Tuesday, 31 October 2017

Ride that broom, baby

Preparation for the Witches' Sabbath - French School, 1800s
Happy Hallowe'en!

Witches everywhere will be dusting off their faithful brooms and preparing to ride the autumnal skies tonight. In 'Fine Art', of course, all witches are either young and incredibly sexy or aged and incredibly repulsive ...(which makes you wonder what happens to the ones in between - presumably they're too busy holding down jobs and families to spend time gallivanting about with satanic goats or whatever).

So here are some sexy ones, mostly engaged in the 19th Century equivalent of pole-dancing:

Departure for the Sabbath, by Albert Joseph Pénot, 1910

Riding Witches by Otto Goetze, 1924

Walpurgis Night, by Lovis Corinth ,1893
Muse of the Night by Luis Ricardo Falero, 1880

Photo from the series: Witches’ Sabbat in Paris, 1910
Photo from the series: Witches’ Sabbat in Paris, 1910

Sabbat de Sorcières, Adolf Munzier,1909
Jan Frans De Boever (1872 - 1949)
The Apotheosis of a Witch, by Clara Siewert (1862-1945)
Marguerite au Sabbat, by Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret, 1911.

La_SorcièreMartin van Maele, 1911
The Young Sorceress, by Antoine Wiertz, 1857
The Departure of the Witches, by Luis Ricardo Falero, 1878
Happy Hallowe'en!

Monday, 30 October 2017

Blue Monday: Morgan Elektra guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today, a second treat from new paranormal gay anthology Myths, Moons and Mayhem. This excerpt is from the short story The Endless Knot, by Morgan Elektra.

The Endless Knot: Vampire Jackson and werewolf Rafael couldn’t keep their fiery relationship from burning itself to the ground. A human named Beau shows them how to rekindle it to a steady flame.

“Now, now, gentlemen. No need for enmity.” Beau’s voice is low, breathy, full of need. Jackson wants to fulfill it. From the heat in Rafael’s gaze and the way he strokes the back of Beau’s hand, Jackson knows his ex-lover is equally as eager.

Jackson’s gut tightens with possessiveness. He pictures them on their knees before him, tongues tangling around the head of his prick, and the image almost fells him. He is far from cold now.

Rafael growls low, his scent growing stronger in the warm night air.

“I’m sure we can find some mmmmm…”—Beau sighs, hands trailing down their abdomens—“... common ground.”

Beau hooks his fingers into their waistbands. The heat of Beau’s palm seeps into Jackson’s skin, separated only by thin layers of fabric. He rocks his hips, pressing his cock against Beau’s hand. Across from him, Rafael does the same.

“Jesus fuck.” Beau directs his next words up at the inky sky, a trembling laugh on his lips. “I am the luckiest man alive.”

One of Rafael’s big, work-roughened hands curls around the back of Beau’s neck. With his eyes on Jackson, he bends to brush his mouth over Beau’s.

It begins as a taunt, but Rafael’s lids shut as Beau’s tongue slides along his lower lip, deepening the kiss. The Wolf’s free hand comes up and grips Jackson’s shoulder, steadying himself.

Below Jackson’s belt, Beau’s stroking hand falters only briefly before gripping him tighter.

Witnessing the passionate kiss—Rafael’s neatly trimmed beard a stark contrast to the smooth, pale perfection of Beau’s epicene beauty—sends desire coursing through him. Their hands on him, their scents blooming around him, drag a groan from Jackson’s throat.

Beau pulls back, his mouth swollen and glistening. He licks at his lips, like he wants every last bit of the Wolf’s taste. Jackson can’t blame him. He can still remember the flavor of Rafael on his tongue. It tingles now in memory of the other man’s powerful kiss.

“You got a mouth on you, bébé.” Rafael’s grin is slow, sensual, and smeared with Beau’s lipstick.

Beau winks, the quick dip of his lashes saucy and playful. “You have no idea, Rafe. But you will. Both of you.”

Jackson isn’t at all surprised to hear Rafael’s nickname roll of Beau’s tongue, as natural as his next breath. Beau turns his glittering blue gaze on Jackson and the corners of his mouth curl up. He stands on tiptoe, but still can’t quite reach Jackson’s lips. Undeterred, he kisses the tense line of his jaw instead.

Jackson tries to read Rafael’s expression, but for once he is unable. His thoughts are too scattered, lust a drumbeat in his head, drowning everything else out.

When Beau’s fingers grip his chin, Jackson lets the human pull his mouth down into the kiss he has been imagining since the first moment he glimpsed Beau’s crimson pout.

In his long lifetime, Jackson has experienced many kisses, and yet none of them affected him the way this one does. Only one other man ever came close. And he can taste Rafael on Beau’s tongue.

Buy Myths Moons and Mayhem:

Universal e-book link
Amazon paperback

Morgan Elektra is author of A Single Heartbeat, A Kiss in Brimstone, and Big Teeth. She discovered her passion for writing at a young age, penning stories of witches, vampires, and monsters at the dining room table. After years working day jobs and moonlighting as a reviewer for popular horror website Dread Central, Morgan left the comfort of an office to follow her dreams of writing fiction. You can like her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter or her website

Friday, 27 October 2017

Filthless Friday

Since this isn't a Blue Monday - here's a plotty bit from near the start of The King's Viper (recently re-released) which I hugely enjoyed writing because it is perfectly accurate but as misleading as hell. And you have to read the whole story of Eloise and Severin to discover the true picture.

On her wedding night, Eloise waited in her chamber. Not her old familiar bedroom, but a grand chamber that had been specially prepared for the nuptials of the heir of Venn—the curtains dusted, the mattress on the four-poster bed beaten and aired and covered in fresh linens.

She was led into the chamber by her maids. On the far side of the bed the chamberlain and his men waited to do their duty. The womenfolk cast them scolding glances and held up sheets to protect her from their prurient eyes as they disrobed her down to a close-fitting shift of very white, very fine silk. They pulled all the curtains about the bed, holding open only one gap for Eloise to enter.

“Make no sound, no matter how it hurts,” urged one of the senior ladies in her ear. “If you cry out in weakness, then your firstborn will be a girl.”

Eloise climbed onto the mattress and the gap vanished, leaving her enclosed in a fabric chamber all her own. Firelight glowed on one curtain, lighting the inner sanctum dimly. She sat up, hugging one knee and chewing a fingernail.

Severin de Meynard had said hardly a word to her throughout the ceremony and the meal afterward—a wedding breakfast she’d scarcely touched because her stomach was clenched with tension. His gaze had slid over her as smoothly as black fur. And she hadn’t dared sneak more than a few glances at him. There was too much between them; a history of terror. He’d changed the style of his narrow beard though, she’d noticed. Now it ran the length of his jaw. The bruises she’d seen on his face at their last meeting had long gone of course, but nothing could heal the missing fingers on his right hand. And he looked older. There were gray hairs among the black on his chin.

His left hand had been cool upon hers as they exchanged vows, his voice emotionless, his expression unreadable.

The officials and the maids talked together in low voices and laughed. Her nervousness turned to hot rage. None of this was about her, only about her descendants. Before the wedding she’d been thrashed with a sheaf of wheat, had her breasts anointed with ewes’ milk and had a boy baby passed between her thighs, everything designed to encourage her to bear healthy heirs. Even the white silk kerchief, wedged in the carved headboard, was intended to capture for public display the tokens of her ruptured virginity. Nobody cared if she was happy or unhappy, whether he was tender or cruel to her, whether they took joy in one another or co-existed in loathing. The only matters of significance were that she came to the marriage a maiden, and that she be fertile thereafter.

I could have been Queen of Ystria, she thought. And exactly the same would have been true then.

The chamber door creaked open and closed. He was here. For a moment the official witnesses fell silent. Then someone spoke—the chamberlain almost certainly—and though Eloise could not hear all the words of his elaborate pleasantry she knew from his tone that it was ribald.

The joke fell flat, as Severin made no response. The silence stretched to an uncomfortable length until the chamberlain coughed nervously. Eloise smiled despite herself, though it was a warped and grim smile. Severin de Meynard had a way of killing foolish humor. He could look right through you as if judging your innermost weaknesses, without passion and without mercy.

The curtain of her chamber-within-a-chamber twitched aside, and the King’s Viper looked in on her. He didn’t smile.

“Good even, my lady wife.”

“My lord husband.” The words came out falteringly. She wondered if she should have arranged it so that his first glimpse of her was not like this, hunched up on the bed like a child afraid of the dark. But it was too late for that. He turned away, speaking to the others in an undertone, then climbed onto the bed. A small leather flask, the sort used to hold strong liquor, swung by its thong from his hand.

“It’s been—” she whispered, but he cut her off, placing a finger against her lips for silence. The reproof made her quail.

He made sure the curtains were drawn tight and nothing could be glimpsed of them from without. He was wearing only woolen hose, hitched loosely about his hips now that they were not laced to a doublet. His chest—with its compact, hard muscle and its dark flare of hair—was bare. She saw unfamiliar scars, still shiny and fresh, laced across his ribs.

They’d punished him cruelly for what he’d done to her.

Eloise dug her fingers into her shin. Do I really know this man?

She had seen for herself that he was a killer. Had he ever been truly kind to her? Hadn’t he systematically stripped her of all hope and abandoned her to her pain? Hadn’t he taken everything from her?

Everything, she realized, except that which he was about to claim now, by right of marriage.

In a moment the whole edifice of her memory crumbled into doubt. A visceral terror made her wonder if she had made an awful mistake—if in fact she had been mistaken all along. Perhaps she had deceived herself. Perhaps he had deliberately deceived her.

As he knelt before her with his thighs spread, and laid his right hand along her cheek, she trembled.

Universal buy-link for THE KING'S VIPER

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

Bare breasts

My bedroom window has claimed the life of another kamikaze pigeon.

I might be a vegetarian, but I don't waste meat!

Lucky dogs!

Monday, 23 October 2017

Blue Monday: Dale Cameron Lowry guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Dale Cameron Lowry with an excerpt from their story The Cave, which appears in Myths, Moons and Mayhem: paranormal gay menage and erotic romance

Myths, moons, and mayhem make the perfect threesome—and so do the men in this anthology.

Enjoy nine erotic stories of paranormal ménages a trois fueled by lust and magic, where mystical forces collide with the everyday world and even monsters have their own demons to conquer.

A werewolf gets a lust-fueled lesson on fitting in with the pack, a professor unlocks ancient secrets and two men’s hearts, and a pair of supernaturals find themselves at the erotic mercy of a remarkable human. Ghosts, fairies, aliens, and mere mortals test the boundaries of their desires, creating magic of their own.

Penned by favorite authors such as Rob Rosen and Clare London, as well as by newcomers to the genre, Myths, Moons & Mayhem is an eclectic mix of paranormal lust and polymythic beings that will spark your fantasies and fuel your bonfires.

About “The Cave”: Losing sleep to the sounds of his tent-neighbors’ nightly lovemaking has nature photographer Ethan at his wit’s end. What kind of magic can convince the two men he should join them?

This scene takes place when Ethan is alone by the campfire, when the other campers are in their tents. He’s been listening to his tent neighbors, Mendrika and Joseph, have sex. Mendrika is a common man’s name in Malagasy, the national language of Madagascar. His husband, Joseph, is French.

In addition to being a photographer, Ethan is a light mage. Arousal makes his magic stronger.

I take a handful of dirt and sprinkle it over the coals, trying to snuff out the embers. A few extinguish, but most continue to coil and writhe. The low, dancing light of a fire usually reminds me of snakes, but tonight the flames are lovers, wrapping over and around each other, twisting together, merging into a larger light.

I feel their reach as strings against my skin, but they aren’t the neatly spaced guitar strings of the afternoon. Now they’re a thick, dense tangle of spider silk, wrapped around my body, running through me. I barely have to move to send a vibration to the heart of the web—the embers at the bottom of the campfire. If my heart picks up, so does the flame. If my cock swells, so does the light.

There’s no control here. Only connection. I am connected to the light the way Mendrika and Joseph are connected, deep at the center of my being.

Which one of them cried out earlier, Mendrika or Joseph? Was it the same man each time, or one after the other? And who’s making those other sounds now—the murmuring and the soft, plaintive moans I might confuse for the nearby stream if I didn’t know any better?

I picture them in my mind’s eye: naked, cock to cock, kissing and necking as they rub together, each movement awaking another frisson of heat deep in their balls.

Or maybe Mendrika’s lying on his back, exhausted and sore from the day’s ordeal, but eager for the mouth of his lover, for Joseph’s lips on him, for the comfort and agony of Joseph’s wet, hungry mouth on his dick.

Or is Joseph the one on his back, legs splayed apart, baring a hole as pink and round as his lips when he pronounces the letter u, begging Mendrika to enter?

My cock surges. So do the flames. Nothing turns me on like a stocky, muscular guy getting pounded. I imagine Mendrika’s shaft as hard a tree trunk, swelling and twitching as its head pushes past Joseph’s clenching asshole, and Joseph biting his lower lip to keep from crying out. I can almost feel Mendrika’s cock inside me—a delicious, terrifying ache, too much and not enough, and in my mind’s eye Joseph starts rocking, rocking, making that sweet ache move deeper until it spears him at his core.

The cooking fire roars up like it’s been doused with gasoline.

Heather was right. As long as this ache lasts, I won’t be able to put out this fire.

A ravenala tree surrounded by shrubby undergrowth stands a few feet from Mendrika and Joseph’s tent. I slip into the center and hide among the leaves.

I can hear Joseph and Mendrika better from here. Smaller, more intimate sounds. Their sleeping bag shifting between their bodies and the ground. One of them whispering something, almost like a chant, a soft stream of words punctuated by rustling moans, so understated they might be the leaves of the ravenala shaking in the breeze.

I wipe my thumb over the head of my dick, spreading precome over my skin. I close my eyes and imagine Mendrika’s fingers on me instead, wrapping tight around my shaft, and Joseph’s tongue where my thumb is, lapping up my juice with wet, hungry licks.

Soft slapping sounds. Whispers turn into panting. I imagine the sleeping bag shifting under Mendrika’s knees, his balls smacking against Joseph’s ass with each thrust. Through the leaves, the campfire flares.

Though its light is almost too bright to bear, its tug is irresistible. Its visible portion skitters around the coals, rising higher into the air—one feet, two feet, three—until it’s almost as tall as a man.

No. Two men. Twin tongues of flame: one at the center, stolid and steady; the other winding around it in a graceful dance.

A grunt from the tent.

The flames take sharper form now, licking out to form limbs, then heads, then cocks. With each passing second, they become more detailed, like statues emerging from marble. Their hands develop distinct fingers. Their faces grow eyelashes and lips. A foreskin circles the head of one cock, and a circumcision scar appears on the other.

Have I lost my mind in a hallucinatory fever, or has my lust unlocked a new depth of light magic? When I lost my virginity, I set off a sky flare that local weather observers later reported was visible from miles away. But that’s as impressive as my powers get. Giving light shape and mass and life—it’s inconceivable.

And yet it’s happening, right before my eyes: Mendrika and Joseph, captured in light.

They’re gorgeous together. Legs tangled, fingers entwined. They settle down in the charcoals, Joseph straddling Mendrika’s waist, their faces radiating desire. Joseph grasps Mendrika’s dick in his
glowing hands, steadying it as he lines it up with his hole.

J'ai envie de toi,” I hear from the tent. I want you.

In the fire circle, two points of light meet. Mendrika’s radiant cock rises into Joseph’s flame.

A groan, deep and rib-shaking.

Flame Joseph’s back arches. I feel it arch, through the strings connecting me to the light. They tug at my dick, brush across my nipples, thread into my ass.

Encore.” Joseph’s plea, whispered but clear as day.

The strings of light coalesce into something denser, like flesh. My ass stretches open to accept them; they embrace my cock with sucking warmth.

Flame Joseph shifts his hips. The sleeping bag rustles. A stutter, a sigh.

Thump, thump, thump, against the earth.

And, oh. My. God. They’re fucking me. Or the light is. I can’t tell the difference, only the sensation: wanton, relentless, driving. In the tent, there’s panting. In the fire, thrusting. The light surges into me, deeper than any man has been, stretching my ring of muscle, pounding against my prostate. I’m going to come, I’m going to come, I’m going to—

Buy Myths, Moons and Mayhem:
Universal e-book link

 Dale Cameron Lowry’s number one goal in life is getting the cat to stop eating dish towels; number two is to write things that bring people joy. Dale is the author of Falling Hard: Stories of Men in Love and a contributor to more than a dozen anthologies. Find out more at their:

Newsletter and free reads

Sunday, 22 October 2017

That cobra though...

I came across this clip today - a jaw-dropping blend of sexy dance, Orientalism, and really bad puppetry - from a movie I've never seen BUT NOW MUST WATCH.

It looks truly epic: equal parts awful/highly entertaining ;-)

Friday, 20 October 2017

Re-release: The King's Viper

No! He shaped the word in his head even as he reached out and pulled her against him.

"This is high treason," he said raggedly. Then he kissed her.


My game-of-thronesish hot romance The King's Viper is now available in a new e-edition so that you can enjoy all the sexual frustration, medieval politics, betrayal and heartache* with a stylish new cover!

When Lady Eloise of the Isle of Venn becomes betrothed to the King of Ystria, she looks forward to a life of luxury and status at the royal court. She certainly doesn’t anticipate being shipwrecked on the way to her wedding, escorted by the King’s assassin, Severin de Meynard, the most hated man in the kingdom. Nor does she anticipate them having to make their way back home to Ystria on foot, through hundreds of miles of enemy territory. Above all, she doesn’t expect to fall in love with the cynical, ruthless Severin.

Eloise and Severin struggle to control their growing attraction to each other because if they do not—if she returns to the King no longer a virgin—then they will both be executed. Yet their passion threatens to be far stronger than their self-control. Severin and Eloise are torn between duty and their burning need for one another, and both will face bitter sacrifice before the end.

Buy 'The King’s Viper' at Amazon US

Buy 'The King’s Viper' at Amazon UK

Buy 'The King’s Viper' at Barnes & Noble

Buy 'The King’s Viper' at Apple iTunes

Buy 'The King's Viper' at Kobo

Buy 'The King's Viper' at Inktera

*[SPOILER] It also has filthy, passionate sex and a HEA

Wednesday, 18 October 2017


I've done it - I've officially hit "publish" on my first reverted novel! It's slowly clocking through the works and going up on Apple, B&N, Amazon ...  (fingers crossed)

It took me about six months of angst to get to this point, and then Lo And Behold it turns out to be WAY WAY EASIER than I'd ever imagined. All those earnest "how to" guides online make it sound like a huge technical undertaking, and it really isn't. If you've thought about self-publishing but never dared, be reassured - if I can do it, anyone can!

  • You need a clean pared-down Word document. No contents page, no title page.
  • You need a cover JPG, unless you are amazingly lazy and want to use a generic one.
  • You need your bank details or paypal account, and tax reference number.
  • You need an ITIN if you are not American, to stop distributors withholding 30% of your US royalties.
 You don't need to do your own digital conversion. You don't need to buy your own ISBN.

  • Go on Draft 2 Digital and set up your account, with bio and author pic.
  • Upload your cover, if you have one, or use one of theirs.
  • Upload your .DOC and they convert it for you. Look through the preview. Choose from their array of fonts and styles.
  • They make a .EPUB for you to publish.
  • They make a .MOBI which you can take to Amazon
  • They make a PDF which you can upload to paperback publishers.
  • They provide links to free emulators so you can check these all look okay on various readers (phones, tablets, Macs).
  • Then, when you're ready, pick a price and hit "publish".

  • Repeat process with Kindle Direct for Amazon platforms. KDP is less user-friendly than easy-peasy D2D but it's not that bad, honestly.

Then wait...

UPDATE: D2D now publish through Amazon too, so you don't even have to go through the Kindle Direct process if you don't want.

Monday, 16 October 2017

Blue Monday: Lea Bronsen guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Lea Bronsen with an excerpt from her new Viking novel, Torn Avenger.

Murder. Passion. Two ancient worlds colliding.
As the second son of a Viking earl, Alv Gunnulfsen wasn't meant to inherit a throne or avenge a murder. But when his brother is slain during a raid and their father dies of grief, Alv is expected to take command and claim the killer's death. In a world of ruthless retaliation and strict social codes, he must also maneuver cleverly to protect a troublesome secret: his attraction for men.

Roeland van Dijk, a wealthy Dutch merchant settled in Norway, has done the unthinkable to protect his family — hacked off the head of a Viking rapist. The wrath of the blond savages will cost him his freedom, and possibly his own head… Unless he's willing to accept the love of another man.

The erotic kiss had Roeland’s body give into lust, some parts of him melting, others swelling and hardening. His breathing quickened. His mind became numb and succumbed to the need for comfort, relief from reality, and heady pleasure. He kissed Alv back, tentatively at first, discovering him, learning to know him, getting used to the idea of kissing someone after Hilda had passed.

Thank goodness his inner voice said it was okay, that he deserved love, sex, and shouldn’t feel bad about it. When she died, he’d believed he loved her so much he could never be with another woman, but now he did just that with Alv, this half-man, half-woman being. It didn’t feel like he was cheating on her. If it had, he would’ve loathed himself for the rest of his life. But Hilda would’ve wanted him to be happy. Speaking of life, the Vikings might do away with him any given time, and what was happening with Alv could well be his last chance to share intimacy with someone.

He parted his lips, and Alv slid his wet, sweet-tasting tongue inside his mouth. God, delicious. Roeland moaned in appreciation, his body melting even more, his cock growing.

Alv released his lips with a small sucking sound and whispered, “Ssh, be quiet.”

Oh, right, they weren’t alone! Cold flash back to reality.

Roeland had heard moans and hard breathing in the darkened prisoner barn in the past nights, but Alv and he needed to be discreet. If word got out that a man of nobility snuck in here to sleep with a slave, especially when both were men… He didn’t want to think of the consequences, and it would probably be wise to stop playing before things went farther.

Alv attacked his lips again, with silent furor this time, thrusting his tongue inside Roeland’s mouth and toying with his. Didn’t he understand the danger? But Roeland didn’t have willpower to refuse him. He would go along then, but careful not to make a sound.

As if reading his thoughts, Alv brought his arms up to Roeland’s neck and circled it, pulling him into a tight lover’s embrace and pressing their stomachs and erections against each other. Fire rushed from Roeland’s cock to his chest. Stifling a groan, he wrapped his arms around Alv’s slim waist and hugged him back.

It felt right to hold another person like this, to tangle their lustful tongues, to savor their swollen cocks’ throbbing of desire. It had been so long since he’d gotten laid. When Hilda announced her pregnancy, he’d decided he wouldn’t touch her—smother her—until after she gave birth. Most men didn’t mind sleeping with women whose wombs carried a fetus, but he did. And so, month after month had passed without him allowing himself to go into sex mode. He hadn’t even used his hand to get off on his own, out of respect for his wife.

“Get down,” Alv ordered, breathing hard but silently to his mouth, pushing Roeland to slide onto his knees. Before they found their balance in the dark shadow of the wall, Alv reached for Roeland’s pants and pulled them down.

Oh! His cock uncurled from its constraint, like a snake in a bag. Alv grabbed it and stroked upward in one slow motion, toward the tip, his fist warm and firm. The intense sensation caused heat to course through Roeland, and he held his breath to stop a low growl from erupting in his throat. Fluid rushed to the tip of his dick and leaked a droplet, the wetness in contact with the air reminding him of how chilly it was inside the barn.

Alv kissed him deeply again and continued stroking base to tip, each time pulling the foreskin over the bigger head, enhancing the pressure in Roeland’s tense cock.

His world spun. He trembled. He wouldn’t last, the wait had been too long. At the same time, a small part of his brain that still worked acknowledged he should return the favor.

He fumbled for Alv’s erection in his pants and pulled it out, caressing slowly then pumping the long, veiny shaft in a steady rhythm, the way he would to himself. It was the first time he touched another man’s dick, but it was quite all right. And from the choked sounds of pleasure deep in Alv’s throat, it had to feel pretty good to him, too.

Kneeling on the hard ground in the dark, linked by eager mouths and hands, they kissed, masturbated, and held each other closely until a familiar tightening of Roeland’s balls told him he was going to come.

Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do about it—he was going to ejaculate all over Alv’s clothes!

Too late, a ball of heat unfurled in his groin, rushed through the length of his stiff cock, and sprayed out of the tip as burning, pulsating fluid. His mind blackened. His release seemed endless. Riding waves of insane delight, he knocked his forehead into Alv’s, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth to stop a long, deep growl from slipping out.

Buy Torn Avenger at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes and Noble
Add it to your shelf on Goodreads

Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After venturing into dirty inner-city crime drama with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between psychological thriller, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance.

Website / Blog / Facebook / Twitter / Amazon / Pinterest

Sunday, 15 October 2017



... keen-sighted.

(Says the woman who literally can't read the small print in her holiday brochure, it's so small. Still, I'm sure everything will be fine...)

Friday, 13 October 2017

Big reveal - and a new cover

cover by JH

I'm going for it. I'm going to do the self-publishing thing!

I've had THREE publishers kick the bucket on me this year and I'm fed up. So I'm going to take my reverted works and publish them directly, starting with The King's Viper above, so that they are easily available to readers at low low prices.

I know what you're all thinking - "Janine, that's not a proper genre cover!" Well, I don't care. I never liked romance covers much, and I don't want to get lost in the crowd, and it's not as if I've ever made huge sales in Romance anyway. So I'm going to build myself a brand. Blue covers for Romance, red covers for Erotica.

If all goes well with this first one my plans - after some very careful checking of my contracts - are:

The King's Viper (ex-Ellora's Cave, Game of Thrones stylee political fantasy)
Heart of Flame (ex-Samhain, Arabian Nights fantasy)
Bound in Skin (ex-Cat Scratch Books, Victorian werewolf novella)
The Grief of the Bond-Maid (ex-Storm Moon Press, Viking magic novella)

In Appreciation of Their Cox (ex-Ellora's Cave rowing short)
Melusine (ex-Sweetmeats Press, fantasy short)
A Wicked Muse (collection of short story reprints, mostly from Cleis)

That Ought to Crawl (short stories)
The Collected Gillian Troth Stories (2 vols, paranormal satire)

That should keep me busy for some time! We'll see how it goes...

"What about Named and Shamed?" you might ask. "What about the Fierce Enchantments collection? Haven't they reverted too?"

Heheheh - I've slightly different plans on that front. Watch this space!

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

The Expanse

"My eyes are up here"
I just want to say how much I am LOVING the Netflix series The Expanse, which has got to be the best space-based SF since the Battlestar Galactica relaunch and is kicking Star Trek's flabby ass.

And I do not just love it for Amos as depicted above, who is sort of a pit-bull in human form (complete with puppy-dog eyes). It has whole diverse cast of sexy - ahem - I mean engaging characters, and a compelling three-strand plot that twines together to reveal an epic alien threat to all human life.

There's the self-described Shit Magnets who start off as miners in the asteroid belt, thoroughly oppressed by the ever-bickering governments of Earth and Mars, and stumble onto a nasty NASTY secret:

The Designated Adult, the Pitbull, the Wannabe Hero Who is a Bit of a Tosser, and the Nerdy One
There's the Earth-based political shenanigans in the UN;

She scares me more than the Alien
And the mystery thriller plot when a crooked cop tries to track down a missing woman:

By Season Two you also get some Martian Marine characters involved in their own related crisis:

Have you noticed that this SF future isn't predominantly White? Awesome! And they have a lot of fun with languages and accents.

The setting is gritty-to-grim, with every difficult decision having even more difficult consequences, and no shying away from the moral baggage.

And yeah,  it's sexy, of course 💖 That never puts me off!

I can't wait for Series 3!

Monday, 9 October 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's vignette is from The Icing on the Cake, which appeared in the anthology Misbehavior. Suze is making a wedding cake for her frenemy Helen, when the groom drops by....

‘I said I wanted to fuck your beautiful bum,’ he said softly. He was standing right behind me as I was bent over, I realised suddenly. Close enough that I could feel the brush of cloth on cloth - then the exploratory bump of his weight against me. ‘I wasn’t drunk.’

My hand started to tremble and I put the cake-topper down carefully. ‘Um,’ I said, not as quick-witted as I liked to think myself.

‘You have got a lovely bum,’ he pointed out, putting one hand on my arse cheek, with reverent appreciation. All the blood seemed to leave my head and flood down into my body, charging my lower regions with heat. I could feel the flesh between my thighs grow heavy, and my legs correspondingly weak.

‘Shouldn’t you be thinking about Helen’s bum right now?’ I asked, my voice coming out all husky and plaintive.

‘What bum? She’s been on this sodding diet for months – no bread, no alcohol, no chocolate – and she looks like a string bean. She hasn’t got an arse any more.’ Both his hands moved on my cheeks in warm caressing circles. ‘Not like you. God … this feels good.’

If I’d been capable of thought I might have tried to come to grips with the peculiarly male notion that less is not in fact more, but thinking was it seemed no longer one of my strong suits. I was too busy feeling the shockwaves of sensation washing through me with each flex of his grip on my cheeks. Too busy trying to sort out the alarm and the glee that we were battling it out in the empty shell of my skull. With a little groan of relief, Pete pushed his groin and thighs up against my long-coveted butt, and I could feel the hard challenge to my cushioning softness. Like - really, seriously hard. The kick of arousal that shot through my guts was like a jolt of electricity. I barely had the sense to push the cake a few inches further away towards safety. ‘Oh God,’ I said. What I meant was, You really mean it! You really do!

‘Oh yes.’ He ground his hips against me.

Pete, of course, had an excuse for all this. His forebrain paralysed by pre-wedding panic, it was his lower brain that was in charge. So what was my excuse? Getting one over on a friend who had always put me in the shade? Getting a slice of a seriously hot man beyond my normal aspirations?

Maybe the truth is that I’m simply a bit of a slut, when I get the chance. Well, how should I know? – it’s not like other women’s blokes are chucking themselves at me all the time.

‘Suzie,’ he murmured with pleasure, taking me by the hips and wriggling up against me snugly. ‘You’ve got such a lovely fucking arse, I’ve wanted it for years, and-’ He paused, then leaned in to murmur in my ear: ‘And you’re not wearing any knickers, are you?’

‘No,’ I whispered.

‘Lucky me.’ He tugged at the elastic waistband of my trousers, baring my hip, the swell of my bum, the cleft between my cheeks, right down to the tops of my thigh. Then he worked my bum against his crotch, back and forth over the rigid length of the erection that fought the confines of his own clothes. I loved the way he manhandled me; I loved his greed and his delight. I straightened up against him, bracing my hands on the table, my back to his warm chest.

‘I’m not wearing a bra either.’

God, that got him going. He grabbed at my tits through the thin cloth, squeezing and mauling them like he was discovering boobs for the first time, while his hard-on ground into my backside and I gasped encouragement. Then he found that he might as well stick his hands up under my shirt, and then he pushed the top up to bare them, tugging at my nipples and rolling them between his rough fingers. ‘Great tits,’ he grunted: ‘great arse.’

‘You like them?’ I pulled my top off over my head and flung it behind us; I think it landed in the sink. Then I scraped my nails down his neck, provoking him into squashing my tits together into one luxurious bosom and pinching my nipples until I squeaked.

‘Fuck yes,’ he groaned. Like I said: there was nothing complicated about Pete. He whirled me round to face him then, picked me up and plunked my bare arse on the table – God knows what the food hygiene people would have had to say about that - and for a second just goggled at my tits. I cupped them in my hands and lifted them for his inspection, and Pete just fell into my breasts, plunging his face into my cleavage and taking great wet mouthfuls like he would eat me all up. I had to cling to him just to stop myself falling over backward among the sugar flowers and the bottles of colouring. His hot sucking kisses on my tits sent me crazy, my nipples standing up like jelly sweets in response to his tongue and his lips and his teeth. When he lifted his head from those glistening orbs there was a hungry, wicked look in his eye.

‘Don’t stop,’ I said, pouting.

Grinning, he grabbed the icing bag and turned the nozzle on my left tit.


‘Hold still.’ A thin line of sugar icing squirted out as he squeezed, and he drew a spiral round and round my flushed, swollen nub of flesh, capping it with pure white. With almost comic precision he did the other one too.

‘Got a sweet tooth?’ I giggled.

Buy Misbehavior at:
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Sunday, 8 October 2017

Friday, 6 October 2017

E-Ely Woman

It's an Eel...
I've been on a trip to a new (to me) city in England: Ely. Its name means "eel island" because it used to sit in the centre of the vast swampy fenlands, and TBH they are obsessed with eels. There is even an Eel Heritage Walk :O

It's also the one of smallest cities in England - barely the size of a small town - and qualifies for the title only because it has a medieval cathedral:

It's huge!

We climbed up the central lantern tower:

To hang out with the angels:

And feel dizzy!

The other thing Ely is famed for is that Oliver Cromwell lived there:

He has a haunted bedroom...

And an eel, of course ;-)