Friday, May 10, 2013

Day 6 in the Caliente Blog Hop!

It's day 6 in the Caliente Blog Hop! 
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Join 99 authors for six days of steamy posts and prizes.

For my prize, an ebook copy of reader's choice of any of my books out now. I'll even sign it for you with authorgraph!

>>Book Signed By Rose<<

In keeping with my 6 books in 6 days theme, today I offer the book that started this author's journey of mine -- Hermes Online -- A CataRomance Sensual Reads Reviewer's Choice Winner. It is a very fast read without chapters. Although there is no issue in the book, I've colored the text to make it easier to follow in the blog

Setting the Stage:
Vivienne gets a penpal, a mysterious man she knows only as S, who comments on a story she's written. As the days go by, little by little, email by email, his poetic words return her confidence. And correspondence gets a good deal hotter.

Caliente Excerpt:

Dearest V,
Good morning. I found myself imagining you tangled in soft sheets, your naked body warm and sleepy, the red-gold silk of your long hair fanned across your pillow. The image still raises my pulse et al. I’m wondering if our shared climax still lingers there like ion-charged air after a thunderstorm. My imagination tells me yes.

I wondered how it was this unknown man made me feel like this. It was incredible really. He said exactly the words I craved, no, needed to hear. They were raindrops on my parched landscape.

I could see him in my mind’s eye even though the pieces I had to create the image were sparse. His eyes were green, and how I loved green eyes. His hair was brown, chestnut brown. I could see it. The descriptive color revealed his hair as being rich and shining to my imagination. He was well endowed. His large hands stroked a large, thick cock while his mind was filled with thoughts of my colorful self-portrait. My brain extrapolated, and any way I saw this shadow, he was compelling. I replied.

Yes, I slept nude on soft cotton sheets...and yes, twenty inches of red-gold silk fanned across two pillows. Your suggestion was a new one. I woke this morning deciding I’ll never sleep clothed again.

I reread that last line, not exactly knowing where that random thought had come from. Yes. I would sleep nude from now on. The thought brought a languid smile, and my fingers clicked over the keys.

I found myself searching for the best, most intense, most sweetly erotic kiss I could imagine today. It’s been a while for me in real life, but several movies come to mind. I think this time you should go first.

A moment later the telltale voice announced, “You’ve got mail.”
My smile widened.

Dearest most delectable V,
No, my sweet, your sensual mind holds many images. How do I know this? The sensual story you posted several days ago. Anyone who could describe in vivid detail those intimacies and cerebral interactions between Lily and Jonathan certainly has ready images of heated kisses stowed away in their mind. Find one for me.
Lily and Jonathan’s physical appearances speak to me. Please write with their imagery in mind. I shall set the stage. The kiss might begin as their two mouths draw close. They’re unsure, even hesitant at first, but eventually as their senses take over they come to  full acknowledgment. I wish to feel the heat rising in the space between them. I know this woman exists. Let her use her lips and tongue. Show her to me, V.

Another challenge. He used my posted story to tell me he understood there was more to me than met the eye. That he saw this at a time when I desperately needed someone to see sent a thrill over me. The concept coined around my kitchen table by several women having a laugh inspired a story, one that was indeed homage to my creative side, a story written at a bold, vibrant time in my life when, despite the heartache of a love lost, everything was possible. It was also a creative side I’d completely forgotten I possessed and was only now remembering.

I had lived in a one-dimensional drab world for so long I had forgotten the words that had come easily a half dozen years before. For the first time in at least six years, I felt understood. Six years ago I wasn’t dull. Six years ago I saw all those sensual scenes between my story characters and made them come alive with color. My color. 

My friends who knew me on several levels had no working knowledge of my intimate mind, but oddly this stranger with the compelling words did. Remembering who I was made me feel very good inside. It was as if he’d given me permission to give myself a hand up out of the pit of despair I’d been mired in for a full year.

Sitting back in my desk chair with the description of a kiss simmering in the crucible of my brain, I reacquainted myself with myself. I am a romantic above everything else. No matter how bizarre the beginning of that phone sex tale, my mind had to make it work out in the end.

I shuffled through my email trash bin. I couldn’t believe the responses I received regarding that tale. Nearly all were uplifting. It appeared that most readers were happy that Lily and Jonathan fell in love. Unbelievably, one was irate because Lily went back to work at Baxter Entertainment where she and Jonathan initially met. So strong was their opinion they felt they needed to let me know they had a hard time believing the ending. I shook my head. That reader had missed the point and the complexity of the story. For Christ sake, it wasn’t real life. It was a work of fiction. If an author wanted to dangle an elephant off a daisy, they could. Still, my words had inspired responses, and that crazy one aside, the others were all good ones. I thought of the county board president’s call. Through casual albeit intimate emails with a stranger, I’d rediscovered an ability to inspire.

The story was all about acceptance and, to a lesser degree, about the damage that could be incurred by pigeonholing, a serious condition people often have. Dan had done just that by ridiculing me and telling me I was dull over and over the day we broke up, so dull I’d forced him into an affair just to deal with me. A pigeonhole if there ever was one.

This time I conjured no image of Dan getting run over by a bus or sitting on an inflatable doughnut with thrombosed hemorrhoids. This time the pigeon was out of the hole. And looking back, I wondered how it was the poor bird ever got locked up in there to begin with. How had I let another person dictate how I felt about myself? There was more to me than met the eye, just like the two characters in my story.

I searched my document file, needing in that moment to reread my story in full. I needed to see what my pen pal saw. He was right. The story was me all over, snippets of my personality reflected there for all to see, and S knew this.

I chuckled, remembering the impetus to the story—that night with my crazy wine-drinking, hysterically funny, chocolate-eating friends who I eventually immortalized in print. Being a naturally cautious person, I couldn’t help but think in this age of instant information what if the job of phone sex operator wasn’t as anonymous as we suppose? What if one of those phone clients figured out who they were talking to and thought everything that was said was exactly what the woman wanted? How could any sane person suppose that, I wondered. And voila, Jonathan was born, a lonely grieving man in the throes of a breakdown who, desiring to hear another living person one last time on the day he chooses to end his life, makes a call and finds Lily.

As I have an aversion to creepy people, to even contemplate a creepy person having forced sexual control is completely abhorrent to me. Jonathan had to be gorgeous, had to be clean, be kind, be talented and intelligent, had to be sensitive…and he had to be mentally ill. And Lily had to see all this early on. This is why she feels outrage over fear. I smiled, recognizing another tidbit into my psyche. I’m not a fearful person. I rarely panic, and I’m comfortable and understanding of myself enough to know that, were I Lily, I could escape when opportunity presented itself.

I closed the Word document and absently twirled my hair, lost in thought. There was so much of me in there—even the decorations in Jonathan’s house said much about me. The fact that Lily looks identical to me was rather Freudian too, come to think. I laughed out loud at the thought. It’s funny how our subconscious mind tells us what’s what sometimes. The subconscious mind intuits what the conscious mind misses at first glance. Yes, the phone sex story was a whim, and who would have thought six years later, it would help me find my way back to myself? I wished in that moment my pen pal stood right here so I could say thank you. I’d thank him for lighting the match that eventually relit the candle of my self-confidence. I’d kiss him for real.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, imagining this curious and compelling green-eyed, chestnut-haired, large-handed, well-endowed man kissing me. And unbelievably, my panties got soaking wet. I flexed my fingers and crafted a scene from the sizzling phantom fire playing over my lips.

Having experienced amazing kisses in my life added just enough realism to the blend of movie kisses. I told the screen, “So, you want a kiss, eh? Then what will you think of this?”

There is so much more to kissing for the first time than meets the eye. The would-be lovers laugh and smile and delight in each other’s company. They talk, getting to know each other, trying to find the choicest morsels of their life and personality to share. They might hold hands for hours as they wander here and there. And when they sit side by side, perhaps on a bench at a museum, they’ll look in feigned interest at the passersby, glance again and again at the exhibit, but not really seeing it. First, one will turn inward, the movement slight, barely noticeable. And then with no clear knowledge of doing so, the one will magically mirror the other. Their knees may touch, and one set of clasped hands might rest innocently upon a knee.
And then a noise, a temporary distraction, might take their attention for a second, and both heads will turn to the sound, inadvertently closer now than before. When one turns back, their faces will be mere inches apart. Their eyes, green and gray, will hold each other’s gazes, darting from one sparkling pupil to the other. They might unfocus to drink in the entire face for a second, perhaps lingering on the person’s smile before meeting the gaze once more, a gaze noticeably warmer than a moment ago.

One face may turn a little, and in mirrored image, the other follows, only slightly tipped in the opposite direction. And the eyes ask the silent question as two thoughts become superimposed—“May I kiss you?”-“Will you kiss me?” The answer is subtle, missed by nearly everyone passing by, everyone save the smiling elder couple holding gnarled hands and assisted by their canes. Perhaps they, too, once shared a kiss sitting there, or plan to again later. But locked in their own world, they don’t notice the elder pair walk by.
They are aware now only of each other, aware of little things, the flush on her cheeks, the gleam in his eye, the color of her moist lips, the imperceptible flare of his nostrils as he subconsciously reminds his body to breathe. They touch now. The kiss is at first soft, the lips asking permission for the firmness they crave. Another kiss grants this and another and another as faces turn to fit around chins and cheeks and noses. And then loose and pliable, those lips part now to make way for tentative tongues. These too begin their searching, gently at first then becoming bolder as they instinctively react to the warmth of each other’s mouths and thrust as hands cup cheeks and arms wind around shoulders, drawing each other ever inward into the private space that shuts the waking world out and lets the dream begin.

Little did I realize when I began this kissing scene that I would abandon the amalgamated movie kisses. I stopped and read those words, my words, my kiss. That kiss had been real, as had the love behind it. My eyes filled with tears, but I sent it on. Feeling alone, I rose from my chair and walked away.

* * * *

The next morning there were dozens of legitimate emails waiting for me amid the pile of crap I normally got each day. It wasn’t like me to leave my email program running all night, so it was sort of a surprise to see so many at once. It was Saturday. I had nowhere to go and had only the usual weekend tasks to see to before Monday came rolling around again. Sometime in the mid-afternoon after my groceries were put away and a week’s worth of lunches had been made, I sat down at my computer and took a moment to clear the spam and download another spam chaser with a tighter net for catching those intrusive things. I answered a few emails from friends and saved his for last.

That was extraordinary. I could see your gray eyes, see them dart from one to the other of my own as our faces drew close. That was perfection, dearest V. I could almost feel you upon my lips. And now to kiss you in return, a second kiss…
Feeling breathless, we rose hand in hand from our bench and walked mere blocks away to my apartment. Once inside the door, our eyes locked again, our faces drawing closer, closer. Your lips are parted, your lovely breasts rise and fall, your body waits. My hand rises to brush your autumn-colored hair back from your face. Our kiss from before still lingers, but we need so much more from each other now. And we take it. Just how, I will leave to you.

Somehow this stranger, this S... Ssss. I rolled the single syllable over my tongue like the end of a snake’s hiss. This sensual conjurer from the shadows was an alliteration. I saw the poetry of him, and every word began with S, a shadowed, sexy, sensual stranger, S.

I had no clear true picture of him, so once more my mind, armed as it was with a small basket of his self-descriptive words, extrapolated. He was a beautiful male of course, with his fern-green eyes, his swarthy skin, and his shining chestnut hair. The image my mind created surprised me, and in self-preservation, I shook my embellishment aside.
He had only said green eyes, dark skin, and chestnut hair. No, my mind replied, see him clearly...shining brown, fern green, swarthy…no, I amended. Not swarthy...more...more...sun-kissed, bronzed. I thought on this a while. Though I initially wished it otherwise, in the end I could find nothing wrong with the enhanced image my mind was compelled to assemble from the recesses of memory. My smile widened as I gave myself permission to live this dream. And with my dream view filling in the blanks of the mysterious S, my fingers found the keys.

You stand with your back to the door, facing me. Your large hand brushes my hair back yet lingers upon my cheek once the deed is done. It slowly moves past my ear to the back of my head and gently and purposefully pulls my face closer. Your eyes lock to my lips and mine to yours, both pairs soft, moist, beckoning. They meet again, less tentative, more sure of the yearning behind them. Soft but a moment before, the fingers on the hand at the back of my head curl into my red-gold hair in a grip that clearly says this kiss will continue. And it does.

And when the lips have had their fill for now, they leave to burn a scorching swath down my neck and back along my jaw, accentuated by the stubble of your beard. We realize clothing is a hindrance. Panting, we pull apart, eyes speaking at once, “Please make love to me. If I don’t have you, I’ll burn alive.” I nod breathlessly. The small acquiescent gesture fires your blood. You grab me hard and pull me roughly against you, your mouth slanting over mine, your tongue conquering any reserve I might have.

I pressed my fingertips to my lips. I hadn’t been kissed, but my brain had, and the brain told me it was real enough by the tingling I actually felt there.

That he didn’t answer right away was disappointing. Then my eye caught sight of the tiny envelope instantly appearing in my small mailbox icon. Momentarily confused by the lack of sound, I suddenly remembered the robotic “Warning!” alert that my new anti-spam program screamed when it found spyware. It had annoyed me so much I turned the speakers off. Wanting as many senses involved as possible in this curious relationship, I turned them back on. With my finger still on the dial, I nearly jumped out of my skin, the words instantly shouted over the speaker, “…ve-got-mail!”  I had forgotten to adjust them.

Oh, Temptress V,
Not nearly complete enough. We stand locked in a fierce embrace, kisses devouring. Recall the clothing in the way of scorching lips. Remove them. What do our bodies feel once you’ve tossed them aside?

I remembered the sound of buttons flying across the floor and hitting the window and the sound of a metal belt buckle hitting the floor. They were harmless memories. I chose to use them.

Somewhere in the distance shoes are kicked aside, and a belt buckle drops to the floor with a metallic clatter. We twist and writhe out of clothing gone suddenly too tight to be left where they are. Buttons go flying and stitches rend. One hits the window glass. Suddenly, you grasp my upper arms and slam my back against the wooden door to take your place exactly where you stood a moment before. You press your body against mine. You have a light covering of dark hair across your chest, and it teases my bare breasts. Feel me?

I was panting now, reliving a memory. I could almost feel the hard wood, the doorknob bruising me to one side just above the hollow of my back. His answer was instantaneous, and the fact he sat there as I did thrilled me.

Sorceress V,
I feel your words. They conjure heady images out of the fog. Give me more.

I narrowed my eyes at the screen, feeling cheated somehow. I said the words aloud to the computer. “All right, S, you want more? Whaddaya think of this?”

Your body glides along mine as your head dips to suckle my breasts. Your hands fill to overflowing with the soft creamy flesh. Your chin is rough. The stubble of a devil-may-care beard rasps against me, and my nipples, once so pale pink, become roses in full bloom. Your mouth closes over one then the other, sucking, drawing deeply into the heat of your mouth. But there is more... One hand roams over my side, over my hip to circle my belly and down to brush knuckles first over the short red-gold fleece. Wordlessly willed to do so, my thighs part ever so slightly. Your fingers brush up and down. Your mouth returns to claim a kiss. My hand seeks you out, curling around the fullness of your large hard cock. The head is wet against my thigh. You like kissing me.

The reply came fast.

Sensual V,
I very much enjoy it. But there is more of you to kiss, my sweet. Your rose-blush nipples are succulent, yes, and I return again and again between ardent kisses to feast upon their delicious plumpness. I’m hungry, V. Part your lissome thighs for me. I’m on my knees now, my eyes looking upward past belly and heaving breasts. Yes, I know you are as breathless as I. My large hands sweep upward over the front of your thighs, thumbs meeting in the center to pry soft, silky rose petals apart to find the flint-hard nub there. Feel me trace your clit with the tip of my tongue, wet circles, V, slow, firm, delightful circles. And once your clit stands hard, I’ll draw this tiny corresponding bit into my mouth and suck, and I know, within moments, you will offer the same to me. But we are by no means done for the day. Suck my cock, V. Take me into your luscious mouth. Suck me.

Oh my god. I slid my hand inside the waistband of my drawstring pants. I was slippery wet, pulsingly aroused and ready...oh so fucking ready. I couldn’t take much more of this. I’d burst into flames.


 :) Want more?  Find an excerpt inside the cover on Amazon's Look Inside feature.

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