Friday, February 25, 2011


British author Robert Appleton is a creative genius. His critically acclaimed books range from erotica to science fiction. Never one to stymie himself, Rob tackled the new Steampunk genre and produced a well-plotted mystery that keeps the reader guessing.

Robert Appleton
ISBN: 9781426891151
Carina Press


In a time of grand airships and steam-powered cars, the death of a penniless young maid will hardly make the front page. But part-time airship waitress and music hall dancer Julia Bairstow is shattered by her sister's murder. When Lady Law, the most notorious private detective in Britain, offers to investigate the case pro bono, Julia jumps at the chance—even against the advice of Constable Al Grant, who takes her protection surprisingly to heart.

Lady Law puts Scotland Yard to shame. She's apprehended Jack the Ripper and solved countless other cold-case crimes. No one knows how she does it, but it's brought her fortune, renown and even a title. But is she really what she claims to be—a genius at deducting? Or is Al right and she is not be trusted?

Julia is determined to find out the truth, even if it means turning sleuth herself—and turning the tables on Lady Law...


The hillside site at Dover was a veritable three-ring circus of photographers, police, picnickers, mobile sandwich and hot chestnut stalls, curious ramblers and more bespectacled men than Julia had ever seen congregated in one place. She guessed the latter were scientists and newspaper men. The Pegasus swooped low for a wonderfully close passing view of the iron mole, minutes before the start of its grand adventure. Other airships followed suit, then the convoy climbed, executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround and flew back over the machine, this time affording the passengers on the opposite side of the ships a clear view.

“It’s revving up,” Al enthused, responding to oohs and aahs from the far tables. “Come on.” He took Julia by the hand and hurried her across. A growl from below spun to a wiry squealing crescendo, much louder than she’d expected. No one would make way for Al, so to gain a better view he climbed onto a nearby chair. Julia offered to let him steady himself on her shoulder—the spectacle obviously meant more to him—but instead he helped her up onto a chair of her own.

Heady with excitement, she kept hold of his hand all while they watched.

The giant drill spun so fast she couldn’t make out its iron grooves. Its nose was a whirling monstrous cone of quite astounding power. Its silver body, a long, caterpillar cylinder covered with a spiral of toothlike treads, soon blackened under a layer of earth tossed up from the burrowing drill. A little over ten feet of penetration and already the debris cloud reached as high as the airships, masking much of the show.

Loud cheers and applause filled the Pegasus. Al beamed like a schoolboy at the fair. He reached over and gave Julia a peck on the cheek. She gripped his hand tighter. The Pegasus circled the cloud for a better view and she cheered along with everyone when the mole’s rear slid into the hillside and vanished, leaving a huge dark crater.

“It’s amazing,” she yelled above the furor.

“What’s that?” asked Al.

“Professor McEwan…he doesn’t even know what he’ll find down there.”

“I know. He’s a braver man than I…the magnificent fool.”

“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?” she asked.

Laughing, high on the moment, he hurled his hat and gloves at the ceiling and replied, “I don’t suppose he’s thought that far ahead. Relish it, Julia. He digs down, we climb high, the sun is out. This is a good day to be English!”

The small brass and woodwind sections finished their rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory,” then deferred to the string quartet for a lively number. Strauss’s “Tristch-Tratsch Polka,” one of her absolute favourites. Couples from all over the dining room, and even a few from the upper deck, scurried onto the polished, glittering dance floor and arranged themselves in a circle.

“Now or never,” Julia teased, holding her arms out for Al to lift her down from the chair.

He grinned and leapt to her aid with the agility of a swashbuckler. “Hey, do you even know this dance?”

“One way to find out.”

The dust cloud faded in the whorl of a breeze outside, permitting full, unfettered entry to the most brilliant sunlight Southern England had seen in weeks. It reflected off shiny crockery and bare tabletops and the roof of the spotless piano, blinding every dancer who spun in that direction. To her surprise, Al segued into the fast tempo with grace to spare, his compact, athletic frame matching her turn for turn. The feel of his hand on her waist made her giddy and his gaze found hers even when they changed partners. It inspired her to improvise during the ladies’ solo forays into the centre, and her bouncy quick-shuffles and spins soon drew generous applause from spectators. Al never once faltered. He was the steady glide to her soaring syncopation. This was her moment to shine. Hers and Al’s. While they were together, everyone else aboard the Pegasus faded away.

She had never enjoyed dancing more.


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

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, February 23, 2011


are what everyone faces at some point in their life. KC Kendriks' emotionally charged book A HARD HABIT TO BREAK immerses the read into the world of two men on the verge of altering their lives forever. It's an excellent read and one that was obviously written from the heart.

KC Kendriks
ISBN 978-1-60272-671-0
Amber Quill Press – Amber Allure


As the reigning stud of the local gay club scene, every guy in the county knows Travis Templeton, and vies for his attention. Travis wears his crown lightly, careful not to break any hearts. He knows what it’s like to really love someone who doesn’t love you back-at least, not in the way you want.

Heath Kelley made the biggest mistake of his life the night before his best friend Travis left for college. One small action snowballed into years of silent misunderstanding and empty distance. When Heath accepts a transfer that sends him to his hometown, he doesn’t know Travis has moved back home, too. It doesn’t take long for the men to reconnect.

Admitting they never stopped thinking of each other as “best friends” is easy. Forgiveness of past sins is easy, but confessing their secrets comes harder. When Heath discovers the truth about Travis’ private life, the newly repaired bonds of friendship are stretched taut.

It’s time for Travis to choose – the love of his best friend, or a life of being second best.

The ghost of his lips slid coolly over mine like they had so many times over the years, a phantom whisper that raised gooseflesh on the back of my thighs and buttocks. Travis fixed me with a stare far colder than my memories. His angry, hurt voice froze my insides.

“You had what I wanted, Heath. You were normal. You dated girls. You fucked girls.” He sucked in a deep, difficult breath. When he spoke again, the anger was gone, but not the hurt.

“Then you kissed me and brought the very thing I hated right to my bed. How could you do that to me? Why didn’t you tell me you were really gay?”

Stunned, my knees wobbled, and I leaned back against his car before they gave out and I ended up on the pavement. Never had I imagined he felt such self-loathing. I hadn’t seen it, but then I’d been just seventeen. Liking some girls muddied the water for me, and I never thought of myself as anything but straight, back then.

What I felt for Travis was special, outside everything, and everyone, else. He was my best friend. I was a senior in college before I dared put a name to my sexuality, and begin to accept what it meant. I took a chance he wouldn’t shake me off, and grasped his elbow. He trembled under my fingertips.

“Travis, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. How could I?”

He shivered, like he had a sudden chill. The anger left his beautiful eyes, to be replaced by a great sadness.

“I’m sorry, too, Heath. I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d hate me.
I thought you’d run away from me, and then I ran away from you.”

My chest ached. Thirteen years lost.

“I could never hate you, Travis. There was a lot I didn’t know about my teenage self. So much I didn’t understand.” I took a deep breath. “The truth is, I’m bi.”

His eyebrows drifted up. He blinked. I nodded and rolled my eyes at him.
“Don’t look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.”

Travis swallowed, hard, his Adam’s apple moving convulsively. “Um, sorry. Not that you’re…Your mom… I mean, I thought… is Dani a man or a woman?”
It was my turn to blink. “How’d you hear about Dani?”

“Your mother mentioned her.”


“Well, buddy, Dani is a guy. Daniel.”

“That’s not what I heard, man. Your mother thinks you had a live-in girlfriend.”

I snorted. How was he going to handle this bit of information?

“Well, Travis. Dani is fucking hot in a skirt, and on the telephone, it would be easy to jump to several conclusions.”

He blinked owlishly. “I see.”

I doubted it. Dani did standup comedy in full drag regalia, and it was damn funny.

Travis slumped against the fender beside me, our shoulders brushing. “You still want to go get that pizza? I really have to eat something so my glucose level doesn’t bottom out on me.”

That sounded like my old friend. “Do you still run for fun?”

Travis treated me to a real grin. “Yeah. Gotta feed the machine. Do you still run?”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t the same without you. Maybe I can get back into it, though. What do you think? Will you help me start training again?”

He looked pleased as he nodded. “Sure. It’ll help us get to know each other again.”

I leaned a little closer. “So, you’re not going to blow me off?”

Travis drew back like I’d struck him. Too late I realized the double-entendre. I grabbed his arm.

“Oh, no. No, man, I did not mean I wanted…I meant you weren’t going tell me to go to hell and then run away again.”

His eyes narrowed. “What? I’m not good enough to give you a blow job?”

We’d veered into very murky waters, the potential for disaster suddenly and exponentially increasing. We’d just reconnected, and the only thing that kept me from throwing my arms around him and never letting go was fear he’d bolt again.

As for blow jobs, I’d go to my knees for him anytime he snapped his fingers and pointed at the spot, but I didn’t dare tell him that for the exact same reason.

“Lord, Travis. Let’s not talk about sex just yet.”

To my surprise, he chuckled. “Heath Kelley, backpedaling. I’m amazed I lived long enough to see it happen.”

“Laugh all you like. We can talk sex over lunch.”

Travis turned to me, arms crossed over his chest, his hip against the car.

“No, Heath. We won’t talk sex. You’ll always be my best friend. Hell, you’re more than that. I’ve missed you so much.” He paused and took a deep breath.

“Sex is off limits, Heath. I don’t want to talk about it with you, and as friends, we’re not going to do it.”

He might think that, but I knew better.


This title is also available as part of FROM THIS MOMENT ON, a five-story PAX available only at Amber Allure.

Learn more about KC Kendricks on her website and blog. You can follow her on Twitter and MySpace. Join KC's mailing list for all her latest news.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from the uber talented Robert Appleton. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, February 22, 2011


ISBN: 978-1-60168-139-3
Aspen Mountain Press



Photojournalist Emily Peters is in Paris when the opportunity to expose an infamous sex club sets her on fire. She never expects to be tied up in knots by the Devil.

Restaurateur Nicholas Caine prefers an inconspicuous lifestyle, but when a sex goddess enters his lair there’s only one thing he can do…take her.

Her nose twitched as a subtle, yet pleasant, aroma surrounded her.

“It is pear, Madam.”

Another tall handsome waiter, looking good enough to eat, stood at her side and without a word slid a menu in front of her. She glanced up into large chocolate eyes and her heart stuttered.

“Pardon?” Her voice came out on a whoosh of air.

“I noticed your attempt to distinguish the scent.” He waved a large hand in the air. “Many of our ladies have had your same reaction.”

She cleared her throat. “Delightful.”

“At times, late in the evening, the air is infused with a hint of cinnamon and chocolate.” His eyes twinkled as if he were sharing a dark secret. “Tempts one to indulge in a decadent dessert. Would you care for one, Ms Peters?”

A shiver weaved its way up her spine when he said her name. With shaking fingers, she took a gulp of ice water, ordering her oversexed body to behave.

“If nothing on the menu appeals to you, Chef Claude would be elated to whip up whatever you prefer.”

British and gorgeous.
And then it sunk in. Chef Claude.

“Is he Claude St. Cyr? The same chef who owns a cooking school?”

The waiter from every woman’s fantasy grinned. “One in the same.”

Now what the hell is he doing in a place like this?

“Ms Peters?” He tapped a well-groomed fingernail on the menu.

“What? Oh yes.” She flipped open the leather jacket to scan the tasty treats, her one downfall. The card read like an international list of culinary sexual pleasures.

Spotted Dick presented by Jon

Bavarian Cream presented by Hans

Hot Soufflé presented by Francois

Mocha Butter presented by Motumba

Emily slipped the cap off her lipstick tube, then did an unhurried swipe along her bottom lip, wondering just how far the presenters would go.

“Do you see anything you like?” His deep voice played havoc with her senses as she squirmed in her damp panties.

“Too bad you don’t offer Cumberland Rum Nicky. I enjoyed it at a restaurant in London a few years ago. Never found it again.” His tanned face paled as if she’d requested to borrow The Crown Jewels.

“Perhaps a dish of Whim Wham?”

“No thanks, I’m fanciful enough.” She laughed at her little joke about the true meaning of the Scottish pie. “I’d really like a Benedictine straight up and a cup of black coffee.”

He nodded and walked toward the bar area.

Of all the waitstaff Emily had encountered or seen during her two hours over dinner, this last was the paix de la résistance. Sable brown hair caressed his white shirt collar. She’d give anything to run her fingers through the thick waves.

The Reverend and ladies met with her lickable waiter at the doorway. He stood to the side, gesturing for them to go first. The tallest of the women stopped and started up a conversation, but he backed away the moment she ran her fingers along his jaw line.

Seems like the help gets to play with the clientele.

Emily pulled the cap off her lipstick tube.

Smile, I think you’re going to like this one.


I'll be back tomorrow with KC Kendricks. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Monday, February 21, 2011


The house is rocking! The MILLION DOLLAR QUARTET celebrates 1000 nights onstage at the Apollo Theater in Chicago.

Not familiar with this new smash-hit musical? Here’s a little background:

On December 4, 1956, four musicians held the greatest jam session ever.

No, I don't own this priceless photo. I "borrowed" it from the official website.

Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Elvis Presley met with Sam Phillips, the “Father of Rock-n-Roll,” at Sun Records’ storefront studio in Memphis, Tennessee. Sam Phillips discovered them all and propelled them to success. That night was the only time these great talents ever came together. Their ad-lib recording session embodied the birth of rock ‘n’ roll and has come to be known as one of the greatest rock jam sessions ever.

Studs and I had the great fortune to see MILLION DOLLAR QUARTET. We both agree, it is the best play we’ve seen in years.

The talented actors Gabe Bowling, Carl Perkins, David Lago, Elvis Presley, Lance Lipinsky, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Sean Sullivan, Johnny Cash bring the musical to life and the audience to their feet. Darcy Wood, Dyanne, gives a stellar performance with her rendition of “Fever.” Make it a point to follow the careers of these outstanding performers, they'll be mega-stars in a short time.

features a score of rock hits that have you dancing in your seat. "Blue Suede Shoes," "That's All Right," "Sixteen Tons," "Great Balls of Fire," "Walk the Line," "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On," "Who Do You Love?," "Matchbox," "Folsom Prison Blues," "Hound Dog" are just a few of the great songs.

Be sure to make a date and rock the night away at the
Apollo Theater
2540 North Lincoln Avenue
Chicago, IL.

Purchase tickets direct from Apollo Theater 773-935-6100 or order on line from I suggest calling the theater. Prices are better, tickets can be picked up performance night, and they walk you through the seating chart.

Check out this thrilling musical’s website for a great look behind the scenes.

Be sure to buy the $20.00 cd. It’s TERRIFIC!

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

Happy Listening!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell

Friday, February 18, 2011


is definitely Marie Tuhart's forte. Written with a flair only Marie possesses, her latest release QUICK SILVER RANCH: ROPED AND READY is HOT!

To celebrate, Maire is having a party on her blog. Stop by and find out how to enter her release day contest.

Marie Tuhart
The Wild Rose Press


Quick Silver Ranch is no ordinary dude ranch.

After Becca Dalton finds her fiancé in bed with her boss, she ends the ill-fated engagement on the spot and quits her job. She heads to Quick Silver Ranch, looking to regroup before an interview for the job of her dreams--an executive position at a five-star hotel.

Becca's best-laid plans are ruined when she discovers the exclusive ranch is for consenting couples who spend their days and nights exploring their most wicked sexual fantasies. For Becca to remain at the ranch and take advantage of all the arousing activities, she needs a partner.

Her sexy college lover and part owner of the ranch, Tyler Carson, is willing to break all the rules, partner up with Becca and have her roped and ready for a week of unimaginable pleasure. But is a week enough to satisfy his desire for Becca?

Indecision kept her from going into the bedroom and packing. A knock sounded. Cross the room, she pulled open the door.

"Hi," said Tyler.

Her insides melted. Liquid heat flooded her pussy and her nipples grew hard. Damn it, it wasn't fair he could do this to her after all this time. "Come in." She left the door open and retreated, wrapping her arms around her waist.

The door slid closed with a quiet click. She paced around the room. "I didn't realize-I mean-Oh, hell." Her arms waved in the air as she tried to explain. "I'm sorry. I'll leave."

"You don't have to." He crossed the room to stop in front of her.

The heat coming from his body singed her skin.

"It’s couples only, Tyler. I didn't know about the adult part either, until I read the book here in my cabin."

"Yes, it usually is couples only. But you do have a choice in the matter."

"I don't see how." She tilted her head. Did he want her to stay?

"We do have regular dude ranch activities. I'm sure you read that in the brochure. I can teach you to ride if you decide to stay. I'll be your guide for the week."

"That would be nice." Who was she kidding? It would be torture. He's asking as a friend, not as a lover. She wanted the lover. After Alan's rejection the unwanted, unlovable feelings overwhelmed her. And now here was this uncontrollable reaction to Tyler, giving her more proof the wedding to Alan was nothing but a shame. She needed to feel like a woman, again. And Tyler could do that for her, she was confident he could. But only if he was willing.

"Your choice, Becca."

Her haze gaze clashed with his blue one. Stay or go. She wanted to stay.

Her mind was made up. Stepping closer to him, she asked, "Will you be my guide for the adult activities as well, Tyler?"


Learn more about Marie Tuhart and her band of hot cowboys on her website and Escape to an Erotic Fantasy on her blog.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Monday. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Thursday, February 17, 2011


Captivating Sarah Grimm and I met at a conference more years back than either of us wish to admit. We've remained friends, boosting each other when needed and slogging down cyber beers to celebrate our successes. Today, Sarah is here to share her heartfelt writer's journey and its brilliant outcome.

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. I have notebooks filled with poems, story ideas, and partial chapters from as far back as age five. Yes, thanks to my older sister, I could read and write by age five. And I did. I read everything I could get my hands on, usually re-writing the story in my head as I went. If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always answered something different depending on the day. I couldn’t make up my mind. Then I picked up my first romance novel. Suddenly I had my answer: “I want to get married, have children and write romances.”

As a young girl, I always had a story to tell. At times they were funny, other times scary, but they were always, and I mean always, happily-ever-after. You see, I’m a romantic—a die hard romantic. I believe in love, not just as a fundamental part of human relationships, but as a force that really can heal emotional scars. I truly believe there is someone for everyone—the person they are meant to find. Their other half. Their soul mate.

I always say that NOT WITHOUT RISK was the first story I wrote from start to finish, but after being asked to put something together about my road to publication, I realized that it wasn’t. My first story wasn’t even a romance, it was a story about my best friend. A story I titled MY CAT SNEAKER, which won a Young Authors Award. I still have the award, and the story, packed away with a few mementos from my youth.

When I got married, I set my writing aside. I focused on my husband and building a family. Then my youngest son was born and the struggle to keep him alive began. He was healthy at birth, colicky, irritable even, but healthy—until he turned six weeks old and began showing symptoms of croup. Fast forward a few months to me, frantically rushing in and out of the hospital with my son. We made so many late night emergency visits that my oldest began sleeping by the door to keep track of mommy. I can’t tell you how many times we rushed to the hospital with a child who was turning blue, only to be told by the doctors that they didn’t know what was wrong with him. Most of them thought I was just a young, overreacting mother (I even got the condescending pat on the head from a few), but one believed there was something more going on than croup.

That man saved my child’s life. He found a birthmark in my son’s throat that obstructed eighty percent of his airway. By the time we were done, my baby had endured stomach surgery, throat surgery, and a tracheotomy with all the special care that entails. As you can imagine, all the hospital time left me desperate for a distraction, so I took pen to paper, yup, longhand, and wrote my first romance. Not just bits and pieces of a book, but the entire hero and heroine’s journey from ‘Chapter One’ to ‘The End’.

Once the book was finished, I joined Romance Writer’s of America nationally as well as my local chapter. I went to conferences and learned about the craft of writing. I wrote and re-wrote that book, about four times actually, until I felt it was good enough to submit. I submitted to Triskelion just after they received RWA recognition, and they accepted it. I wasn’t with a big NY publisher, but I didn’t care. I was going to be published.

Then Triskelion began having problems. There were some of us who could see it coming, but like a train wreck, there wasn’t anything we could do. By this time, my first book had debuted to rave reviews and brisk sales, and they’d accepted my second book proposal. When they went bankrupt, I stopped writing. I felt betrayed and discouraged. In retrospect I should have kept plugging along, doing what I loved most, but I guess we don’t always do what’s best for us.

In 2008 I decided enough was enough and jumped back into the publishing world with both feet. I submitted to The Wild Rose Press. I was thrilled when they accepted my romantic suspense, NOT WITHOUT RISK. Even more so when it was released in January 2010 to reviews calling it “…fast paced, nail biting, page turning, edge of your seat suspense…” and "...a romantic, adventurous, thrilling read."

I’m happily writing again. I have just completed edits on my second book, a contemporary romance titled AFTER MIDNIGHT, to be released soon by The Wild Rose Press. And I’m currently writing its follow-up, MIDNIGHT HEAT.

Oh, and how could I forget? NOT WITHOUT RISK was just nominated for the Long and Short of It’s BEST BOOK of 2010. The polls are active beginning February 14 at and will continue until February 27. If you'd like to vote, and I appreciate it if you do, please click here.


Sarah Grimm
The Wild Rose Press

Available now in eBook and Print. BUY LINK

Six agonizing months after a slug collapsed his lung, Sergeant Justin Harrison manages to return to the one place where he shines—the San Diego homicide division. Nothing will stand in the way of proving he is fit for active duty. Especially not the long-legged brunette who just stumbled into his crime scene.

Photographer Paige Conroy spent years hiding from her past. Then a late night telephone call brings it crashing back. An old friend is in town and needs her help. When she arrives at his hotel room four hours later, he's dead. Suddenly, she's the target of a madman, and Paige must turn to Sergeant Harrison for protection.

But who is the bigger threat to her... the faceless assailant she fears will steal her life or the dark-eyed detective she knows could steal her heart?

Paige had lost count of the times she’d told herself to stay away from him. She couldn’t stay away from him. Even as his words confirmed without a doubt they had no future together, the vulnerability in his eyes called out to her. She removed her fingers from his and slid her left hand up his chest to cup his jaw. His gaze warmed, the color of his eyes deepened as she dragged her fingers back and forth across the scruff of his beard stubble.

He would never love her.

She shifted her hand again, this time boldly smoothing her fingers across his lips. What should have been the catalyst that pushed her across the room drew her closer.

Justin reached up and curled his fingers around her wrist. “Be sure you want this,” he warned in a low growl. “I can’t make you any promises.”

She didn’t want any promises. She wasn’t looking to the future or worrying about the intelligence of her decision. For once, Paige wanted to live in the moment. She let reason slip and need take its place. “I want this,” she whispered, her thumb exploring his bottom lip. “I want you.”

The hand he held curled around her wrist flexed once, otherwise he did not move. Paige pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and stood. Unabashedly, she straddled his legs and settled atop his lap, her knees hugging his hips. The hard press of his erection shot sensations through her body like lightning bolts and drove a little growl of pleasure from the back of her throat.

She shuddered as he pulled her even closer, plowed his fingers into her hair and arched her head back. They were inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes, breathing the same air. His eyes weren’t cool now, they simmered with life, with greed and desire. His mouth hovered over hers for what seemed like an eternity then settled.

He was gentle at first and then, as she surrendered, his mouth explored hers with greater intent. He kissed her almost roughly, completely on fire, sweeping his tongue possessively into her mouth. His hands settled on her hips, gliding upward beneath her shirt until his palms closed over her naked breasts. His moan of approval, so raw and husky, vibrated into her mouth and made her heart pound even harder. The sensation of bare flesh against bare flesh sent waves of heat spiraling from her head to her toes. Her nipples hardened. Her belly quivered.

Arching her back, she pressed herself firmly into his palms and invited his hands to explore her more fully. He did, rolling her straining nipples between his fingers then worrying them with the friction of his palms. Her body shuddered. Wet heat flooded her core.

“Paige,” he breathed, as his mouth plundered her throat, fastened on that incredibly sensitive spot beneath her ear, then continued down to fasten on one of her breasts. He drew in the rigid tip of her nipple, and sucked.

Her lips parted on a quiet moan. She wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers into his hair, as pleasure arrowed through her system. The hot wet feel of his mouth on her was almost more than she could handle. And yet, it wasn’t enough. His hands smoothed down her sides to settle on her hips. His fingers curled into her flesh as he used his teeth, his tongue, his lips.

A gasp escaped her when he lifted her, sealing his torso to hers as he settled her along the length of the couch in one smooth motion. Bracing himself with his arms to keep his weight from crushing her, he came down on top of her, shifting his hips and pressing his erection more fully against her. His mouth returned to hers in a dizzying kiss.

Available now in eBook and Print. BUY LINK

Learn more about Sarah Grimm on her website and blog. Be sure to join her Facebook Fan Page and Twitter for more updates.

I'll be back tomorrow with a new release from Marie Tuhart. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Nothing says Happy Holidays like a pair of rough and tumble cowboys good enough to eat. Cowboys for Christmas is a hot read you'll want to crack open any time of the year.

Destiny Blaine
ISBN 978-1-60168-383-0
Aspen Mountain Press


A holiday blizzard brings a pair of cowboys to a woman's home.

Julie Kensworth opens her door to more than a blizzard and greets two wayward cowboys. She realizes right away she’s headed straight for the eye of the storm.
Brandon Blake and Quinn Stewart are a long way from home. They’re looking for a warm place to hang their hats while they try to wait out the snow and ice, which continues to gain momentum.

Julie is an author and she’s not just the average writer, she’s one of the most notorious writers in the world. When Quinn and Blake figure out Julie is an erotic romance author, well, needless to say, their minds churn with all sorts of ideas, most of them geared toward how they can heat up the cold winter nights ahead.

"I don’t know why you’re pouting," Brandon spat a few minutes later. "She didn’t tell us to hit the road, she just told us to wait out here until she dressed in private."

"I guess I was hoping for an explicit expression of gratitude."

Brandon pointed toward the mantle. "Don’t forget. She probably has a boyfriend."

Quinn ignored him and eyed the bookcase. "The boyfriend isn’t what I’ve been thinking about. What I’m wondering is why she has so many of those Carla Carrington books."

Julie strolled in the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. She lit up the place with an easy smile and a refreshing stroke of confidence. "Carla Carrington is my pseudonym."

"Do huh?" Brandon asked, chin dropping.

"Your pseudonym?" Quinn asked for clarification.

"Yeah," Julie said. "I’m a writer."

Brandon felt like something was stuck in his chest. She wasn’t just a writer. She was the best selling, award-winning author of scorching hot books often made into explicit after-dark television movies. She’d been on the lips of quite a few talk show hosts who openly covered the demise of morals in today’s world. Carla Carrington wrote the kind of books that Brandon wouldn’t have let his daughter read—assuming he had a daughter, which he didn’t. On the other hand, if he had a wife, Carla’s books would’ve been mandatory reading.

"You said you’re a writer," Brandon began, clearing his throat. "But Carla Carrington is..."

"I’m Carla," she interrupted. "I write under a couple of pseudonyms."

Quinn looked around the small cottage. He was probably thinking the same thing Brandon was. Why did she live in such a small house if she was really Carla Carrington? Carla should’ve been living in an oceanfront mansion with a full crew doting on her, bringing her chocolate covered mints and arranging social events.

The woman behind the world’s most scandalous writing should not have been dressed in hide-tight blue jeans, a low-cut fitted sweater, and have her hair tossed up in a clumsy ponytail. A woman writing explicit scenes like the one Brandon had read earlier should not have looked like an adorable barely legal girl!

Brandon was suddenly uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six, why?"

"Just curious. That’s all." He was also amazed he could speak.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Quinn blurted out.

Way to fucking go! Brandon set his jaw and watched the color drain from Julie’s cheeks. Brandon shot Quinn a cold stare. "You can quit foaming at the mouth anytime now."

Quinn didn’t say anything. Brandon braced for fighting words. The cold glare he received raked over him about as deliberately as a verbal retaliation.

Brandon decided what the hell. Quinn started this. "Do you have a boyfriend?" He’d die right there if she said she had a husband.

"No, I do not." She marched across the kitchen, opened the pantry, and retrieved two jars of her homemade soup, setting them on the small island in the kitchen’s center. "Anyone hungry?"

Brandon grinned, staring at her ass. "Honey, I’m practically starving."


Learn more about Destiny Blaine on her Website and blog. Also, catch up with her on Facebook.

I'll be back tomorrow with some great news about my good friend, author Sarah Grimm. Be sure to come back. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, February 15, 2011


Magnificent Men of Munich Book Four
ISBN: 978-1-60168-256-7
Aspen Mountain Press


Jet setter Isabella Carrington has it all, fame, heart-stopping looks, and carte blanche over every man she meets, except one. Staid accountant Rhineholdt Hoffman proves to be immune to her charms. Until one hot Venetian night.

Rhineholdt came to Venice to escape a life that holds no meaning. He’s sworn off sex until a chance encounter with the luscious Isabella. Their heated affair sets the City of Bridges on fire and forces him to face the fears holding him back.

So what does a woman who has everything, except the right man, do for fun? Come… Take a peek behind Isabella’s bedroom door.

Holt wanted to fuck her all night long. Ride her until sunup and again all the next day. He could not seem to get his fill of Isabella. In bed or out.

Isabella stretched up, her nipples sliding against his chest, and kissed him. He clutched her tighter, then scooped her up into his arms. In a few strides he stood at the side of her bed and lowered her onto the center of the duvet.

He looked down on her, allowing his fingertips to skim along the curve of her hip as she pulled her knees up, covering the part of her he wanted most to see.

“No, Issy. Lower your legs and open them.” He traced his hand down the inside of her thigh. “I want to see all of you.”

“Holt, but do not tease me any longer.” She reached out her hand to his.

He mounted the mattress, then braced his arms on either side of her, isolating them from the world, and swung his body between her wide spread thighs.

He kissed her mouth, along her cheek, moving lower to her throat. She wiggled and tried to thrust her hips against him, but he caught her, holding her still.

“It is my turn to have a little fun, Issy.” He sucked her nipple into his mouth, swirling the peak with his tongue until she moaned. A series of shudders ran the length of her as she reached for his cock, but he reared up just enough to stop contact.

Holt kissed his way down Isabella’s body, laving at her navel until her hands pushed his shoulders lower, as if she craved his mouth on her hot clit.

Her swollen pussy was wet and shiny, the blonde hairs laced with her cream. He ran an index finger between her folds and she moaned. Her hips bucked as he slid his finger up and down, along her channel, barely grazing her clit.

He lowered his shoulders, nestling between her thighs, and traced his mouth along her skin until her wet hairs tickled his cheek. Slowly he spread her folds, the pink flesh quivering with his touch, then laved and sucked her labia, loving the sweet honey taste of her sex.

She grabbed the rails of the headboard, rising up to meet his lips, but he clamped her hips into place. Her trembling body tensed and he knew she was but a lick away. He slid his index finger into her wet channel, massaging against the inside wall. She moaned and her muscles clenched around him, holding him tight. He edged out, then glided two fingers back in, rotating them against the slick walls as he watched her unfocused eyes widen.

Dieu, Holt, no more torture.” Her pitch had dropped to a throaty whisper, the words coming out strangled.

He looked up at her. With shaky fingers, he wiped her wetness from his face and repositioned himself between her thighs…


I'll be back tomorrow with Destiny Blaine. Until then...

Happy Reading.

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Monday, February 14, 2011


During the day, Celia Kyle is an Assistant Controller of a multi-million dollar company that manages a billion dollar portfolio of apartment communities and commercial buildings. By night, she’s a multi-published author of over thirty works. Celia has created several multi-author series’ including Strange Hollow at Liquid Silver Books and the Big, Blooming & Wild and Dragon Kin series’ with Changeling Press. She also worked as the Art Director for Aspen Mountain Press. So what does a high energy person do to round out her career? Found out in our Q & A session.

What prompted you to open Summerhouse Publishing house?

I had a few "edgier" stories that I wanted to publish but was worried that they'd be too much for some of my current publishers and the idea of self-publishing came to mind. Unfortunately, there are a few stigmas surrounding self-published works, costs for artwork that can cost a pretty penny as well as the need for quality editing before publication. I figured that if I had those concerns, others probably did as well. SHP provides authors a "house" to stand behind, quality editing, gorgeous artwork and two owners dedicated to marketing their authors to their fullest.

I felt there was a gap within the industry. With the growing popularity of self-publishing, Summerhouse Publishing acts as a middle ground between authors self-publishing their works and a full scale publishing house. We take well-written manuscripts and give them a final polish with copy-editing, provide professional cover art, wide spread distribution and extensive marketing. We help eliminate the stigma surrounding self-publishing by giving those authors a "house" to stand behind.

How will your house be different than anything we've seen before?

We showcase works different from the norm, sweet romances with space pirates and legends of King Arthur to books where a sexy djinn is trapped in a treadmill and not a lamp. Also, our "taboo" list is a smidge shorter than other publishers. We want envelopes pushed and stories that aren't the "norm".

What kind of product will you deliver to your readers?

Engaging, exciting and captivating books. Short or long, sweet or erotic, SHP wants to be a go-to place for readers. We’ve got three lines of short works geared toward readers searching for something on their lunch hour to novels for those that like to settle in for a night spent in another world.

When is the grand opening?

We open March 14th. Our release program is one book every other week, but on opening day we feature two books.

The first is HER DARK FAIRY by Ella Vines, an engaging historical paranormal erotic romance that touches your heart and *ahem* other places.

The second is INDIGO RAIN by Taige Crenshaw, an action-packed paranormal erotic romance with plenty of fighting both in and out of the bedroom.

Tell us a little about your future releases and their authors.

Davida McLea brings us some roadside lovin' and Darragha Foster is the source of the aforementioned treadmill djinn. Wayne Greenough tugs us into space while KG McAbee hurls us into the past with her gothic romance. Scottie Blaine shows us her love of horses and manlove. Then there’s Mina Carter who always manages to get your heart pumping with both fighting and sex…occasionally at the same time. And Lizzie Lynn Lee brings us a lot of passion in many unusual locations.

What sort of stories will SHP offer and in what lengths and formats?

Everything from straight contemporary to paranormal to BDSM and everything in between. There are no limits to the sub-genres and sexual encounters we are interested in. We publish works as short as 3,000 words and actually have three short story lines specifically targeted for readers who like a quick shot of love on their lunch hours. Can't Think Straight features same-sex couples, both male/male and female/female while Digital Decadence features heterosexual couples. And Electronic Excess welcomes multiple partner relationships/sexual encounters.

Do you have any specific lines that readers watch for?

We've got three special short story lines featuring same-sex relationships (Can't Think Straight), heterosexual relationships (Digital Decadence) as well as multi-partner relationships (Electronic Excess).

Why will readers want to keep SHP books on their readers?

We'll constantly be offering new books that touch their hearts and *ahem* other places. Not necessarily in the same book. We'll have all flavors of romance and erotica with something sure to tempt the most discerning reader.

Are you open for submissions? Do you accept unagented, unpublished authors, and unsolicited submissions?

Of course! Authors are authors, plain and simple. We welcome everyone.

What type of stories is Summerhouse Publishing seeking? What are your submission requirements?

We accept works as short as 3,000 words to full-length novels. Those manuscripts are well-written, with no plot holes, head hopping and have been thoroughly self-edited. Currently I'm interested in interesting stories. I know that's pretty vague, but there are so many sub-genres that I enjoy in romance and erotica that I have a hard time settling on just a handful right now.

Why will authors want to write for SHP?

Authors that want a house that encourages their imaginations to fly free, that crave fewer limitations, should consider us. We are transparent in our dealings with authors and staff. Short of providing my social security number, I'm more than happy to answer any questions authors may have. I actually encourage any authors even thinking of submitting to SHP to contact me with any and all concerns. I want authors and staff happy to be associated with SHP, to be proud to have their manuscripts accepted and thrilled to list SHP on their resumes. Also, our pay rate start at 60% net. Those rates rise up to 70% net as sales rise.

Do you have a strategy to make your company get known?

We'll be actively marketing books in a variety of ways including social networking, advertising on blogs and press releases.

Will you be making any appearances at conferences this year?

2011 is a year of growth and setting roots for SHP. We're reinvesting any profits made into the house, its authors and staff. While I believe that appearances will be an important part of networking in the future, we want to make sure that establishing SHP is our first priority.

How can readers easily find the latest updates on SHP, its books, its authors?

On our website. We also have a blog. It's updated regularly during our pre-opening days, then it will be Shanghaied by our authors. We can also be found on twitter and facebook.

Besides your website, where else will your books be available for purchase?

We'll be at the major distributors including Amazon, Barnes & Noble and the iBookstore.

Thanks, Celia, for coming out. With your acumen and talent, I know you'll have a huge success with Summerhouse Publishing.

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

Happy Reading.

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, February 11, 2011


Our guest author, Margaret West, is an awesome romance and paranormal writer. Born in England, Margaret and her family moved to the Kent countryside five years ago to get away from the busy life in London. She has worked in various fields and is a Clair-knowing medium, Crystal Therapist, Parapsychologist and Psychic development tutor.

Margaret has been writing over 20 years and has numerous short stories, novels and articles published. She incorporates her spiritual experiences into her novels with thrilling results. ABIGAIL COTTAGE is a perfect example of her excellent talent.

Margaret West
ISBN 978-1-9079-6305-6
Hedge-Witchery Books

Hedge-Witchery Books
Amazon UK

After receiving an inheritance of a cottage in Ireland and discovering she is adopted, Abbey Newlands goes in search of her real family. But before she arrives at the cottage, a chain of events and a whirlwind romance leaves her deeply in love with Shaun O'Donnell.

When Shaun's mother, Aveline, reveals a dark twist of fate that means they can never be together, Abbey flees to the cottage alone, pregnant and unaware that it is cursed by two demons who reside there. One who will love her, and one who wants her dead.

Only Shaun has the power to save them both and lock the demons away behind Hell's door.

Abbey moved her hand and touched the ground. A cold breeze ran its icy fingers Along her body and she felt her flesh recoil. “What’s happening?”

She turned her head and saw the cottage outlined in the darkness. A deeper reasoning told her he was dreaming, yet fear warped any logic. She stared, trying to see through the veil of darkness. No one was there, yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention and told her otherwise. Panic made her heart beat uncomfortably and she placed her hand on her chest to calm the rhythmic ache.

Abbey got to her feet. She felt wobbly, unsure why she couldn’t run to the cottage. Fear nagged her like an irritating itch, but the more she hurried the further away it became. The freezing wind whipped by. It was strong, pushing her back, away from safety – away from her home. Huge trees whipped down their branches, slicing the air above her head as though trying to spear her flesh. She screamed when one snagged her hair and tore a piece from her scalp. Abbey ran until her lungs felt they would explode with pressure. Her legs grew heavy, as though she were carrying a great weight. She stopped, gasping for breath. It was then she saw her grotesquely distended stomach. A sharp stab of fiery pain, spread across it.

“Shaun, help me,” she screamed into the darkness.

The pain came in waves, with little retribution, until her legs buckled and the ground came up to meet her with a sickening thud. Abbey winced as her body jarred against its firmness. When she saw shadowy figures moving towards her, she almost cried with relief.

“Please - someone help me.”

“You have the cheek to ask for help with that abomination you carry,” a woman’s voice replied.

“Why I heard tell it’s spawned from your brother’s seed!” A man shouted.

Abbey’s mouth dried out with terror. How did they know?

“It’s my child,” she argued. “You’ve no right to condemn me.” She forced herself to sit upright and held her head rigid in defiance. “Do you hear me, this is MY baby.”

When something warm trickled between her legs, Abbey looked down at the spreading puddle. Another contraction robbed her of coherent thought and she followed a primeval urge to push. This child was arriving, whether it was convenient or not.

“You’ve committed the worst sin of all,” a man’s voice condemned.

Abbey knew that she had to get inside the cottage. Once she was there her child would be safe.

“Please, help me get home,” she begged. When she felt a light touch on her arm, she turned. A grateful smile teetered on the edge of her lips until she saw the furious emerald eyes of her saviour.

Hedge-Witchery Books
Amazon UK

Learn more about Margaret West on her website and blog. She also has an informative blog Connecting With Spirit you'll enjoy.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Monday with information on an innovative company, Summerhouse Publishing, and its energetic owner, Celia Kyle.

Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Wednesday, February 09, 2011


The incomparable Rick R. Reed is here with a book filled with passion and suspense. TRICKS is a step away from the horror Rick usually writes, but this magical novel is engrossing and guaranteed to satisfy.

Rick R. Reed
ISBN-13: 978-1-60820-214-0 Paperback

ISBN-13: 978-1-60820-215-7 Electronic
MLR Press

BUY LINK Paperback

Tricks can mean many things: sex partners, deceptions, even magic. In Rick R. Reed’s searing love story, it means all three. Arliss is a gorgeous young dancer at Tricks, the hottest club in Chicago’s Boystown. Sean is the classic nerd, out of place in Tricks, but nursing his wounds from a recent break-up.

When the two spy each other, magic blooms.

But this opposites-attract tale does not run smooth. What happens when Arliss is approached by one of the biggest porn producers in the business? Can he make his dreams of stardom come true without throwing away the only real love he’s ever known? And will this question even matter if the mysterious producers realize their dark intentions?

Arliss had everything he needed right in front of him for that night's performance-hardhat, check, steel-toed boots, check, tool belt, check, black mesh thong with pouch for his rather prodigious endowment, big check. Yes, Arliss was just about ready for his turn on the stage at Tricks, located in Chicago's infamous Boystown neighborhood, at its epicenter on the corner of Belmont and Halsted. He also had before him a tall tumbler of Stoli vodka with just a whisper of cranberry juice cocktail in it for color, and a half-empty pack of Marlboro Ultralights. The latter two items helped the twenty-one-year-old calm himself before a performance, and the vodka in particular went a long way toward reducing backstage jitters.

He lit up a cigarette and regarded himself through the smoke. The lights in the crowded dressing room, which he shared with the other eight or so exotic dancers, were unforgiving. Fluorescent did little to hide any imperfections like rings under the eyes, reddened noses from too much partying, and, for those on their way out of the club, track marks on the arms. But Arliss didn't have to worry about signs of drug abuse showing up on his person. He had learned to just say no a long time ago, in a manner that he preferred not to dredge up, at least not now, when he was trying to put himself in a cheerful, high-energy mode.

Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he struggled into his costume, ending by stuffing his dick into the pouch that protruded from his black thong. His member stuck out in such a way that invited grasping hands, which is what Arliss wanted, as long as there was cash in those hands to stuff the thong even more fully.

Attired in a costume that would make the construction worker from the Village People look demure, Arliss turned in front of the mirror to ensure he was the perfect fantasy specimen of pornographic machismo. He was grateful he had added the angel wing tattoo to his back and the snakes that twisted around each bicep. And the one on his chest, the tiny heart with the name "Helena" in it, always brought a lump to his throat-or a splash of bile to the back of it, depending on his mood and how forgiving he felt.

He set the cigarette down in a tin ashtray and took a swig of vodka. He could feel as much as hear the heavy bass of the techno music playing in the bar and knew that Antonio, a Puerto Rican dude with a shaved head and heavy stubble, was probably just about finished with his set, which meant his boxing ensemble cluttered the small stage.

Arliss would come out, dance briefly and flirtatiously with Antonio, and then have the stage to himself. He didn't know how he did it, night after night, but somehow he managed. He had always been the shyest boy in Ruskin, Florida, where he had grown up. If they could see me now... Well, if they could see me now, they'd probably still call me a fag and try to beat the crap out of me. Once again, my dear, now is not the time for sentimentality. He took another swig of vodka, draining the glass and feeling the warmth of the liquor as it spread through his chest and extremities. Show time!

Arliss hurried to the door that separated the cramped dressing room from the bar proper. Tricks didn't really have a stage, although the dancers liked to think of the bar upon which they danced as one. It was Friday night and, from the burble of conversation beneath the pounding beat, sounded as though they had a good crowd. He sucked in a breath, looked down at his perfectly smooth pale skin and six-pack abs and told himself he was gorgeous.

"Don't forget to smile, Toots! You always look like some gloomy Gus out there!" Leave it to Emmett Myers, owner of Tricks, to try and unsettle him just before he went on stage.

Arliss flashed the man a big, Farrah Fawcett smile. If the prissy older man with the pencil moustache recognized it as fake, he gave no indication.

"There! That's what they like to see! For heaven's sakes, you have to remember that if they think you're having a good time, they'll have a good time. And a good time means more money for all of us."

Arliss listened as the song wound down, morphing into yet another bass beat that signaled him it was time to stride out through the door, amble across the crowded room, ignore the covert feels and pinches he got as he made his way to the bar, and climb up on it to join Antonio in front of the crowd.

"Get out there, gorgeous! Shake your groove thing!" Emmett cackled and placed a hand on Arliss' back to propel him forward. Just as much to get the hand off his back as to get to the stage, Arliss threw open the door, plastered on a big smile, threw his shoulders back and strode through the crowd, keeping his eye on the narrow strip of bar that would, for the next fifteen minutes, be his stage.

* * *

Sean didn't know what he was doing in Tricks. It was the kind of bar he never frequented. Hell, he rarely frequented any bars. He felt out of place among these older men, all of them leering at the strippers. He supposed he couldn't fault these men for coming here. The strippers, after all, were the bar's reason for being-providing "adult" entertainment...and to charge outrageously high prices for watered down cocktails.

I mean, really, eight dollars for a vodka and tonic? And the vodka wasn't even a call brand! Sean peered into the clear liquid, with its bubbles, slice of lime, and more than generous helping of ice cubes, and wondered again what could have possessed him to set foot inside this place. Tricks was a sleazy bar, a destination where he was certain the boys on stage probably made offstage deals with the clientele for more intimate, and less legal, behavior. It was the kind of place he and his friends once made fun of, painting the characters who frequented it with terms like "desperate" and "lecherous."

So what was he doing here? On a Friday night, no less, when other gay men his own age, thirty something, were on the prowl in countless other places on Halsted and further north, in the newer crop of bars in the neighborhood known as Andersonville.

He shook his head, knowing exactly what had brought him here. He stared morosely into his drink, the men around him hooting and catcalling as the next dancer hoisted himself up on the bar to begin his routine. The boy (to call him a man, really, would have been a stretch) was what was known in gay parlance as a twink. He barely looked old enough to drink, let alone wag his weenie at the patrons to a Lady GaGa beat. Was this kid really of legal age? Really? Sure, he had the requisite tattoos and piercings of a professional wrestler, and his smooth, almost hairless body was firm and well-defined, but Sean had to wonder what would compel someone so young to make his living in a way Sean had always thought of as demeaning.

And if what the kid's selling is demeaning, what does that make you?

He knew he should just get up from the bar stool on legs that were still steady and head home to his apartment and his live-in lover-an overweight black and white cat named Bergamot who was always willing to pay attention to him when no one else seemed up to the task. He shook his head, imagining his lonely evening eating a Lean Cuisine, watching recorded episodes of Glee.

It was enough to make him stay put and, for something to do, he turned his gaze to the boy on the bar, who was moving his hips suggestively, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the room all at once, and grinning like he was having the best time a boy could have this side of having an orgasm..

The boy was beautiful, in his own sordid, runaway sort of manner. His eyes were a piercing blue that somehow, when focused on Sean for the briefest of moments, made him feel he was the only guy in the room. But there was something otherworldly about him too, almost a glow, something that went far beyond his vitality and youth. It was as though he were performing to some inner music, something lurid and sexual.

Sean wondered what the kid thought about as he went through the motions of what could only loosely be defined as dancing. Did he really like being here? Why had he chosen this life over something with a more promising future, like college or some sort of employment that didn't involve shedding his clothes? Did he do it out of desperation? Was he on drugs?

Or was it that he was using to his best advantage what he had to work with? Sean had to admit-and the little man down below, the one between his legs, raised his purple head to agree-that the boy was sexy, extremely so. He had about him something that was at once alluring and needy: you wanted to take this boy in your arms and comfort him; you also wanted to fuck the shit out of him and slap his ass and whisper foul nothings in his ear as you thrust into him. Sean squirmed as his little man lengthened and thickened to his full size, which was actually about six and a half inches, and not the eight he claimed in various online profiles.

The boy shed the tool belt he wore, letting it drop to the bar's surface with a thud, then the hard hat, finally swaying in nothing more than a black mesh thong and steel-toed boots. His legs were long, lean, and well-muscled, and like every other letch in the bar, Sean could not keep his eyes off the boy's member, which bounced around in front of him like a mini baseball bat, looking absurd and breathtakingly tantalizing at the same time. Sean didn't know whether to laugh or just open his mouth and drool. How big was that thing, anyway? This boy, Sean was sure, would not have to lie about having eight inches. From the basis of the flaccid member barely concealed, the boy could honestly claim all that...and maybe even more.

Sean felt heat rise to his face as he gulped at his drink, finding the tall glass contained only ice. Where was that bartender?
And now the boy was moving along the bar, smiling and squatting down with those same magnificent legs spread, exhorting the bar revelers to stuff his thong with dollar bills.

He had no shortage of takers. The bills were testing the elastic of the thong's waistband and a few errant bills would slip to the stage; the boy discreetly snatched them up and held them in his hand as he made his way down this lascivious receiving line, letting the patrons dip their hands inside the thong to ensure that what he had on display was real. Sean assumed it was-no way to fake that. He also let them pat his ass, running their hands over its smooth contours. When Sean watched one guy wet his finger and slip it inside the boy's butt…

BUY LINK Paperback

Learn more about Rick R. Reed on his website or at his blog. You can also catch Rick on Twitter and Facebook.

I'll be back Friday. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, February 08, 2011


Time to take the edge off this winter freeze with an excerpt from book three in my series the Magnificent Men of Munich.

Sloane Taylor
ISBN 978-1-60168-060-0
Aspen Mountain Press


Francine Daniels doesn’t trust men. Not since two husbands and a con artist ruined her life. After years of struggle – during which she took back control and soared to new heights – there is no place in her plans for a German hottie…Even if she does burst into flames at his touch.

Heicke Brewer already made one disastrous trip down the aisle, and never plans to go that route again. He prefers the parade of international beauties lined up outside his bedroom door to enjoy his ‘satisfaction guaranteed’ reputation…Until he meets an American pixie too hot not to handle.

Francine is working a golf outing when nature decides to step in.

Francie swiped a hand across her shoulder, hoping her over exuberant co-worker had splashed water and not that a bird had decided her new shirt looked good as a sweet dump site. Dammit, another drop landed on her forearm.

“Gretchen, be more…” She spun around to see the blonde bombshell in deep conversation with a gorgeous golfer that included more body contact than a good lap dance. If they weren’t careful, the entire course would see them humping like dogs in heat.

A quick glance at the sky showed thick black clouds heading toward the golf course, but it was the streaks of dark green reaching the treetops that startled her.

“Hey, Gretchen. Stud Muffin. We need to get all this stuff on the cart.” She dropped the plastic liquor bottles into their cases and brushed the rain from her eyelashes. The few drops had exploded into a full blown downpour. Pissed at the lack of help, Francie turned just as a crack of thunder split the air and she saw a blonde ponytail bouncing as the golf cart sped down the asphalt path.

“You rotten little bitch,” she shouted, but screaming and waving her fist did little to ease her anger.

The sky blazed with jagged arcs of lightning as they streaked upward from the ground. She clamped her hands over her ears as the double explosion of thunder rattled her teeth. Making a snap decision that she could make better time darting to the clubhouse barefooted, Francie yanked off her squishy walking shoes then scooped up the flimsy cashbox and groaned as the sodden mess dissolved in her hands. Coins spilled onto the mushy grass as the notes spun into a whirlpool. Her hands flew as she racked up the currency, stuffing it into the shallow pockets of her capris. She yanked at the soaked shirt clinging to her skin, and decided she had no other choice. A shiver ran down her spine as she slid the heavy euro coins into her bra. The damned things weighed a ton and froze her nipples into tight buds. She turned to sprint down the lane and careened into an oncoming golf cart.

“Shit.” Her knee hurt like hell, but she didn’t have time to worry about it as another bolt of lightning ripped a heavy branch off the tree a few feet away.

“Get in.” A booming voice wiped away her panic. She jumped into the cart, clutching her breasts as the money tumbled to the ground. “Do not worry about them. We will return after the storm, but right now we must get to shelter.”

She nodded in relief, swiping raindrops from her face and glanced into the sexy eyes of the hotel handyman. Of all the asinine times to worry about looks, she thought as she maneuvered her fingertips in a sorry attempt at spiking her hair into its familiar style.

“There is a shelter around this next curve.” He shot a quick glance her way, careful to keep the cart on the narrow lane.

“I can’t believe how the temperature dropped so fast.”

“It is always that way in Germany. Cold in one minute.” His eyes smoldered as he stared at her mouth and she shivered, heat coiling in her belly. “But I have hopes it will warm up soon.”


I'll be back Wednesday with Rick R. Reed. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Friday, February 04, 2011


If you like vampires, along with hot males in kilts, you're going to love SEDUCING SCOTS, the latest release from multi-published Marie Treanor.

Here's a little to warm you on this cold February day.

Marie Treanor
ISBN: 9781419962363
Ellora's Cave


You're not meant to fall for the bad guy, are you? Not the vampire, nor the possessed, nor the ex-con...

Reluctant Scottish psychic Jenny discovers her true talent is hunting vampires. Yet when that vampire is the evil, sexy gorgeous Karoly, in his quite inappropriate antique kilt, will she be able to fulfill her potential?

Ellie is a strong psychic with a messy personal life. When she decides to clean up the latter, the last person she needs to encounter is carefree Scottish busker Chris, the best ever one night stand from her naughty past. Especially when something evil within him threatens them both.

When the vampiress Draguta, Karoly’s ex, comes to the Scottish Highlands with a social mission, she’s distracted by local pub landlord, Al MacNab – a large, sexy man with a dubious past, a lot of secrets, and some alluring bondage gadgetry in his cellar.

“Well? What do you eat, little vampire hunter?”

Vampire hunter? Who did he think I was? Buffy? Right now I would have given much for just one of the Slayer’s powerful kicks. Even the ability to shuffle one foot would have been good. Still, at least I managed to gather my wildly confused wits enough to demand, “Did you hurt Maggie?”

“Who is Maggie?” he asked without much interest. His gaze had fallen to my throat again. One thin, pale hand lifted, two long, finely tapering fingers brushed the skin of my neck. I gasped. Though neither warm nor cold, they didn’t feel remotely neutral. Electricity sparked, tingling through me, and more worrying than anything, it wasn’t even unpleasant. The opposite, in fact.

“The bride!” I gasped. “She just left.”

“Poultry and cheap red wine,” he said disparagingly, without looking up from my neck. His fingers stroked my skin and those sparks were getting worse, shooting right through my whole body, creating some half-understood but overwhelming desire that was only mostly to do with sex.

“You did bite her!” I accused, trying to distract him before I became totally lost in what he was doing to my throat.

“Of course I did,” he chided. “I’m a vampire.”

His fingers slid around to the back of my neck and closed. I gasped again, involuntarily twisting my head. I prayed he would mistake my reaction for fear, but the truth was his touch gave me some fearful pleasure I had never encountered before, triggering new desires that were almost scarier than him.

Suddenly, every inch of me was aware of his tall, strong body. Backed into the table as I was, I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried and now I didn’t want to. I wanted him to touch me more. And the knowledge that it was wicked and forbidden and dangerous only added to the excitement. He hadn’t killed Maggie or Davie, after all, and he must have known that even if I recognized him for what he was, I was no threat. I wondered, with trembling anticipation, what his bite would feel like.

His fingers caressed the back of my neck. Without warning, his body came to rest against mine. This time there was warmth—or perhaps it was just my own flushed body heating his—and something hard, his sporran, pushed sweetly against my crotch. I realized I was moist down there, growing wetter and hotter by the instant. A small sound like a moan escaped my lips. My nipples felt painfully tight and hard against his chest and I wished very badly that I’d been laid in the last few months so that I didn’t disintegrate so quickly into this gibbering glob of desire for someone—something—so evil that even I had felt it across a crowded room.

But the truth was, I wished vampires fucked and I wished very badly that this one would fuck me quickly, here and now.

Involuntarily, my hips pressed forward into his and I saw him smile as he bent his head. Something flashed in his eyes just as they passed out of my view. His fingers gripped my nape more firmly, his other arm suddenly swept around my back to hold me to him and I closed my eyes, letting the wild sensations of pleasure and desire wash over me, fill me.

I felt his lips on my neck, silky smooth. My head fell back against his arm, my mouth opened with a soundless cry of want and anticipation. My hands clutched his biceps, clinging to the hard, muscled flesh for support. His lips felt so good, teasing, sensuously sucking, that I wanted them everywhere on me. His tongue flickered across my skin, tasting, and it was so wonderful, sending such delicious shivers of pleasure through my whole body that I would happily have died just to feel it again. But I wanted more, I wanted his teeth, which I would surely feel, any moment. I wondered if it would hurt, what sort of weird, perverse joy it would give my suddenly depraved body…

But his lips were still. I could hear my heart pounding. My fingers gripped convulsively on his arms, waiting. But he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were so dark they looked black, almost opaque save for those flashing flecks of gold as they stared down into mine. Bewildered, stupid with unsatisfied hunger, I stared back.

He said, “Do you know, I drank from a homeless man when I first came here and I was out cold for three nights?”

I drew in my breath, hearing it shudder.

“What is it with me?” I demanded. “Why do men only want to talk?”


Remember, you can find out more about Marie Treanor and her engrossing books on her website. Catch all her latest news on Facebook or subscribe to her Newsletter. Be sure to join the party on her new blog: Marie Treanor’s Romantic Theme Party.

I'll be back Monday with a review on the awesome hit musical Million Dollar Quartet. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Thursday, February 03, 2011


Our guest author today is the incredibly talented Marie Treanor who lives in Scotland with her eccentric husband and three much-too-smart children. After the family grew bored with city life, they moved to a picturesque village by the sea where Marie is lucky enough to enjoy herself avoiding housework and writing sensual stories of paranormal romance and fantasy much to this fan's delight.

Please allow me to give you an example of this superb author.

Marie Treanor
ISBN: 978-0451231567 Paperback
NAL - Signet Eclipse


Temptation begins at sunset…

Scottish academic Elizabeth Silk is spending the summer in Romania researching historical superstitions for her PhD. While she is tracing local folktales, one subject in particular sparks her imagination. His name is Saloman, legend's most powerful vampire, a seductive prince staked centuries ago. Now, in the ruins of a castle crypt, Elizabeth discovers the legends are real. Her blood has awakened him. Her innocence has aroused him. But Elizabeth unleashes more than Saloman's hunger.

An army of vampire hunters has amassed to send Saloman back to hell. Sworn to help - yet fearing Saloman's deadly blood lust - Elizabeth seeks to entrap him, offering her body as bait. But something stronger than dread, more powerful than revenge, is uniting Elizabeth to her prey. Caught between desire and rage, Elizabeth must decide where her loyalties lie...and what the limits are to a yearning she can no longer control.

There was nowhere to go but backward, until the wall ground into her shoulder blades and buttocks, and still he kept coming. Tall and broad-shouldered as he was, his very size threatened her. Most of his handsome face was in shadow, hiding any expression. She could make out only his eyes, blacker than the surrounding darkness, yet glistening with some deep, wild hunger it hurt to look at.

He lifted his hand once more to the wound in her throat. His fingertip was cold, yet seemed to burn her skin. She gasped, quivering, and when he bent his head toward her again, gazing at her bleeding injury, she began to fight, crashing her fists into his chest, pushing uselessly against his shoulders.

He smelled of earth and cold stone, gave off no sense of human warmth. So why did her body begin to weaken its resistance? Her fists, her struggles, made no impression on him. He continued to lower his head to her wounded neck. At least she could no longer see those terrible eyes…

At the first touch of his lips, she gave up: she could do nothing against him and some dark, perverse part of her remembered the unique, agonizing thrill of his first bite.

But he didn’t bite. He surrounded the wound with his lips and licked it once. She shuddered, helpless in the grip of fear and something she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – name. Then he lifted his head and she stared at him, speechless, because the pain had gone.

The hunger hadn’t left his eyes, but in the glimmer of torchlight, she thought it was overlaid with mockery. The bastard was laughing at her.

“I’m saving the rest for later,” he explained.

Her eyes widened. He was letting her live after all? At least for another minute. “L-later?” she stammered.

His fingers trailed across her throat, butterfly light, making her gasp. “Later. Your blood is strong and heady. I’m taking time to absorb it.” He bent nearer her, inhaling, almost sniffing the air around her head and throat. The skin of his face looked so smooth she had an insane urge to reach up and touch it. His sculpted lips moved faintly, as if a smile almost danced across them, never quite forming before it faded.

“Interesting,” he observed, and his voice was different now, quiet, almost whispering, with just a hint of hoarseness. “I have to thank you for waking me…What is your name?”

She swallowed. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Silk.”

The almost smile tugged at his lips and vanished. His cheek brushed against hers, barely touching, yet her stomach seemed to plunge. “Silk. How apt,” he murmured. “Like your hair…and your skin, so soft and warm…”

His fingertips caressed her face, then slid down over her chin to her throat and she gasped, jerking in panic. But the movement only brought her into contact with his body. He was hard and solid, and surely that stiff ridge against her stomach was his erection… Vampires had erections? Unless that part of him was still made of stone?

Oh Jesus Christ and fuck!

She shrank, pressing her back into the wall once more. Shocked, she could feel wetness between her legs. It’s just fear, not lust, it can’t be…

“And you are English,” he said, changing to that language without warning.

“Scottish,” she returned mechanically. What the hell does that matter?

He inclined his head, clearly humoring her. His body touched hers at breast and hips, hardening her nipples into aching peaks. Perhaps he felt them, for he said, “Do you know how long it has been since I have had a meal or a woman?”

Her stomach seemed to melt into her womb. Sweat had broken out on her palms and was trickling down between her breasts. But somehow she managed to do the math. “Three hundred and twelve years?”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “Don’t ask me. After the first couple of centuries, those decades just fly by.” He lifted his hand from her neck, tracing one tapered fingertip along her lower lip. She was afraid to move.

“Do they really?” she managed.

“No. But they let me work up some heady appetites.”

“For what?” She sounded more suspicious than terrified. Was that good? Perhaps. The almost-smile reappeared and vanished as his face leaned nearer hers.

“For dinner,” he answered. “And dalliance.”

His finger slid to the corner of her lips, pushing gently until she gasped, and when her mouth opened he took it with his.

Heat consumed her, drowning her in some strange, welcome weakness. His cool lips moved across hers, sampling, parting them. He should have tasted of dust and death and corruption. At the very least he hadn’t brushed his teeth in three hundred and twelve years. Yet what she inhaled in panic was something overwhelmingly seductive, an earthy sweetness, powerful and masculine, and God help her, she wanted it. She wanted to give herself to his mouth, feel his kiss deepen and dominate while he pressed that large, hard body closer into her. She wanted to push herself against the hardness nudging her abdomen. She wanted it between her legs, pushing into her, because she’d never known a kiss as arousing as this, and the sex would be so…

Oh God!


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

I'll be back tomorrow with a new release from the spellbinding Marie Treanor. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, February 01, 2011


With all the cold and snow, it seems a hot game of strip checkers is in order. :)

ISBN 978-1-60168-155-3
Aspen Mountain Press


Lost in the Austrian Alps, psychologist Lonnie Copley is forced to accept help from a Hell’s Angel wannabe. She never expected to be trapped with the Aryan god in deserted Castle Flophouse.

Disgusted with cleaning up his client’s dirty lives, attorney Wolfe Deider is in major career throes. He doesn’t need some insolent woman mucking up his mind, even if she does have a mouth made for kissing.

He shoved a red circle onto the appropriate square. She concentrated for a moment then moved her black disk onto the square that forced him to conquer her. He considered the consequences and decided she was just as eager as him to get into bed.

“I believe you lose your first disk, Eleanor.” His dick was tingling as she frowned.

“Guess so.” She kicked off a boot. Grinning, she lifted a black checker and slowly jumped his disk then glanced up. “Not just yet, Herr Deider. You see? I have another move.” She swooped up the next disk.

Both of his shoes clomped to the floor. Apparently she was not as easy as he thought.

He leaned across the board, his elbows propped on the table. A strategy was mandatory if he wanted the outcome in his favor. Looking her in the eyes, he slid a disk on the diagonal keeping his finger on top of it.

She glanced down, a slow smile tweaking her lips, and raised her hand as if to play.

“Not just yet, Eleanor.” He slid the red circle back onto its original square. “I think this is a better move,” he said as he crossed jumped two of her disks.

She never flinched. Her other shoe hit the floor, followed by a sock.

“You are a good sport.” He raised his glass in a salute. “If not my best opponent.”

“And you may live to regret those words, mister.”

Another play on her part and he pulled off both of his socks.

He moved, she snorted, and flung her other sock into the air.

She made an outstanding move he never suspected. His shirt flew onto a side chair.

With a grin he glanced up. The doctor did not look as if she were enjoying herself. Her wine left untouched. Perhaps she will enjoy herself later, he thought as he conquered another checker.

She grabbed her sweater at the hem. Slowly peeled it up her body and over her head then tossed it onto the floor. Her low cut purple bra barely covered her puckered nipples. And his dick stood at attention.

His hands shook as he lifted another red disk over her black one.

She slid back the chair then stood. Her graceful fingers worked the button free. The rasp of her zipper was the only sound in the room. Wolfe held his breath as she wiggled the pants past her curvy hips. She glanced at him over her shoulder with the look of a woman who knew what she wanted. Her hands glided over her sleek ass, guiding the material down her long, toned legs. She bent over to pull them off and he almost came at the sight of her ass cheeks gripping a purple thong.

With the next move his stack of black disks grew taller and his balls ached.

In a quick motion, she swiped a strand of hair from her face. Gracefully she reached behind with both of her hands to unhook her bra. Her shoulders stretched back and her breasts thrust forward. And his cock throbbed.

With one arm under her bra, she brought the other across, hiding his view of those beautiful more-than-a-mouthful tits, and slid down the strap. She changed the position of her arms and peeled down the other satin strip. The bra fell into her lap and he clenched the table. Her rosy nipples were right there, budded, and inviting the touch of his hands and lips until she screamed his name in her orgasm.

He did not care how he lost the game. He would throw it if he could just get off his damned jeans and give his cock some room. No matter what move he made she did not fall into his trap of jumping him.

His cock swelled larger, the pain intense but sweet, as he added her last disk to his pile.

She stood, her breasts bobbing from the movement and his mouth watered. If he did not slip inside her hot pussy soon, he would come in his pants.


I'll be back tomorrow with author Marie Treanor. Be sure to stop in. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell