them. The vast majority of ghosts he had ever heard of seemed to be some sort of time/space anomaly, like a spectral movie clip, endlessly doing the same thing over and over and totally unaware of the living. Clearly, that wasn't John. Ghosts, to his knowledge, did not interact with the living, let alone talk to them. On the other hand, John had never appeared to him, and their conversations were limited to when Elliott was asleep.

And now there was Aaron, of whom Elliott had no direct personal awareness other than the knocking, which still could have some natural explanation. The only evidence he had that there even was still an Aaron was through John.

And Steve's painting.

And Mrs. Reinerio's interesting but unproven theory.


Learn more about the amazing Dorien Grey on his website and his blog Dorien Grey and Me. Be sure to click on Photo Life for a unique glimpse into this superb author's life.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from Christiane France. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


Those fun loving chicks are back and hotter than ever!

The Naughty Ladies of Nice
Book One
ISBN 978-1-60168-281-9
Aspen Mountain Press


Determined to prove herself and shed her party girl image, Donatienne Dubois pins her hopes on the exclusive cooking school in Nice, France. One by one her expectations are shattered by a foul-mouthed parrot, a bogus Michelin chef, and a headmistress with a heart of tungsten steel. Her lifesaver is a bad boy hunk too hot not to handle.

Sebastien Reinard is incognito, hating every minute. To pose as a student while protecting a rich wild child is his version of hell, until he partners with the slice of Crème Brule good enough to eat.

Class takes on a whole new meaning as Doni and Sebastien heat up the kitchen when they discover honey has better uses than sweetening tea.


“Ooh la la, Mademoiselle, voulez-vous à la baise?”

Donatienne’s running shoes squeaked to a halt on the cracked, gray linoleum. Fuck him? She didn’t fuck just anyone, especially if she didn’t know his name.

“Not unless you have more money than I could ever dream of, you pig.” She refused to turn back toward the crackly voice.

“What? Is your pussy made from gold?”

She gritted her teeth. Insolent bastard.

“Yes, it is. And equipped with a set of rusty fangs to rip off anything that tries to get inside.” Smartass answers weren’t her best first impression at the haute cuisine cooking school she’d waited so long to attend. She had to shake the lowlife who thought he could get away with insults before Chef tossed her out.

Ignore him. Just keep moving. Doni straightened her shoulders and walked past the double door refrigerator.

“Perhaps you prefer to give Pierre a blow job. He would make it worth your time.” A cackle filled the air. “Come on, baby. You know you want me, you slut.”

The fine hairs at the nape of her neck jumped to attention. Doni whirled around, swinging out her arm. She launched her heavy tote at the dumpy man in the splattered apron planted in front of the stainless steel stove.


A satisfying sound to Doni’s ears as her bag connected with his diaphragm and he buckled.

She sprinted a dozen steps toward him, punching air until her fists mashed into his doughy flesh. He shot out his hands. She dodged to the right, away from his reach. Her feet slipped on the waxed floor. Flailing her arms, she grabbed for anything handy. Crash. A white cloud billowed up, blinding her. They fell to the floor with Doni on top, tangled in a mass of apron and legs.

“Protect your balls. Protect your balls. The slut is crazy.”


I'll be back tomorrow with author Dorien Grey and another of his fantastic novels. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Monday, March 21, 2011


How's this for a wondrous emblem to post on an author's website?

That's just what my writing partner, the brilliant and versatile Robert Appleton, is now able to do. His based on true events book, Sunset on Ramree, is the first place winner in the Historical Fiction category for the 2011 EPPIE Awards. Congratulations, Rob!!

Robert Appleton
ISBN: 9781926704180 eBook
ISBN: 9781926704272 Print
Eternal Press

Publisher BUY LINK
Amazon Kindle BUY LINK

It is the deadliest crocodile attack ever recorded. On February 19th, 1945, one thousand Japanese soldiers retreated into the fetid mangrove swamps of Ramree Island hoping to escape their British enemy. However they soon discovered that the sixteen kilometre stretch of marshland that promised to offer safe cover, had delivered them straight into the jaws of hell.

Inspired by true events during WWII, Sunset on Ramree follows young musician-turned-soldier Shigeatsu Nakadai and his best friend, Kodi, as they head ever deeper into danger.

Lance-Corporal Hokuto Mayazuki has always been one of the luckiest soldiers in the Japanese Imperial Army. The scars of no less than six shrapnel cuts and bullet wounds tattoo the left side of his neck, all the way from ear to shoulder. So many miraculous escapes over a three-year tour of duty in the Pacific. Yet he will be among the first to die this evening--according to the medical officer--though not from any wound.

Today is February 19th, 1945, and he is succumbing to a strange, horrid fever. If one so tough can fall easily, I tell myself, what chance have any of us, retreating into these deadly marshlands of Ramree Island?

It is 16:45 and the British forces have outflanked us. Word spreads throughout our battalion that there is no escape. The mangrove swamp--a thick, stifling, fetid place of only damp reprieve--suddenly provides our only protection. And it is here, in the coming hours, that from the jaws of our defeat, Nature will try to snatch us for Herself. There are a hundred unseen ways for a man to die. We can never give in and time must therefore be the grind of the blade, that by our own hand we draw death--an honourable death. What end waits for me, I wonder? My name is Shigeatsu Nakadai. I do not want this sunset to be my last.

The water I pour onto my neck to drown a dozen large ants is drinking water. I curse the decision. From here on, saltwater is all we'll find. When my canteen runs dry, I'll start to die of thirst. The thought occurs to me to pilfer some of Mayazuki's--he's almost dead anyway--but the reasoning proves double-edged. What if he contracted his disease from that water? Is it worth the risk? Thirst or fever: in prolonging life by one means, might I not simply protract death by another? I decide to leave him his flask and take his can opener instead.

We've been rushing for hours. Our battery stronghold is now miles to our rear. Colonel Ojihoru is a determined man, but determined to do what? If we are not permitted to surrender, and there is no way through the British lines, what is his hurry? Suicide now or suicide later, it seems academic. Stoicism is my only refuge. It's as much a performance as those I give each night in my dreams--in the orchestra of Chadwick Hall in Canberra, where I play the clarinet--except this performance is to myself. Of all the ways to leave this swamp, suicide is the most impossible, at least to me. I'm quite sure that when the time comes to die with honour, I'll cry in front of the whole regiment. Will I be the only one?

Colonel Ojihoru never hesitates. Though he's knee-deep in swamp water, his feet remain on firm ground. That is his constitution. Lieutenants Katsumoto and Tanaka both salute as he points them, respectively, to the northeast and southeast corners of our retreat. As far as I can tell, we're trekking east. I catch up to Katsumoto as he clambers over a fallen tree in the water. He is my friend. Ever since he learned of my civilian profession, he's expressed a desire to hear me play the clarinet. I have surmised he is a well-educated, cultured man, both by his eloquence and his even-handed approach to leadership. Unlike Ojihoru, Katsumoto is liked as well as respected by the men.

"Sir, is it true we're surrounded on all sides?" I ask.

"Hmm ... would you like the long version, Nakadai, or the short?"

"The easiest to swallow, sir."

"Very well," he replies matter-of-factly. "There are British troops to our rear, and we think a British-Indian contingent may have landed to the east. Reaching General Ushui now seems unlikely. All we have right now is this swamp, and no intention of surrendering. Keep your wits about you, Nakadai; this place can kill a man on a whim when he isn't in the middle of a war. My advice is to pick someone you trust, stay close, and watch out for one another. Oh, and steer clear of the deeper water."

"I will, sir. Thank you."

With that, he pats me on the shoulder and wades out into the swamp. I think about reminding him of his own advice--to stay away from deep water--but he has no alternative. There is no way round. A dozen or so mosquitoes emerge from a nearby bush. They plague Katsumoto until he disappears from view. I see endless greens and browns suffocating our route, and no sign of life save one or two of our number creeping nervously through the water. Their eyes hardly look up. What's lurking beneath the surface? I hurry back to dry land, back to my friends on whom I count to keep me safe.

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Learn more about Robert Appleton and his intriguing books on his website or swing by his blog. Rob’s also on Facebook and Twitter.

I'll be back tomorrow with a new Tuesday Teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, March 11, 2011


Melissa Bradley, an exceptional author in any genre she writes, has a new dynamite book her many fans will love. Byzantine Provocateur is a contemporary heat level 3 story that has it all. From light BDSM and exhibitionism in public places to marvelous, yet brief, descriptions of Turkey, we travel through a modern day love story of money and power. It's a satisfaction guaranteed read and sure to capture many news devotees to the delightful talents of Ms. Bradley.

Melissa Bradley
ISBN-13: 978-1-61124-072-6
Amber Quill Press - Amber Heat


An ancient city sparks forbidden desire…

Thalia Burton arrives in Istanbul to relax and enjoy the company of her old friend. Hoping to forget the boring rut her life had become, she never imagines one encounter with Fadi's brother re-igniting the dim flame of passion inside her. Captivated by the heat in his golden eyes, Thalia finds herself tempted beyond reason...

Murat Bahar had only intended to meet Thalia as a courtesy to his family. One look at the lovely American incinerates his intentions. She is an exquisite morsel he longs to taste, a taboo treat enthralling him like a siren of myth. Perhaps just one night…

Once is not enough. Thalia and Murat embark on a fiery, secret affair that could burn them both, costing them friends and family.

Murat slid a finger along her jaw, her neck, tracing a tingly path to her décolleté. He stared at the pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat, like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say.

She held her breath, the butterfly touch sending tiny thrills rushing along her nerves. This was crazy. If she were smart she’d turn around right now and find her way back up to the ballroom.

“Once was not enough, tatlim,” he said hoarsely.

“What?” Thalia wheezed, unable to get a deep breath.

His hands slid down, grasping her arms and drawing them around his neck, pulling her into the shelter of his body. The spice of him surrounded her, blending perfectly with the scents of garden and sea, a hypnotic perfume that drugged her senses.

“I think you understood,” he whispered, his palms gliding up to caress her back. His heat through the delicate silk radiated along her skin.

She glanced up, eyes widening at the intense emotions she found reflected in his glittery gaze.

"I have hungered for you these last days and nights.”

Desire rolled through her like a gathering thunderstorm.

Dear, Jesus, please, please don’t let me wake up.

She wanted to kiss him, to wrap herself around him like a vine and never let go, but… Her darned conscience nosed its way into her fun.

“You said all those things,” she managed in a surprisingly steady voice. “How can you just turn all that off? And what about Fadi, your parents?”

His arms tightened as he nuzzled his lips into her throat. He whispered to her in Turkish, as though he were too overcome to form the right words in English. The exotic syllables fell hotly against her sensitized skin and her breath caught at the tiny electric thrills.

He drew back, the moonlight rendering his golden eyes silver. The torment there matched her own.

“This is a quandary, I know, but you are a rare breath of sweet fresh air, Thalia. My world has become too narrow, too constricted. Always doing what others expect. I need to be with you, if only for a little while.”


Keep up with Melissa Bradley on Myspace and follow her exciting blog Melissa's Imaginarium.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, March 09, 2011


ARIADNES THREAD is another terrific Marie Treanor novel filled with twists, plot, and thigh-clenching fire. Be sure to pick up a copy to keep you warm on these chilly spring evenings.

Marie Treanor
ISBN 978-1-60504-219-0
Samhain Publishing


It's New Year, the house is haunted and the owner's sexier than sin. Burglary isn't meant to be like this!

Glaswegian single mother Ariadne McSween is not having a happy New Year.Instead of celebrating with family and friends in time-honoured tradition, she's helping her scallywag brother and his even less savoury friends burgle a mansion in the Scottish Highlands. And nothing is going right.

First there's the bad weather and car breakdowns. Then, instead of a quick, quiet robbery under cover of a noisy party, Addie finds herself flirting outrageously with the house's owner, sexy concert pianist and accused murderer, John Maxwell. Worse, her violent and erratic accomplice, Shug, takes their hosts hostage.

Another complication: The house turns out to be haunted, and not just by the ghost of eminent composer Christopher Maxwell. Two randy spirits drawn to the lust of living want to join the party—along with the vengeful shade of John's murdered wife.

Soon Addie becomes entangled in a host of mysteries, like why are Ariadne and her cohorts being paid to rob a house that holds nothing more valuable than dusty musical manuscripts? And most of all, how does she avoid falling in love with the chief victim of her crime?

In this particular situation, she hardly lost herself in the music. She was in the house of people she was helping to rob. She had to play extremely quietly while listening for sounds of approach. Her nerves jangled, and she had to ignore the creepy, guilty feeling of being observed that had freaked her when she first sat down. Besides which, she’d forgotten some of it and had to improvise.

With a frustrated gasp, she dragged her hands upwards off the keys as if they’d been burned. Enough of this, Ariadne!

Twirling round on the stool, she leapt to her feet—and faced the man standing in the open doorway.

“Fuck!” she uttered before she could prevent it.

It wasn’t Jim, or even Shug. Dimly lit from behind as well as from the piano lamp, she had only the impression of a large man in a kilt, arms folded as he leaned against the door-frame to watch her.

“Before we’ve been introduced?” he enquired.

His voice was Scottish, but only just. The sort that would be considered English where she came from. Worse, it was deep and low, with a devastating timbre that vibrated right to the bits you didn’t want to think about while trespassing with criminal intent.

To her alarm, he pushed himself off the wooden frame and came toward her. His kilt swung round good, strong legs—stop looking at his legs!—as he walked, leisurely and graceful as a big cat. He was tall, rumpled as you’d expect of any self-respecting New Year reveler, tieless, his kilt and unbuttoned jacket crushed, shirt open askew at the throat, his dark, curly hair falling in wild disorder across his forehead. Black eyebrows stretched upwards in straight, dramatic lines from the bridge of his nose—devil’s eyebrows—and beneath them, intense, unquiet brown eyes regarded her without blinking. Shadows lurked beguilingly below finely sculpted cheekbones. His nose was slightly hooked, adding a predatory air to already Byronic good looks.

He didn’t look happy.

It was only willpower that prevented her climbing backwards across the stool to get away from him.

Releasing her gaze, his dropped to the region of her lips, flickered lower across her body and back up to her face. Surely that wasn’t a lustful gleam in his eyes now? Trick of the light… In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed off.

“Or have we?” he asked sardonically.

Addie found her voice at last. “Have we what?” she demanded with more aggression than she’d intended.

“Been introduced.”

Christ, I hope not!


I'll be back Wednesday with a new release from the brilliant author Melissa Bradley. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, March 08, 2011


ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-723-6
Amber Quill Press - Amber Heat


Battered hockey player Colt Coltrane arrives in Sweden with one thing on his mind--victory. A bad spill later, however, and he's at the tender mercies of the sexiest masseuse he's ever seen. From that point, all his good intentions go straight to hell when he strips for the Swedish iceberg.

Disa Ellstrom has had it with sports figures who always expect more from her than a massage. She can't believe her friend Carl sent the American goalie to her. Unable to ignore the man's pain, however, Disa takes on Colt and soon finds her heart melting faster than a spring thaw.

Combine a hot-blooded American and a Swedish spitfire and they're sure to set Stockholm ablaze...

Disa ran her fingers along Colt’s deltoids, watching the strong muscles flex under her touch. His shyness had been endearing along with confusing. She wondered if his physical problem went farther than the normal aches and pains of a professional athlete. If so, she intended to help him overcome the situation. If not, then he was in for a satisfying surprise. She hoped.

A quick scramble across the sheet gave him more room, then she tugged on his shoulders so he would lay back against the pillow. He winced, but continued to draw his legs up onto the bed.

She combed her fingers through the crisp auburn hairs sprinkled across his broad chest, descending to his beautiful hard dick nestled in a curly, reddish tuft. She swallowed hard, fighting her desire to suck him until he came.

“You are a fine-looking man, Colt.” She rose onto her knees, then traced a fingernail around his tight balls, her inner muscles clenching with desire.

He laid a hand on her calf and slowly eased it up toward her thigh, caressing her. His fingers climbed higher. A shudder ran through her from his gentle massage over her rear end up to the small of her back, then down, slipping a finger between her cheeks. Pressure built when he circled her sphincter, dipping his fingertip into the tight circle, out again, then back in.

She nipped at his balls, laving the tight sacs, savoring their salty taste. Her hand pumped his cock, starting slow and increasing the speed. His hips jerked, rocking with her rhythm, thrusting along her palm.

Deftly, Colt maneuvered out from under Disa and knelt facing her. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her with a passion she had never known. She clung to him, loving his strength, savoring his taste. He pulled away, the skin pulled taut over his cheekbones.

“It’s time to make you happy, baby. How about rolling over?” He tugged on her hip until she faced the brass headboard. “A little more to the center, so we can watch in the dresser mirror.”

She scooted across the rumpled linen and glanced into the antique glass. Their eyes met in the reflection and breath caught in her throat.

“Spread your legs, Disa.” He gently nudged her shoulders to the mattress. “I promise to go easy.”

Kisses rained down her back as he mounted her. His thick cock played against her wet labia, the swollen head teasing into her. After a smooth thrust, he was inside, filling her. One firm palm kneaded her lower abdomen, while his long fingers curled through her pubic hair, covering her mons. He stretched a finger along her nether lips, separating the folds, and massaged her fiery clit.

Tingles shot through her, watching their wavy images across the room. His arm muscles bulged as he moved his hands to her hips, gripping them tight, guiding her to him.

He rocked into her, the strokes faster and faster, his balls slapping against her perineum. He clutched her hips, slamming into her, riding her hard. She reared back, keeping pace, clenching her muscles to hold him tight, straining to swallow him in deeper. She gritted her teeth, biting back the scream that tore through her. Her body pulsed with his touch, screaming for release from the magnificent torture that only he could provide. She clutched the sheets, wadding the warm material in her fists, and burrowed into them, inhaling his musky scent.

“Come for me, baby.” His voice rasped against her back. “God, I need you...”


I'll be back tomorrow with gifted author Marie Treanor. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, March 04, 2011


Marie Treanor's new release is guaranteed to provide thrills and chills in all the right places. Wolf Hunt is a highly sexual, well-written novel centered around an awesome world. This is a book you want to read.

Marie Treanor
ISBN: 978-1-60521-500-6
Changeling Press


Who's hunting whom?

Human-wolf hybrids have been created by a top secret government project. Jon, Linnet and Yuri, once the military's finest, are released into the world to find and destroy alien infiltrators. But the task is not so simple when the wolves begin to think for themselves, and their missions are complicated by attraction, sex and divided loyalties.

A man wakes up naked and alone in a city doorway -- with no memory of how he got there or who he is. For journalist Rose Winter, a wolf story begins to converge with the sexy naked man she's trying to help. And her own secret becomes impossible to keep.

The werewolf Linnet is in season, and her desires fix on Louis, an alien android who serves Gardenian infiltrators. But is it right to make use of a sentient being just to fulfill her sexual needs? Linnet soon discovers Louis has needs of his own...

When the rebellious Senator Cereza is put in command of the Gardenian invasion fleet, she wastes no time in capturing the mysterious space pirate captain Yuri. But the tables are quickly turned. Taking Cereza hostage is necessary to Yuri. Seducing her isn't part of his plan, not when his wolf is liable to tear her apart and the fate of two peoples is balanced in their hands.

"Hey, what's going on?"

The female voice seemed to cut through his skin. Clear, brisk, curious, with a warm pitch that spoke straight to his cock. Or would have, had that organ not been so shriveled with rain and cold. A ripple moved through the hostile crowd. Voices muttered and he had to strain to catch the words.

"I know her. I'm sure I do."

"Who is she?"

"She's that girl on the newscreens. Shit, she's probably got a camera. I'm off..."

Threatening arms in the crowd lowered. Stones dropped casually on the ground with a scattering of dull thuds and several people drifted away.

A young woman emerged from the dispersing crowd, pushing down a rain hood to reveal luxuriant long hair of a bright and rare shade of amber, falling around a face that he supposed was beautiful. Certainly, her bone structure was exquisite, her lips full and tempting, her eyes large and brown...

But it wasn't her beauty or her melting eyes that truly caught his attention. It was her smell. Frowning, he tried to place it. Did he know her? Surely that scent was familiar... Something about it filled his mind with visions of naked, sweating bodies, mainly his own and hers.

She came to an abrupt halt and stared at him. Oh yes, she was highly fuckable, and yet, stronger than his upsurge of unexpected and inconvenient lust was the desire to put his hands around her elegant, swan-like neck and strangle her.

He flexed his fingers.

The older woman was explaining. "Art found him asleep in his doorway when he came home from night shift. Must be a drunk or a down-and-out, some kind of pervert too. Look at him!"

After her first flickering glance, the newcomer seemed to be rather determinedly focusing on his face. "He must be freezing," she said unexpectedly. In an instant, she'd stripped off her raincoat, revealing an orange bodysuit that seemed to match her hair, and bright, chunky beads around her throat. She advanced upon him.

He fell back, giving ground before her as he hadn't before the stone-throwing mob.

She paused. "I won't hurt you. What's your name?"

His throat closed up. Panic threatened to resurface. Her eyes searched his. Every hair on his body stood up in alarm. Though he'd no idea who she was, either, his every instinct was against trusting her.

"Where does he live?" she flung over her shoulder.

Silence and a few shrugs. "Why's he scared of her?" someone muttered.

Scared? Was he? Forcing himself, he stayed still when she took another step nearer to him. Maybe. But it felt like a powerful tug of lust. Mixed with an equally strong urge to exterminate her.

"He's not scared of her," answered another voice with a definite snigger. "He likes her."

She heard them. He could see it in the color soaring into her neck and face. He even admired the way she deliberately didn't so much as glance at his growing cock. And yet it didn't embarrass him. Perhaps he was an exhibitionist after all.


You can find out more about Marie Treanor and her books on her website.
Catch all her latest news on Facebook. Be sure to join the party on her new blog: Marie Treanor's Romantic Theme Party.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey... Hotter than Hell