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A pick 'n' mix genre author. "I'm not greedy. I just like variety."

Thursday, 22 June 2017

WMS: Release Blitz: The Tryst by Monique Roffey

Out Now—The Tryst by Monique Roffey
An exciting new direction from acclaimed novelist Monique Roffey
Monique Roffey on The Tryst
When you publish a book, it’s always a mixed bag of feelings for every writer, I guess: elation, a sense of meaning and purpose, guided to the right spot, ‘publication’. But, also, there is trepidation, and concern, a ‘will this baby fly?’, ‘will it get any attention?’ Will it be ignored, sink without a trace? Let alone, will it get near a serious prize list. But today, having just sent the final, final, final edits of The Tryst, to my very plucky publisher, Dodo Ink, I feel something so pure and so utterly without reserve or concern. I feel something almost shamanic, something inner and secure, something certain and from within, a sense of completion over a long time, and a sense of elation, a “Yes! You did it.” And it will be good.
London, midsummer night. Jane and Bill meet the mysterious Lilah in a bar. She entrances the couple with half-true, mixed up tales about her life. At closing time, Jane makes an impulsive decision to invite Lilah back to their home. But Jane has made a catastrophic error of judgement, for Lilah is a skilled and ruthless predator, the likes of which few encounter in a lifetime. Isolated and cursed, Jane and Bill are forced to fight for each other, and, in doing so, discover their covert desires.
Part psychological thriller, part contemporary magical realism, The Tryst revisits the tale of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to examine the secrets of an everyday marriage.
“What makes The Tryst an unexploded virus isn’t just the quality and brightness of Roffey’s writing on sex, even as it uncovers inner glades between flesh and fantasy where sex resides – but the taunting clarity of why those glades stay covered. A throbbing homewrecker of a tale, too late to call Fifty Shades of Red.”
DBC Pierre, Booker Prize winner, 2003


Before lunch we had sex again on the kitchen floor. Quickly, this time, me riding him. Oh, I like to be on top, to be the domina, the one who hostesses the show, who stages all the stunts with human males. I am the party thrower, the orgy mistress. I gave him a good fuck, massaging his cock with the muscles of my cunt, and the energy of him rose upwards through me and lit me up. This Bill was made to fit me and I was made to fit him; somehow I’d stumbled across him, this Adam. At first glance he was just a primary model: Husband, Father, the Average White English Male. Homme Vanille. Marks and Spencer Man. Nothing remarkable. Nicely castrated by the middle class feminists, cured of any alpha tendencies. He had been trained not to be dominant. Isn’t that what feminism has done, it has laughed the alpha males out of town. Masculinity is in crisis, say the clever ones these days. Feminism equalised women in the workplace and put men in the shed, where I found Bill. The male alpha doms went underground, thousands of them, to Internet fetish sites and their private dungeons and the like. There, many of my sistren operate, daemon-killers like me. Professional Dommes. Strangulators, ball kickers. Experts in humiliation, bestiality, fucking men up the ass with their strap-ons. Torturing testicles till they turn blue. We Lilatha exist in the shadows, in the twilight; we are around if you look for us. Many men do, those who like to submit. And they keep quiet when they find us. Few imps, like me, stalk the pavements in full view. That’s my kink, to fuck The Innocents, men like Bill. I like to dominate Mr Everyday.
        And yet, as I had happily discovered, Bill had secret charms and abilities after all. My assessment had been wrong. I rode Bill hard, forging a twinned ecstasy between us. We groaned and writhed, both of us dying afterwards. I laughed with glee, at how Bill gasped for breath. “You’re lovely,” he gasped. I licked my fingers, tasting his bitter-salt cum. “So are you,” I winked. “Feed me now, I’m starving.”
        Lunch was delicious and replenishing. We fell on fruit and gooey chocolate cake and ice cream and opened a bottle of red wine. I put on one of his vinyl jazz records and danced around naked. I’ll stay one more hour, I told myself. One more hour, just one. Janey-Wife has gone, this house is mine and we still want to fuck. I am not yet sated. Greedy thing I was, greedy for his cock. Bill couldn’t keep his eyes off me, he was entangled – miserably unsure of himself. Distant and yet high on that fuck-chemical of serotonin. It was coursing through him. It was like watching a new drug addict and any minute I might have to catch him from slumping to the floor. He was lust-drunk. But I wasn’t. I’d provoked this altered state in men many times before; I had left many husbands in this condition. Usually I fled well before this point. But I was still enjoying myself, still very much the sprite.
        I danced naked for a while. Human men love to watch women dance in the nude and very few modern human women do. It is a dead art, relegated to the dim caverns and glossy tables of the lap dancing club. Burlesque
strip-joints. Once, it was an art of the courtly harem and the well-paid hetaera; once it was part of Bohemia, of a social stratum of free thinkers and free lovers. Men have danced naked too, for women and other men. There is a long tradition of the Lust Arts. I find this an omission on the part of modern womankind as naked dancing puts men in a state of awe and gratitude. The Wife won’t do it, never did. Oh, human women divide their nature. Mother. Wife. Whore. They do not integrate. Good girls and bad. Few celebrate that they are both. So there I was rubbing myself and licking my lips, caressing my breasts, my hips, sliding my hand down between my legs. It was an act, a naked tease. This was one of my many carnival tricks. I have worked in burlesque clubs, learnt the art of grinding and wriggling, stripping off stockings, gloves. Doing what American strippers call ‘ass work’, removing strings of pearls from my pussy. I have a strong muscular vagina, able to pulse and milk my men. But I do not possess the agility of hookers in the bars and lap dancing clubs of the Orient. I cannot shoot ping-pong balls across the room. I surprised Bill with three small but succulent beetroot I had found in the fridge, already peeled and boiled. I dripped the purple ink over my quim, inserting them one by one, dancing them up and in. He laughed out loud and clapped for me and I took a bow. He knelt for me and ate as I released each soft warm beet into his mouth.
        More, he whispered.
        And I complied, oh, with cucumbers and carrots and the like. Bill was rock hard throughout. I loved his cock, thick and uncircumcised. The tip glistened. At one point, I knelt in front of Bill and took his balls into my mouth and swirled them round. He trusted me more with his jewels this time. He poured wine over my face and I drank and sucked and his cock was huge and solid and he stroked himself and dripped cum over my face, rubbed it into my hair. Then he was sitting on a counter top, his jeans unbuckled, his thighs bare, his cock like a tower. Me on tiptoe, with my mouth all over him, my head bobbing, all the while kneading his scrotum and his hand reaching down, stroking me, catching the drips. Then, his body juddered, as if Aphrodite herself was stroking the kundalini up from his genitals and up his back. His cum flew in hot spurts, white and pearly, splattering his stomach, the fruit bowl, everywhere. And I came too, my cum cascaded like a torrent to the floor, not a cupful, as usual, but a warm wave fell from that secret reservoir. Like I had urinated, except it was translucent and salt-sweet to taste. And with this release, I began to feel altered. I shouldn’t be here; I should have left. Bill reached down and cupped the small of my back as I shuddered. My orgasm swamped us both. I looked up at Bill and saw his eyes glittering. Oh Christ, he whispered. I could see that he had recognised me. I was Wife No 1. My cover was blown. It was then I whispered my real name to him in my language and he nodded.

Praise for The Tryst
“The Tryst is a sly, feral, witty, offbeat erotic novella that unsettles the reader, even as it arouses. There are sex scenes of breath-taking audacity. What would any of us do if an irresistible sex daemon broke and entered our domestic lives, leaving havoc in her amoral wake?”
Rowan Pelling, editor, The Amorist
“I’ve read The Tryst and was enormously entertained and impressed. It’s wild and witching, at once contemporary and atavistic, with an anarchic sexual energy running through it and a startling frankness, not only about sex, but about love and relationships, gender and power ... a daring write and consuming read.” Bidisha, writer and broadcaster
“While The Tryst offers magic and sensuality aplenty, it lays bare the violence that heteronormative couples will do to ‘others’ to keep the home system stoked. It can be read as a fable about intimacy and erotic power. Disturbingly, it can also be read as a fable about the socially established vs. the disposable.”
Vahni Capildeo, poet, Forward Prize winner
“The Tryst summons your inner whore and demands she be honoured.”
Empress Stah, cabaret theatre performer
“A Midsummer’s Night Dream meets erotic thriller in this captivating romp through the senses. ... Monique Roffey perfectly captures the inner worlds of both the un-fucked housewife and the archetypal slut in this wonderful tale exploring the power of sexuality, erotic magnetism and the changing face of human relationships.”
Seani Love, Sex Worker of the Year, 2015
“Monique Roffey’s The Tryst successfully straddles mythology and erotica to create a journey towards pleasure.”
Suzanne Portnoy, author of The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker
“Sexy, lyrical and unashamed, The Tryst is a powerful slice of modern erotica which blends sexual magick with today’s hectic world of male-female relationships.”
Vina Jackson, author of Eighty Days Yellow
“Sexy as hell. A cross between the work of Angela Carter and Anaïs Nin, The Tryst weaves the urban and the modern with dark myth. Roffey is a risk taking and masterful storyteller,” J Malloy, author of The Story of X

Monique Roffey is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer. Her novels have been translated into five languages and short-listed for major awards including the Orange Prize, Costa Fiction Award, Encore Award, Orion Award and the OCM Bocas Award for Caribbean Literature. In 2013, Archipelago won the OCM BOCAS Award for Caribbean Literature. Her memoir, With the Kisses of his Mouth, was published in 2011. She is a Lecturer on the MFA in the Novel at Manchester Metropolitan University. She divides her time between the East end of London and Port of Spain, Trinidad.
social media:
Twitter @moniqueroffey13 and @DodoInk
Instagram: Monique Roffey
FB @moniqueroffeyauthor

About Dodo Ink
Dodo Ink is an independent publishing company based in the UK. Founded by author Sam Mills (The Quiddity of Will Self, Corsair, 2012), digital publishing and marketing specialist Alex Spears, and reviewer Thom Cuell, Dodo Ink publish original fiction with a focus on risk-taking, imaginative novels. We are looking for books which don’t fall into easy marketing categories and don’t compromise their intelligence or style to fit in with trends. We are passionate readers, and we believe that there are many more who share our appetite for bold, original and ‘difficult’ fiction. We want to provide a home for great writing which isn’t being picked up by the mainstream.

Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services. 

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

RBTL Tours: Growing his Dream by Andrew Grey

Title: Growing his Dream    
Author: Andrew Grey
Series: Dream Series (Book 2)  
Genre:  M/M Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Release Date: June 8 2017
Edition/Formats Available In: eBook & Print


Love can grow in even the harshest conditions.
Life has been a struggle for Lachlan Buttar ever since his mother passed away and left him unprepared to take care of himself. He goes from homeless to staying with a local minister—but it soon becomes clear he will be better off, and safer, on his own. Fortunately Foster and Javi encounter the young man and offer him a real home on their dairy farm.
It’s there that Lachlan meets another of the workers, local farmer Abe Armitage. Though the attraction between them is instant, Abe refuses to act on it until Lachlan comes of age. By then, strong feelings have taken root, and a passionate romance quickly blossoms. But both men carry baggage that could crush any chance of happiness together, particularly since Lachlan witnessed a crime, and there are those who will do anything to make sure he cannot reveal what he’s seen.

Book Links
Barnes and Noble

Dreamspinner Press


Lachlan’s steps grew more tortuous as he continued, the pain he’d been trying to ignore becoming impossible. He sat on an old stump and breathed a sigh of relief as the sharp pain became a dull ache and slowly receded. He didn’t dare take his right shoe off to rub his foot and make it feel better. It was likely swollen, and putting his shoe back on would be agony. Normally his feet were fine, but these shoes were… well, maybe he’d be better off barefoot. Lachlan got back up and continued on, one step at a time, and after a while, the second hand shoes that were probably one size to small, didn’t hurt so much anymore.
Knowing he had miles left to go, he picked up his pace, since walking faster would mean he’d get where he needed to go all that much sooner. Of course, that was when the rain started. Not just a mist, but a spring rain, full on. Lachlan got out the umbrella, opened it, and held the small amount of cover right over him, walking on. The umbrella did a good job of keeping his upper body dry, but his lower pant legs were soon wet and his shoes and socks soaked through.
The pain in his foot came back with a vengeance a few minutes later, and Lachlan looked around for some sort of shelter. There were a few buildings ahead, and he single-mindedly headed for them.
He approached a farmhouse that, with its peeling white paint, looked as aching and miserable in this rain as Lachlan felt, but he was becoming desperate and turned off the road to walk up the drive. He took three steps, and a dog—big, black, and barking up a storm—raced around the side of the house, coming right for him. Lachlan turned back around and walked as fast as he could to the road, thankful the dog stopped at the end of the driveway, barking its fool head off, snarling, and watching after him. So Lachlan trudged on.
He crossed another intersection, the moisture seeming to climb his body, seeping deeper under his clothes, sapping away the heat. Misery joined his pain, but he had no other choice—he had to keep going. On the corner he passed what looked like a small stand of some sort, and Lachlan wondered if it was unlocked. He tried the door and it didn’t open. God, if he could only crawl inside, he’d have some shelter from the rain and would be able to rest for a while. No such luck.
At the next driveway, he stopped, wondering if there was another dog set to come at him. He didn’t see one. All he saw were cows huddled together, black-and-white beasts under an overhang, waiting out the rain.
Lachlan walked up the drive, half dragging his aching foot, which caught on a rock. He lost his balance, tried to catch himself, and managed to, partway, and at least he didn’t go head over heels. He ended up in the ditch, his feet and legs in frigid water. “Damn it,” he swore as his misery increased even more. Lachlan got up and groaned. The umbrella, his only shelter, was bent and torn. He tried to fix it, but that only made things worse and the spines just broke off.
He wanted to cry, but instead closed it and threw it on the ground. He didn’t know what to do.
“Young man!” someone called. “Did you hurt yourself?” An old lady under a large black umbrella was walking slowly toward him.

Author Information

Andrew grew up in western Michigan with a father who loved to tell stories and a mother who loved to read them. Since then he has lived throughout the country and traveled throughout the world. He has a master’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and works in information systems for a large corporation.
Andrew’s hobbies include collecting antiques, gardening, and leaving his dirty dishes anywhere but in the sink (particularly when writing)  He considers himself blessed with an accepting family, fantastic friends, and the world’s most supportive and loving partner. Andrew currently lives in beautiful, historic Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

Author Links
Facebook Group All the Way with Andrew Grey
Twitter @andrewgreybooks

For Other Works by Andrew Grey
(Please Be Sure To Stop by His Website to See All of His Works)

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Monday, 12 June 2017

RBTL Tours: The Master of Blackmoor by Julie Shelton

Title: The Master of Blackmoor
Author: Julie Shelton
Series: Standalone Title
Genre: Erotic Gothic Regency Romance w/ BDSM Elements M/F
Publisher: Self Published
Release Date: May 23 2017
Edition/Formats: 1st Edition/Format~ eBook
Source: Author for Book Promotion


Danielle Dulac has just been sacked after spurning her employer’s lecherous advances. Penniless and without references, she is desperate to acquire the position of governess at Esterly House on the bleak Yorkshire moors. When the mail coach slides into a ditch in the middle of a blizzard, she is forced to seek shelter at the nearest house, Blackmoor Hall.

But visitors are not welcome at Blackmoor Hall and she gets sent to the stables to shelter from the storm. She is jerked out of sound slumber by a snow-blasted horse bursting into the stall, practically trampling her beneath his slashing hooves.

Anthony Markham, the Duke of Blackmoor, has just returned home after six months of dissolute living in London. He is surly, sarcastic, enigmatic, and hostile. And the most sensuous man Danielle has ever met. The attraction between them is instantaneous, combustible…and forbidden. Though a descendant of French nobility, Danielle is still a mere governess and Anthony Markham is a Duke.

When the position at Esterly House falls through, she has nowhere to go and faces a bleak future. To her shock, it’s Anthony Markham who comes to her rescue, offering her a position as governess to his four-year-old son, Geoffrey. Against her better judgment, she accepts.
She soon discovers that the Master of Blackmoor is haunted by a dark and tragic past filled with lies, betrayal and death. Unfortunately, the past is not over. Evil stalks Blackmoor Hall. The danger is escalating and all the clues point to the Duke himself.

As the passion between Anthony and Danielle rages out of control, so does the peril they face. Will they solve this mystery in time? Or will it wind up destroying them both?

Book Links


“Do you trust me, my darling wife?”
She licked lips that had suddenly gone dry as apprehension twisted her insides. “Aye, husband. Why?”
“There were other things in that book we both read.”
“You mean, Memoirs of a Courtesan?”
“Yes. And others like it. Things that we haven’t mentioned before. Things I like to do.”
“Which things?” she asked, although she was pretty sure she knew. Wanton things. Wicked things. Potentially dangerous things. And as her pulses fluttered, her belly did a slow roll and she was forced to admit to herself that some of those things had intrigued her.
He didn’t answer her. Instead he simply continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Do you trust me enough to let me cover your eyes?” He held up his hand to show the length of his snow-white cravat draped over his fingers. “With this?”
Mouth parched, she licked her lips again, the breath frozen in her lungs. She stared at the scarf as if transfixed. He wants to blindfold me? Berating herself for even considering such a dangerous thing, she was, indeed, considering it. Apprehension warred with anticipation as she wavered for less than two seconds.
“Yes.” It was more of a croak than a word.
Anthony approached her, lifting the scarf and placing it over her eyes, tying it at the back of her head. She sat, hands in her lap, her breathing shallow, waiting for his next order. He stepped back, looking down at her. The sight of his beautiful Danielle, submitting to him, trusting him enough to allow herself to be helpless before him, brought a lump to his throat and a painful tightness in his chest. He could hardly wait to see her bound hand and foot to their bed, waiting for him to ravish her.
“Scoot up onto the bed and lie on your back,” he directed, his voice as hoarse as if it had been ground between two millstones. As she scrambled up to the head of the bed to do his bidding, he climbed onto the mattress and crawled up behind her. “Do you trust me, Danielle,” he asked again.
She swallowed. Hard. “Yes, Anthony, I trust you.”
“Enough to let me bind your hands?”
That little prickle of anticipation became a roaring fire, setting every nerve ending ablaze as she absorbed the implication of his words. She would be completely helpless, totally at his mercy, forced to rely on his good judgment.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His heart twisted. Her faith in him just…demolished him. With great tenderness, he tied a scarf around each wrist and tethered them to the posts at the ends of the headboard. To see her lying there, bound and blindfolded, submissive to his will… Tears stung his eyes and he had to press his lips together to keep them from trembling. “God’s blood, my sweet wife. You have no idea how beautiful you look. Submitting to me like this… It’s a gift I will treasure always. As I treasure you. Do you believe I would never hurt you? That I will give you nothing but pleasure?”
“Yes, my love.”

“Spread your legs.”

Author Information:

From fairies in the garden at age 9 to handcuffs in the boudoir at age 60, Julie’s writing has run the gamut. In between she managed to graduate cum laude with a B.A. in French from Georgia State University followed by a Master’s Degree in Library Science from Emory University. Having thus procured these two necessary but ultimately irrelevant pieces of paper, she
launched a successful career as a children’s librarian, followed by an even more successful career as a professional storyteller and puppeteer. She published Kidstuff, an award-winning, monthly newsletter, as well as a book, Puppets, Poems and Songs, both major language arts resource for early childhood

At various points in her life, if asked what she would like to be, her answer would have been (in rough chronological order, since some of these lofty ambitions overlapped): a fairy, a princess, a ballerina, Nancy Drew, Cherry Ames, a paleontologist, Scarlett O’Hara, thin and beautiful, an
actress, and a writer. Now, at age 73, her answer to that question would most
likely be, “younger”. 
Followed closely, of course by bestselling author. Oh, and a princess. Some dreams die hard.

Now retired, Julie lives in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia.

Author Links

Author Page: Facebook
Personal: Facebook
Author Page: Facebook
Group Dominant Deliciousness


Twitter    @JulieCShelton

Website Dominant Deliciousness

Other Books by Julie Shelton

Passion's Dream (Book 1)

Passion's Fury (Book 2)

Passion's Hope (Book 3)

Passion's Magic (Book 5)

The Alpha Chronicles AKA Loving Sarah Series

Standalone Title/s

Julie Shelton writing as A.J. Steele

Mastering the Professor Series

Taken in Public (Book 5)

Hosted By 

Friday, 9 June 2017

WMS Release Blitz: Doctor's Orders by Lucy Felthouse

Doctor’s Orders by Lucy Felthouse 
Now Available in Audiobook Format! 

#audiobook #audible #gay #romance #kink

Lucy Felthouse’s M/M erotic romance novella, Doctor’s Orders, is now available in audiobook format. Narrated by voice artist Peter Revel-Walsh, you can now listen to this kinky BDSM tale on the go!

Doctor’s Orders Blurb:

Hospital porter Aaron Miller isn’t expecting a very exciting birthday. He and his doctor boyfriend, Blake Colville, are working opposite shifts, leaving Aaron to go home to an empty house and the prospect of another shift the following day. Just as he’s leaving work, however, an unexpected sexy encounter in a supply cupboard leaves him feeling in a much more celebratory mood. And an impending dirty weekend away with Blake just puts the icing on the non-existent cake. But who needs cake when you’re dating a dominant doctor?

Audio links:


Author Bio:

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award, and an Amazon bestseller) and The Persecution of the Wolves. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 160 publications to her name. She owns Erotica For All, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more about her writing at http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk, or on Twitter or Facebook. Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. Subscribe to her newsletter and get a free eBook: http://www.subscribepage.com/lfnewsletter

Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services.