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.

Publisher BUY LINK
Amazon Kindle BUY LINK

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

Wednesday, March 02, 2011


And no one writes them better than my good friend, Canadian author Jan Springer. Today, we feature her futuristic story, Jude Outlaw, that's a guaranteed thigh-clencher. I lovingly dubbed Jan the Queen of Hot. After you read one of her books, you'll agree. :)

Outlaw Lovers 1
Jan Springer
ISBN: 9781843609377
Ellora's Cave


A fast-acting virus has been unleashed, killing a vast majority of the world's female population and forcing the creation of a new law…The Claiming Law. With the stroke of a pen, males now have all the rights and females are property…sexual property that can only be claimed by groups of men.

When Cate Callahan learns Jude Outlaw is coming home from the Terrorist Wars and is ready to claim her under the new law—with the help of his four remaining brothers—she steals their boat and escapes to the high seas. Unfortunately, her runaway bid for freedom doesn't last for long.
Quickly capturing his lover, Jude rekindles the flames between them preparing her body and seducing her mind into the prospect of experiencing the ultimate in a woman's pleasure…the Outlaw brothers.

Jude awoke to the dull throbbing of odd aches and pains in his arms and legs and also to an unusual tickling sensation prodding the feverish head of his cock.

He grit his teeth to the killing pleasure and opened his eyes to find himself lying totally naked on the bed with Cate seated cross legged between his own widespread legs.

She wore nothing but the cutest little smile.

The she-devil!

Obviously, she’d been having her way with his cock while he’d slept. His arms and legs were tied to the bedposts and his erection was in full swing. Thick and hot, his shaft stuck up like a solid pole from between his legs.

His entire body tensed as she fanned a plume across the rounded head of his pulsing penis.

“Glad you could join me for the festivities,” she purred.

Jude swore softly. The tables had turned and now he was at her mercy.
“What are you up to, Cate?”

Stupid question. He knew what she was up to.


“I could tell you but I’ll show you instead.”

Her eyes smiled as the feather tenderly crisscrossed the powerful weave of veins in his throbbing cock.

Jude’s shaft twitched quite pleasantly and he smothered the need to groan.

When she reached the thick base, she slid the plume lower brushing it to and fro across his bulging sack. Lust shot through his heavy balls, spreading upward and spiking his erection with such sweet pain he couldn’t stop the groan from escaping his lips.

“You appear to be in distress,” she whispered.

“Perhaps you should come to my rescue, Cate.”

“Perhaps you should come…”


She dropped the feather. Her lips tilted upward into a delicious smile. His body burned as he looked at her mouth. It made him think wild thoughts. Made him want her lips wrapped tightly around his cock, her hot little tongue licking his balls.

He wanted to be loose, to ask her do these things to him.

“Cate, I want…“

Her hand felt soft and warm as she clamped it over his mouth silencing any requests. He noticed the soft dusting of freckles across her nose, noticed the seductive way her green eyes sparkled as she gazed down at him. His chest constricted at her natural beauty.

“Shh, I’ve had five years to think of things I want to do to you too, Jude.”
Her soft words made his body hum.

Holding her hand tightly over his mouth, she reached out with the other hand and cupped his testicles. Despite his best efforts to keep himself under control, his body tightened with tormenting need.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He was supposed to be the one in control. The one who would make her beg him to fuck her and not the other way around…


Learn more about Jan Springer and her sizzling books on her website. You can catch up with her on Facebook. Be sure to join her newsletter for more information on this talented author.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from Marie Treanor. Until then...

Happy Reading!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell

Tuesday, March 01, 2011


ISBN 13: 978-1-60272-572-0
Amber Quill Press - Amber Heat


Being Maid of Honor in Finland over Midsummer’s Eve is supposed to be fun, but for jingle writer Kate Adams it’s a nightmare. Things go from bad to worse when her high-priced rental car dies on an endless ribbon of bone-dry country road. Help arrives in the form of a delicious-looking, blue-collar local who just might make it all worthwhile.

Rurik Jaacko knows better than to stop for the princess perched on the hood of a Mercedes. Hot women and expensive cars are trouble, but he’s a sucker for any damsel in distress. The last thing he expects is to play bellhop to the sensual American, and love every sizzling moment.

A rustic pig farm and a friend who isn’t combine with deception to create the backdrop for earthy passion and international fraud...

...With his hard-on raging, Rurik watched her nipples harden and peak through the thin knit shirt and wondered if was their heated exchange that excited her, or the fact he had taken control.

Women want to be dominated.

“There are times a man must take a stand with an unruly woman.” He caught her wrist and tugged her closer.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Color drained from her cheeks, but was that a sparkle in her eyes?

He stopped for a moment and thought about the consequences of his action. Either it would be a beautiful success or Kate would pack her bags right after she rang the police.

“Yes, today I would.” He dropped onto a birch stump and, with a quick yank, upended her over his knees. Her perfect ass across his lap was too tempting to stop.

“You’d better stop before it’s too late, buddy.” She turned her head and shot him a glare that could melt steel.

“It already is.” His palm came down with a resounding smack.

“Ouch.” She kicked her legs and wrestled beneath him.

He laid an arm over her shoulders to keep her in place, praying he had made the right decision.

“Rurik, you are so going to pay for this,” she wailed, startling the birds from the trees.

And he knew he would, right after he laid another open-palm swat on her firm ass.


She yelped at the contact, and he loved it. He may have been wrong about her being a spoiled, over-privileged woman, but a good spanking seemed in order to assert his authority. But then again, he had better run like hell when he finally let her up because she was going to murder him.

His hand came down again, not quite as hard, and lingered on her sexy rear, petting away the sting. He ran his fingers along the curve of her cheeks hidden under the tight denim shorts, wondering what his handprint would look like on her milky flesh. A stirring below his belt pressed against his fly, forcing him to shift unsuccessfully under her weight.

She wiggled against his cock, enhancing his torture, and he could not stifle the groan.

“Are you through beating me into submission?” Her words came out breathlessly, reminding him of how her lips had purred against his balls the night before.

“No. I do not think so.” His hand smacked solid on her ass, pleased with her shriek.

He grazed a finger under the ragged edge of her shorts, inching up the inside of her thigh, seeking the heat beneath her damp thong. He hooked the lacey strap and tugged, drawing it tight against her swollen labia, released it and yanked up again. Her soft gasp carried to him on a gentle breeze.

The scent of her arousal drifted up, encouraging him to please her. He glided closer to her folds, teasing along the way with light pinches to her flesh. His finger slipped inside and he smiled, pleased by her wetness. Her pussy flexed against him, clenching—relaxing, milking him, like her mouth had done to his cock.

“I think you like this, Kate.” He knew he did.

A whimper rose up like a caress, her hair tumbling free as she nodded.

He pulled out, then slid back in with two fingers, pressing firmer against her wall.

“Should I continue your torture or”— he continued massaging up and down, until she bucked against him. —“take you into the house and fuck you fast and hard?”

A soft gurgle washed her words away and his balls tightened...


Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell