New Book Releases!

So I have a book out! Hooray! I thought I should say here, too, cos so far have only said on Twitter. And perhaps you, gentle reader of this blog, do not like Twitter. Maybe you came here via a circuitous route. Perhaps you were exploring the gentle fens and spinneys of the internet wilderness, and came across this place. Or maybe I'm just imagining you and should now accept that this blog is basically my own personal diary of writing stuff that has happened to me, because the writing diary/scrapbook my Mum bought me sadly languishes on a shelf with nothing in it.

Anyway, to the matter at hand!

Here is my new book:

Is that not the best cover you've seen me have? It has to be, because many of my other covers range from nightmarish to an advert for bad photoshop. Thank God my publisher, Mischief, is now producing these marvellous wonders...have you seen the ones for Power Play, Make Me and Deep Desires? I could cry with happiness. Apparently, covers are very important to me.

But I digress, again. Here is the blurb:

Kit Connor has always led a safe, cautious life. But when her friend points out that her erotic writing lacks something, she decides to attend a Sexual Healing group to improve her knowledge. She expects to find the gritty underbelly of sex, and instead finds louche, laidback, sex-loving Dillon Holt.

He makes a suggestion to her: that he will tell tales of his sexual excess, and help her book get the realism it needs. She agrees, but hasn't the least idea of what she's getting into. Dillon doesn't have simple advice in mind … he has lessons to teach her. Lessons on everything she's never dared to experience, from kink to real passion.

Now Kit is never sure: is Dillon the addict, or is she just addicted to him?

Sounds good, right? And if it doesn't, maybe letting you know that the massive, sexy, lusty hero, Dillon, is based on this fine slab of man-meat:

You may have guessed as much, considering the feelings I expressed about Chris Evans not so long ago on this very blog. But if you didn't, now you know!

And if you're still not convinced, here is an excerpt, that lies encased within the delicious slice of man-shoulder on my lovely cover:

I know he’s behind me. It’s like his presence is pressing against the fabric of the universe, and I’m forced to notice it whether I want to or not. Plus . . . you know. I can also actually see him in the flat-black gaze of the shop windows across the street. He’s about ten paces back, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of the hoodie he’s put on.

I’ll admit: I kind of expected him to brave the elements in just that ridiculous T-shirt. But it makes him more human to see him with some layers on. He’s not some sexual superhero, swinging through the November-washed streets in just his undercrackers.

Even he has a line of normalcy drawn in the sand of his insides.

It’s just that this line includes following me – because come on, now. He totally is. I stop when I get to the window of a newsagent’s and pretend to be examining a sign for someone’s missing cat, just to see if he’ll stop too. And when he does, it couldn’t be more obvious that he’s only doing so because I did. He has to feign interest in the contents of a store that sells orthopaedic trusses, for God’s sake.

I almost want to shout back at him that he’d look great in a girdle.

But I refrain. Jokey comments about his gut-restraining needs will only encourage him – and after I did so well to evade him back at the hall. Out here, I’m never going to get away with declaring loudly that I need a wee. There’s no one here to frown at him for stopping me visiting the toilet.

He had to let me go, then. He doesn’t have to let me go now.

Unless this isn’t actually a thing – which could be the case. Maybe I’m just imagining him all hot on my trail, ready to take me down for the terrible crime of sex-addiction fakery.

‘Hey, Kit – wait up!’

Or maybe not.

I try walking faster, but to no avail. You can’t block out sound by moving your feet more rapidly – and even you could, he’ll soon be close enough for me to read his lips. Two of his strides make up seventeen of mine, and he makes short work of the distance between us. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if his speed and persistence mean something else.

Maybe he kills people for faking sex addiction. He’s the fabled Fake Sex Addiction Killer, and I’m about to be horribly offed in the doorway of a Burger King.

‘This is a really long way around to the bathroom,’ he says, which at least reassures me on the murdering front. If not the anything else front. He’s going to want to have a discussion, now, about that one word he whispered, and I am not at all prepared for it.

I didn’t bring my conversational shotgun.

‘Are the facilities not seven streets down? Oh, that’s pretty foolish of me. Well – I’m here now. Might as well keep going. Goodnight, Dillon!’

I say ‘Goodnight, Dillon’ far too hysterically. Even I know that, and I’m the person who never realises when I’m being hysterical. I just discover that Masterchef didn’t record and then hurl the remote control through the television.

‘Hey – you remembered my name.’

I don’t look at him when he speaks. Sensing the weight of those beautiful eyes on the side of my face is enough. I feel like I’m basking in the light and heat of some sun from a distant galaxy, where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

‘I think anyone would remember your name.’

‘Huh. Really? Why’s that, then?’

Because you delivered a ten-page essay to the class: Why I Like Oral Sex, by Dillon Holt. Because you look like the picture they put under the word ‘memorable’ in the dictionary. Because of a million things, a billion things, all of which cannot be said by someone like me.

‘Because you went to a sexual healing group to brag,’ I say, finally – though I immediately regret it. It’s the only answer I had in my head that doesn’t feel true, and now I’ve slathered it all over him.

He’s going to nail me for it, I know.

And he does. He just does it with more gentleness than I expect. He actually sounds as light as air and like he’s half-laughing when he says:

‘Is that better or worse than going to a sexual healing group with a fake sex addiction?’

‘I didn’t fake anything.’

‘Oh, honey. Come on. Nuns could have told you that you were faking. I’ve heard more convincing tales of sexual excess from my elderly grandfather.’

Christ, I knew I shouldn’t have said that thing about the leather miniskirt. I bet true sexual adventurers haven’t worn leather miniskirts since 1982. And besides . . . he’s got to know what that would look like on me. I couldn’t land a fish in something that showed my thighs – never mind a man.

It’s no wonder he’s sceptical.

Though, lucky for me, he doesn’t continue this line of questioning. I’m already cracking under the pressure, and he’s barely begun his cross-examination. Thank God he changes the subject, to something even worse.

‘Did it really seem like I was bragging?’

I have to look at him then. That note of sincerity in his voice kind of makes me do it – but his expression doesn’t contradict what he’s saying. He’s almost wincing, with one thumbnail caught between his teeth. As though he truly didn’t realise how he was coming across. He just said what he was feeling – in the exact way he does now, while I’m all naked and unprepared.

‘Guess it did, huh?’ He shakes his head. ‘Really didn’t mean it that way. Just never revealed stuff like that before . . . kind of felt like I was talking about someone else’s life. But nope – that’s me. The guy who ran to a hospital wearing a cardboard box.’

He sounds rueful, now, and it makes me wonder: was he really aiming his amusement at the whole idea of sexual healing? Or was he laughing at himself, for being such a fool?

‘But enough about me. What about you? What made you fake being a sex addict?’

Shame, I think, but I can’t say that.

So it shocks me when he does it instead.

‘You embarrassed about how you really are?’

‘No.’

Yes.

‘You don’t have to be – there’s no crime in being a little shy. Is that why you went there in the first place? To maybe get you out of your own shell for a while?’

For a second I’m too stunned to speak. How does he get something like that? It isn’t even the actual reason, and yet somehow it feels more real than anything I tell him next. I make my voice strong and firm, and I go with the party line. But inside I’m still that fumbling fool who couldn’t even hug a man properly.

‘I’m doing research for the book,’ I say, and he buys it. Why wouldn’t he? I bought it, and I’m the one living this life. I believed it right up until the moment he called me out, and if possible I’m going to keep doing so.

I’m not timid and tentative and unable to look him in the eye.

I’m Kit Connor, sultry sex bomb. Who flushes red when he says:

‘A dirty book?’

‘Yes.’

‘About insane braggarts like me?’

‘No,’ I say, but there’s another version of that answer in my head.

Yes. Yes. I could devote an entire book to you. I could tell tales of your eyes for ever, and never stop writing lines about the laundry-sweet scent of your amazing skin. You, Dillon Holt, are all the things I’ve always wanted as inspiration, and never quite found in anything but fantasy land.

Thank God I don’t go with it. My head sounds like a drooling moron.




And finally, here are some buy links:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Addicted-Mischief-Books-ebook/dp/B009ULEJ3Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1359427774&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/Addicted-Mischief-Books-ebook/dp/B009ULEJ3Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1359057199&sr=1-1&keywords=charlotte+stein+addicted

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/addicted-charlotte-stein/1113580280?ean=9780007491605

Hooray!

But wait, there's more. Because my other publisher decided that RIGHT NOW was the best time to release another title from me, and therefore, behold:

And okay, before you say anything...I actually love this cover too. Yes, I know it's cheesy. Yes, I know it looks like a yachting advert from 1985. But it does sum up the book very well. It's lighthearted and fun and it's set on a boat. Hooray!

I don't know why being set on a boat gets a hooray, however. It just does, so there.

Here is the blurb:

When Judy Myers is offered a relaxing vacation to get away from her latest heartbreak, she can’t say no. A cruise on her brother’s yacht sounds like heaven...until she realises her brother’s best friend has been invited along for the ride. Steven Stark is big, he’s loud, and he’s obviously not interested in the plump, plain little sister he used to tease unmercifully.

In fact, he’s still quite happy to tease her – until she turns the tables on him. Now Steven can’t seem to keep his thoughts, or his hands, to himself. And worse, Judy’s not sure she can resist the attraction she’s kept buried for so many years. Being trapped on a boat isn’t the best place to be, when you’re suddenly thrown a hunky curveball.

Show more

Show less

And an excerpt:

And naturally, it’s only after the words are out that I realise the mistake I’ve made. In fact, I realise several of the mistakes I’ve made. For a start, I just yelled while on a yacht, in the middle of the ocean. The silence out here is so total and dream-like that anything above a whisper sounds loud.

So this … This sounds really loud.

And then of course there’s the fact that I said all of this to Steven. Steven, who was my brother’s best man. Steven, who once fixed my scooter for me when I rode it right off the kerb and into my Dad’s car, at the age of 13. Steven, who’s now looking at me with a face like a deflated balloon.

Oh God, why is he looking at me with a face like a deflated balloon? Isn’t he meant to be massive and impervious to all attacks? I was certain he was. At the very least, I was certain that nothing I could ever say would make the slightest bit of difference to him. He’s like a glorious golden god, and I’m like …

Well.

I’m a flesh avalanche. I’m a nothing. I’ve long since accepted that the kid he used to pay attention to grew up into the kind of person he looks right through, now, and that he grew up into the kind of person that no one can look right through, ever. A mole would mysteriously find its eyeballs drawn to his presence.

He’s magnetic.

So why does he seem so horrified, now? Was the thing I said really so bad? I mean, true. I implied that he has gonorrhoea, and that no sane person would want to chase after him. But everyone in the world knows that this cannot be true. Just look at that mouth of his – I’ve seen Angelina Jolie look less pouty than that. And of course it’s even more pronounced, now, because he’s so deeply saddened by my terrible words.

Plus, he keeps slicking the thing with some kind of sunblock stuff. I could slip and slide across the surface of his lower lip no problems at all, and worse … I think I’d like it. Anyone would like it. His mouth suggests so many sinful, sensuous possibilities – as do those sleepy blue eyes of his.

The ones that rival the ocean, on any normal day.

But now best it, in this slightly wounded state. It’s like someone has pulled a skein of smoke over them, and for a second I’m actually hypnotised. I’m completely drawn in, to the point where I almost apologise. In fact, the words are on the tip of my tongue, when he finally breaks the silence.

With a laugh.

A big, booming, careless laugh, as though none of this matters at all. It was just me imagining that he had things like feelings, when really he wouldn’t know one if it punched him in the face. I don’t why I let myself feel guilty, if this is all he’s got to say about it.

‘Well, you’re probably right,’ he tells me, and that’s the end of that.





But fair warning...this book is VERY me. It's like me squared. If you're only sort of okay about my voice and my style, you will hate this book with the passion of a thousand burning suns, most likely. So run away! Run away fast!

If, however, you do tend to think I'm okay...you might like this one a bit. It's just a frothy, fun little thing that I did after the extreme angst of Deep Desires.

Oh, and here's the buy links, if you're still with me:

http://www.amazon.com/Curve-Ball-Xcite-Romance-ebook/dp/B00B4GUNA6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1359427918&sr=1-1&keywords=curve+ball+charlotte+stein

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Curve-Ball-Xcite-Romance-ebook/dp/B00B4GUNA6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1359428253&sr=8-1


There. All the telling of things is done!

Mancandy Monday: Chris Evans

Oh my God, how long has it been since I last blogged? So long that I've never actually done a Mancandy for Chris Evans, even though I've been macking on his fine ass for the better part of a thousand years. Seriously, there are cave paintings of me, attacking Chris Evans with my ladyboner. They look like this:

Of course, after showing you this I have to now admit that I don't really know what a ladyboner is. In my head it's just a generic term for being extremely excited, but when you're trying to put it into a picture, it gets kind of graphic and weird. No one's going to understand a huge lumpen mound between a cartoon's legs, which is basically what I'd have to draw if we're going with the whole gigantic swollen clitoris option. So I chose, instead, to visually represent it with the holding of a big club over a cowering Chris Evans.

I think it gets the point across nicely. And if it doesn't, just look at something else on the picture - like the other marvellous aspect I chose to focus on. Yeah, you see the weird growth that stick figure Chris Evans appears to have in the general buttocks area? That's not a clitoris ladyboner that fell off me and landed on him.

That's me, trying to encapsulate the wonder that is Chris Evan's ass.

Because believe me, it IS a wonder. Want better proof than a crude drawing of a mutant clitoris?

Behold:

Inorite? I don't know how to express the joy this simple body part brings me. I'm not even sure why it has such an effect on me. I've seen plenty of men's bottoms, in my time. I've admired an ass or two. But none of them have quite inspired me to the wordless, insane heights that this magnificent thing has.

I think it's something to do with the heft of it. It seems almost bulky, like two bricks in a sock. Only the bricks are squidgy and attached to Captain America - because that's who he's playing in the above screen capture of the only important thing about the movie

They should have just called it "A Million Girls On Tumblr Get Hypnotised By Some Rotating Buttocks". Because if I've managed to upload the gif instead of just an image, that's what you'll be seeing, now. Rotating buttocks. They spin, like the tassels on a showgirl's titties.

And I love them, for that. I love that the cameraman or the director okayed this shot, and kept that lens locked on the only thing that mattered. I love that men's asses actually matter, now. I still remember the day when the camera would pan over Picard's face, and Worf's face, as they ascended a ladder. And then when it got to Troi...suddenly it needed to focus on cleavage.

But now...we live in a world where the camera lingers just as lovingly on Chris Evan's trouser muffins. We live in a world where I can fill a blog post with nothing but rambling praise for these bouncing butt-bosoms, and not even give a single shit!

I don't have to show his face, if I don't want to.

But I will, cos his face is just as orsum as his downstairs doodlebugs.

Behold!

That's right, Chris Evans. Look at me with that face. LOOK AT ME WITH IT.

Or failing that, look at me with your Captain America face:

Yeah, that's it. Be all bashful with me. Bite that lip, you filthy little virgin!

Because oh, did I not mention that? In Captain America, he plays a massively muscled six foot two inch superhero...who is absolutely one hundred percent a virgin. And not just any kind of virgin, either! A virgin from the 1930s, who honours and reveres women and is totally a fooking old school gentleman.

There will now be a brief intermission, in which I lie very still in a darkened room.*

Of course, if you're a frequent visitor to this blog who hasn't been in ages because I'm an asshole who never updates it, you'll know why I had to have that little lie down. In fact, if you know me in any way at all, either through Twitter or my books or some random comment I made somewhere that sometimes makes you cry at night, you'll totally get what moves me about this version of Captain America.

I love me some big, masculine, heroic virgin mens. And boy, is this one big:

Yeah, check out those boobs. You can't even call them pecs, because they are, literally, a gigantic pair of enormous breasts. They're mantitties. They're dude bosoms. They're enormous shiny pillows of guyflesh, that my head would dearly like to rest upon.

Can you imagine the night's sleep you'd get on those things? Just picture him when he's angry. I bet they heave, like only the chest of a 1970s romance novel heroine can do. If I he were mine, I'd put him in a wonderbra and make him pose for the cover of my next novel:

I Have No Idea Why I Like Giant Muscle-Tits On A Man

Only I do.

It's because it's orsum.

So there.







*This may or may not be but definitely is code for me masturbating until my hand falls off. It's possible that this is also an explanation for my giant mutant clitoris.

New Novella: Deep Desires!

Phew! Has it really been so long since I said stuff, here? How time flies when you're being crushed by deadlines. But just to be clear: I love being crushed by deadlines. I'd never trade that sort of crushing for any other type, even if the other type was Armie Hammer suddenly sitting on my head.

I mean, I'd like Armie Hammer sitting on my head. I certainly wouldn't discourage him from using my face a chair.

It's just not quite as orsum as the constantly jolting realisation that I'm a writer. I have deadlines! I have deadlines and work and I do fings! Man, never thought I'd be here, three years ago. Thank God I chose a writing career over being Armie Hammer's personal bum cushion.

But unfortunately, all of this nonsense means that I neglect my blog, dammit. Must try to do better! And I'll start here, by saying fings about my new novella. Yep, that's right. It's been so long that I actually have another novella out. It's called Deep Desires, and look, here it is:




















Yay!

Was so psyched to get that cover, I tell you what. Really suits the story, which is all dark and emotional and about two people who have to overcome things to be all hot and heavy and happy with each other. Which I think really goes with those breathless but somehow separated people in that image!

Score.

Anyhoo, here's the blurb for the book:

The Further She Goes, the More She Needs...

 

Abbie Gough has done her best to escape a violent past. But in the process, she’s avoided life, desire and love. So when she sees her equally closed off neighbour, Ivan, performing for her one night through his window, she can’t stop looking.

Voyeuristic pleasures become Abbie’s lifeline. But as she comes alive and craves more, Ivan backs away. He has his own secrets , the kind that draw her into kinky games and her own shameful desires, while also preventing real intimacy between them. But now she’s found someone so special, she’s not about to give up easily. And she’s willing to do whatever it takes to melt Ivan’s cool exterior. Even if captivating him means pushing through her limits to whatever lies beyond.

And some links:

http://www.amazon.com/Deep-Desires-Mischief-Books-ebook/dp/B009GJLY4C/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1348609482&sr=1-1&keywords=charlotte+stein


http://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Desires-Mischief-Books-ebook/dp/B009GJLY4C/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1348766731&sr=1-1

http://www.mischiefbooks.com/books/deep-desires/


It's only, like, 99p/$1.64 at the moment, so I reckon that's a bargain. It's 40k, so you're really getting some content for your quid, and honest it's a good book! It has nice fings in it! And sexy times! And oh I'm hopeless at this. How about if I give you Mandi Schreiner's word for it? She's an orsum book blogger, and look what she said:

"Whoa. So hot."

So it's totally worth your time. Honest. I promise. *hides from promo*

New Novellas!

I'm so sorry blog! And any blog readers! I know I've been neglecting you. And I doubly know this because since I last posted I've had two novella releases, and I haven't even mentioned them. How bad am I? I'm so bad I forget my own blog and my own books, as I plunge ever deeper into the murky world of intense deadlines.

But I'm here now to talk about:

a) Make Me

and

b) Restraint

Both of which are hot, sexy little tales of shenanigans. Make Me is a bit filthier...okay. It's A LOT filthier. So far, people have called it:

"the filthiest book ever"

Which isn't even a made up thing that I just said then. No - that's an actual quote from Goodreads. I don't even know how I wrote such a filthy book, TBH. But there it is: unadultered filth. Menage, two guys one girl, every variation possible. With just a dash of old feelings and new emotions.

You can buy Make Me at these places, if you're feeling brave:

http://www.amazon.com/Make-Me-ebook/dp/B006Y0QFSG/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1339575548&sr=1-1&keywords=make+me+charlotte+stein

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Make-Me-ebook/dp/B006Y0QFSG/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1339575515&sr=1-1
http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-makeme-797819-144.html

And if you're feeling less brave, there's Restraint:

Which is still smutastical, but with a deeper romantic story. It's a little shorter than Make Me, but at $1.20 you can't really go wrong, can you? Especially when it's got a big, hunky repressed guy, and a heroine who wants to drive him absolutely nuts with dirty talk. Hooray!

You can get Restraint at these places:

http://www.amazon.com/Restraint-Xcite-Romance-ebook/dp/B00876XSH6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1339538380&sr=1-1&keywords=charlotte+stein+restraint

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Restraint-Xcite-Romance-ebook/dp/B00876XSH6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1339575473&sr=8-1

But just to make sure everyone knows...it's also featured in the anthology Hungarian Rhapsody. Just in case anyone's pre-ordered that one - don't want people mistakenly buying it twice.

And that's it for today! But I promise, blog, I will not neglect you again. I will return to you shortly, with more tasty tidbits for you to gnaw on!

A Sticky Situation

So I'm in this fabulous anthology from Xcite - Hungarian Rhapsody. It's part of their superb Secret Library collection, and a huge amount of the fun of being in this one was the amazing people I got to be alongside. In Hungarian Rhapsody there's a novella from the amazing Justine Elyot, but also one from my guest here today - the incredible Kay Jaybee!

So without further ado, here she is!

The idea behind my story, A Sticky Situation, came from a very ordinary occurrence- I dropped my breakfast down my jumper.

Yes, I confess- I have to be amongst the world's clumsiest people. If there is a door frame I will walk into it, a loose paving stone I will trip over it, or if a desk edge sticks out slightly, then I will bruise my thigh on it. It doesn't matter if said item of furniture has been in the same place for years, somehow I will catch myself on it, as the never ending array of bruises on my arms and legs will testify!

            It won't surprise you to know therefore, that there is a fairly good chance that during any given meal, I will spill some of my dinner over the table or over my clothes, and the chances of me visiting a restaurant without embarrassing myself in some way is fairly slim.

Despite all of this cack-handedness however, I’m a very organised person. Not a quality people often expect from me after they’ve seen me attempt to walk down the road and fall off the kerb at least twice. It is however the case (which is just as well, otherwise there is no way I could balance writing, my job, and my family!).

 I decided that I would give these trying ‘quirks’ of mine to Sally Briers, the lead character in my Secret Library story. Sorry Sally!!!

If there is a paving stone to trip over, or a drink to knock over, then Sally Briers will trip over it or spill it. Yet somehow Sally is the successful face of marketing for a major pharmaceutical company; much to the disbelief of her new boss, Cameron James.

Forced to work together on a week-long conference in an Oxford hotel, Sally is dreading spending so much time with arrogant new boy Cameron; whose presence somehow makes her even clumsier than usual.

Cameron on the other hand, just hopes that he’ll be able to stay professional, and keep his irrational desire to lick up all the accidently split food and drink that is permanently to be found down Sally’s temptingly curvy body, all to himself.

It could be a very long week- unless Cameron can find a way of making Sally slop so much of her after show champagne, that he has no choice but to march her off and relieve her of her sodden clothing... He is sure that, if he could find a way to stop Sally resenting him taking her previous bosses job, then they could enjoy no end of sticky situations together...

A Sticky Situation is my first foray into the realms of erotic romance. I have written romantic episodes within much (shall we say) ‘harder’ erotic stories and novels, but this time I have left my BDSM toys locked away in the cupboard under the stairs in favour of a lighter touch.

Fear not however, this novella is still packed with KJB style kink, for as Sally and Cameron begin their enforced period of work together at a conference; their road from mutual dislike to mutual lust is far from straightforward! There is more than a dollop of misunderstanding, some inconvenient fantasies, mysterious anonymous notes, a slug of ice-cold store-cupboard action, a splatter of dinner, a dousing of wine, and a sip or two of champagne before they can even contemplate a happy ending...Delicious...

*****

The Secret Library is a new range from Xcite Books which will appeal to the female romance reader market. Each book contains three specially commissioned novellas guaranteeing a satisfying and varied selection.

The story content is relationship led with a strong alpha male hero, a level of conflict and a climactic, explicit ending.

The covers are deliberately designed without visual imagery to be discreet. These books could be comfortably read in public, given as gifts and left on a bedside table.

The Secret Library contains six books with three erotic romance novellas in each:

Traded Innocence – Toni Sands, Elizabeth Coldwell and K D Grace

Silk Stockings – Constance Munday, Jenna Bright and Lucy Felthouse

One Long Hot Summer – Elizabeth Coldwell, Penelope Friday and Shanna Germain

The Thousand and One Nights – Kitti Bernetti, Primula Bond and Sommer Marsden

The Game – Jeff Cott, Antonia Adams and Sommer Marsden

Hungarian Rhapsody – Justine Elyot, Charlotte Stein and Kay Jaybee

******

Thanks for stopping by, Kay!

Mancandy Tuesday: Robots

As you may or may not be aware, I am currently obsessed with the soon to be released movie, Prometheus. Now - the reason for this is, of course, that it's a new Alien movie. No matter what Ridley Scott waffles on about, it clearly is. And the Alien movies influenced my young and tender self so much that I frequently put on the landing light, in case a xenomorph has somehow traversed the laws of reality and wound up unaccountably on my stairs.

Even though my stairs are the very last place it would probably go, if it was monstrously birthed through a split in our universe. I mean, I know where I would go if I'd just managed to escape a Ridley Scott movie. I'd go find Michael Fassbender, and most likely hug his face a lot. With my vagina.

But that's all beside the point. The point being: I adore the Alien movies. But there's another reason why I'm excited about Prometheus.

I'm excited because it has an android in it. And for the first time since Aliens, it's actually a sexy android again. Glory be, I get to fantasise about another sexy android in a new Alien movie! It's like all my birthdays have come at once. In fact, it's kind of better than that, because the android isn't just sexy in this.

He's also played by Michael Fassbender:



Who typically looks like this:



At which point, I have to wonder if Ridley Scott finagled his way into my noggin and read my private sex thoughts. Did that tear in reality monstrously birth him, instead of a xenomorph? It seems just as likely that a slimy and naked Ridley Scott crawled up my stairs, snuck into my bedroom and read my horny fantasy filled diary, as it does that he just happened to think Michael Fassbender would be right for the part of an orsum android.

He could have easily cast Russel Crowe. Dear God, can you imagine? Russel Crowe in one of those skintight spacesuits, that immense gut rippling beneath the lycra, his great flaccid flabby undercooked face mooning out at us from beneath the glare of those space lights...

The thought alone is enough to make me turn on every lamp in the house, just in case the universe decides to birth him, instead. Picture it: a mewling, naked, slime-covered Russel Crowe, hauling himself up the stairs after you...

I may never sleep again.

Unless Michael Fassbender as AN ACTUAL ORSUM ROBOT is there to save me.

Because you see I've always liked robots. Always. It started with Bishop, in Aliens, who stirred my young loins in spite of being played by Lance Henriksen, who was once in a soft porn movie starring Joan Severance. And it progressed from there to Data from Next Generation, who lived up to all of those burgeoning fantasies I had about Bishop, and everything I subsequently loved about androids.

I love the fact that they can be so gentle, you see. So unassuming...and yet so powerful! If you've ever read this blog you'll know I love a dude who embodies these contrasts - calm yet capable of such ferocity, repressed and unemotional but filled with strange yearnings, gentle but strong, humble but capable of amazing feats - these are all things I adore.

And nothing embodies them more cleverly than an android.

Man ALIVE I can't wait for this movie!




P.S. My publisher, Mischief, is currently having a promotion. You get can many books - including my own, Power Play - for half price, here:

http://www.mischiefbooks.com/

They even have some fabulous titles for free!

My New Book: Power Play

So my book with Harper Collins'/Avon's new erotic line, Mischief, released on Thursday. And as promised, I'm now doing a post that says a little bit about it.

1. It's the most terrifying book I've ever written. Not because there's monsters in it, or anything. Just because I sold it on proposal to a massive publisher with an editor I respect and admire a ton. So you know. No pressure or anything.

2. It's also the book that made me the most excited while writing it. And no, I don't mean excited as in popping party poppers and throwing balloons in the air. I mean the OTHER kind of excited. The kind with...uh...darkened rooms and lots of...lying down.

3. The hero, Benjamin, was so fun to write that there were times I wanted to reach through the pages and squeeze his cheeks. And by cheeks, I mean the things inside his pants. I based him on Armie Hammer at his biggest, hottest, goofiest best, and when I didn't want to write anymore because of the abject terror, he made me.

4. It starts off with the femsubbiest subby scene I've ever written, but soon plunges into the femdomiest femdom I've ever written. So hopefully there's a bit for everyone in there!

5. Yes, I thought of the movie Secretary while I wrote it. Only you know. Backwards.

6. Here's the blurb:

When Eleanor Harding is abruptly promoted, she loses two very important things: the heated relationship she had with her boss, and control over her own desires. Without a restraining hand on her she finds herself suddenly craving something very different – and the office lackey, Benjamin, seems like just the sort of man to fulfil her needs. He’s eager, lustful and willing to show her all of the things she’s been missing – namely, what it’s like to be the one in charge, for a change. Now all Eleanor has to do is decide… is Ben calling the kinky shots, or is she?

7. And if you're still here and interested, an excerpt:


"When he tells me to lift my skirt and bend over his desk, there’s a moment where I hesitate. There’s always a moment. It’s like the feeling just before the lock springs under the pressure of the correct key you’ve somehow chosen. My body goes completely still and the word no makes a fist in my throat, and then I just do it.

I wriggle my tight skirt up over my thighs and expose my backside to his waiting gaze.

In fact, I do much more than that. Mainly because I’ve started anticipating these little trips up to the thirtieth floor, and this morning I went without knickers. Plus, when I bend over my legs somehow automatically spread, so he doesn’t just get a view of the dark seam between the lush curves of my ass cheeks.

He gets to see the slippery pink flesh between, as flushed and swollen as ever I’ve felt it. Of course I like to pretend I hate these little excursions up to the thirtieth floor, and that what Mr Woods does to me is degrading and disgusting and oh, isn’t it awful. But the fact remains that the moment he tells me to bend over in that silvery voice of his, my clit swells. My sex plumps. Wetness trickles from the clenching hole between my legs, down over my quite possibly quivering thighs.

I quiver, for Mr Woods. I bend over, for Mr Woods. I forget that I was ever Ms Harding, Executive Editor of Barrett and Bates, and I become this other creature.

I don’t even know her name, to be honest. She looks like me and talks like me and even acts like me in some respects – I still lay my hands on the desk so that they’re apart but parallel to each other – but she can never have that little buzz of respect before her name the way I so often do: Ms.

And she could never let herself be used the way I’m going to let Mr Woods use me right now. I turn over in my mind each way he could possibly debase me as he stands behind me in his crisp grey suit with his crisp grey face and his mouth in that mean line it so often falls into.

He could push something into my cunt. He’s never done it before, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t do it now if he wanted to. I’m as slick as I’ve ever been, but more than that I feel greedy down there, as though I could take anything he wanted to offer. That award he got, for excellence in business or something like it? That big, thick, curved one, with the little nubs all around its length like a thing just made for stirring the nerves inside someone’s body?

Yeah, he could fill me with that, if he so chose. In my normal life, the life outside the strange, still unspoken relationship we’ve struck up, I would never let someone choose something like that for me.

But here it’s different. Here he doesn’t have to say a word, and my mind floods with a million options, each more disgusting than the last. In fact, I suspect that my mind is actually far more disgusting than his. After all, he’s never actually fucked me. Most of the time he doesn’t touch me between my legs, and he hardly ever pushes me into touching him.

It’s just this, it’s just him behind me with the thought of what he could do buzzing through my body. He could order me to oil my own ass and let him slip his cock inside. He could cane me until my flesh sang red-hot songs, until I bled and wept and begged him not to.

And though I’m sure I’ve never wanted any of those things, there’s something about him that makes me give in anyway. Something about his eyes, as calm and colourless as a midwinter day. And his tone, his perfect, metallic tone.

No order is ever barked; his voice is never raised. His orders don’t seem like orders, to be honest. One day he just said to me, quite matter-of-factly: I’d like to see your cunt now, Ms Harding. In the same way one might ask to see the quarterly reports or the latest projections or something of that nature.

And then a sort of haze had descended over me, as though his words had thrown a veil over my head. The veil is with me right now as he murmurs that I should spread my legs wider, wider. He wants to see just how wet I am, just how bad I’ve been, before he progresses to anything further.

And oh God, how I’m longing for anything further. Use the award, I think at him frantically, while my cheeks turn crimson and my body shudders over the idea. Force me to take your cock, I think at him, though somehow I know he never will.

I’m not allowed.

‘I see you’re very wet, Ms Harding,’ he says, then follows it with more disapproving words that I don’t want to hear. ‘Yes, very wet indeed. Would you care to explain to me how you got into such a disgusting state?’

No, I would not care to explain. My entire body sizzles with embarrassment and I have to force my hands to remain flat. And yet I find my mouth opening and words that aren’t my own come out, as though I have a talk-string on my back and he just pulled it.

‘I’ve been thinking about fucking,’ I say, which at least has the virtue of being honest, if not the virtue of being what I actually wanted to say.

‘Fucking who?’ he asks, just as I knew he would. Only this time I find the wherewithal to lie. I have to find the wherewithal to lie. He always asks me this and I always answer the same way – with something that affirms him as the one who controls me – but this time, it’s not true.

And I can’t possibly explain to him why it isn’t. I can’t. It’s more embarrassing than the long, slow throb between my legs.

‘You,’ I say, and then I think of the new guy in the hallway, spilling his armful of papers everywhere. The way his shirt had been untucked at the back. The look on his face, like someone lost inside a maze created by a superior race that hates him.

‘You thought about my cock inside you?’ he asks, and oh that delicious deliberation in his voice still gets me. I have to rub my stiff and aching nipples against the desk just to take the edge off – though I know he will punish me for it soon.

Any transgression, he punishes me for it. Once, I rubbed the toe of my shoe over the back of my opposite ankle to scratch an itch there. And in return for this minor slip he had made me bend double and grasp that said same place while he paddled my ass with a ping-pong bat.

To this day I have no idea where the ping-pong bat came from.

‘Yes.’

‘You think about it often?’

‘All the time.’

‘Describe how you imagine it would feel, sliding in.’

God, why does he always have to make me describe? I’m terrible at it. I’m the worst.

‘Mmmm, so good,’ I say, limply, and for my crimes I get a hard slap to the ass. Of course I do. I should have said solid or satisfying or what I’m really thinking: not as good as that new guy’s cock.

The one I could practically see through his pathetic trousers, as he bent and stretched and reached for all his fallen papers, face red, everything about him so awkward and appalling. He should be taken out of his misery, he really should. He should be planted over a desk and made to see the error of his ways, just as I am now.

And then maybe he’d beg like me too.

‘Oh please, please just fill me with something. Please,’ I blurt out, but it’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if I’m saying it for Mr Woods, or for the other thoughts that are pushing their way through my addled mind.

Thoughts such as: if it was the new guy behind me, would he fill me now? I don’t think I’d have to beg with him, but somehow that doesn’t seem like a negative. Instead, my body flushes with the thought of how eager he’d probably be – cock so stiff and swollen it’s almost touching his belly, pre-come welling at the tip like a promise of all the copious slickness he’s about to spill.

And he’d spill it inside me. Of course he would. Two thrusts and he’d be done, cock spurting thickly in my waiting cunt, hands all sweaty on my hips and oh God maybe he’d moan too. He wouldn’t be like Mr Woods – silent, implacable, unmoveable. He’d actually say something as he touches me, and if he didn’t want to, if he couldn’t …

I’d make him.

The realisation shoves its way through me, as hard as those first words from Mr Woods did. I’d like to see your cunt now, Ms Harding, I think, and then hot on its heels:

I’d like to see your cock now, new guy.

Benjamin, I think his name is. Benjamin, I think, as Mr Woods rubs something too cold and unyielding against the slippery lips of my cunt. And then when I moan to feel it, and squirm against it, he eases it down, down until the smooth tip is rubbing against my swollen clit.

I don’t mind admitting that I forget about Benjamin then. Hell, I forget my own name. Pleasure whites out all of my higher thought processes and leaves behind this: this shame-riddled, wriggling mess. This thing, that can only plead:

‘Uhhhh, yes – more. More.’

I try to angle my hips to catch whatever he’s using – the award, my mind screams, the award, even though I know it’s not – and get it inside me, but naturally he’s too good for that. He just pulls back further, until the thing is barely touching me at all. In fact, I’m sure I can only feel it because my clit is so sensitive, so ready for any little touch that stirring the air over its surface makes me liquid between my legs.

Makes me moan, too loud and too long. Outside his doors, hundreds of people are working away, oblivious – but they won’t be oblivious if I carry on like this. If I buck and pant and tell him to just fuck me with it, fuck my cunt with it.

‘Such a filthy mouth, Ms Harding,’ he says, and then he does something worse than all the rest of this nonsense combined.

He slides the tip of whatever this is up, up, past my ready and waiting pussy to a place I’m completely not prepared for. I’m so not prepared for it that I lurch forward against the desk, and actually almost say something weak and pathetic, like:

Please don’t. I’ve never had anything there before.

Luckily, my perfectly perpendicular hands save me. The thought of that Ms at the start of my name saves me. The idea of Benjamin stumbling and fumbling and just being such a mess saves me.

And I don’t break. I don’t say anything at all as he offers me one tiny, amused sort of sound. He never laughs, Mr Woods – of course he doesn’t – but sometimes I’m sure my struggles and my boundaries entertain him.

And this is such a petty boundary to have. Who hasn’t had something in their ass? Yet the fact remains that I haven’t, and the more he pushes and twists and makes that amused sound, the harder I clench and flame red with mortification.

I don’t know what’s worse, either – the fact that he’s doing this with something impossibly thick and still achingly cold, or that I can feel how slick its surface is. As though he didn’t just coat it in my liquid before he decided to rub it over my arse.

He oiled it in advance, for this specific purpose. He knew he was going to penetrate me there before I even walked into this office, and no amount of my squirming and whimpering is going to change that.

I just have to squeeze my eyes tight shut and let him ease it slowly in.

And oh God he does, he does. He braces one hand on my tense ass cheek, and then twists this thick and slippery thing until my body starts to yield to it. The tight ring of muscle there clenches and tries to deny the intrusion, but then everything just seems to give and I feel it slide all the way in to the hilt.

Worse than the hilt, in fact, because once the thing is lodged firmly inside me I can make out the press of his fingers where he’s gripping it at the base. Somehow it’s the most intimate touch he’s offered me since this whole thing began.

‘I think I would like you to rub your clit as I fuck you. What do you think, Ms Harding?’

I think nothing. I’m made of nothing. All I can feel or respond to is the slow slide of this fake cock as he pushes it in and out of my ass. As it stirs all of these little nerve-endings that I didn’t know existed, everything so glossy and slick that the feeling is almost unbearable.

‘I think you’d like that. Now reach between your legs and find your clit.’

I flop around for a moment, trying my best to do as I’m told. My arms feel rubbery and unresponsive, and with this fake cock working back and forth inside me it’s hard to lift my body to get at what he’s asking for.

And it doesn’t get any easier when I finally reach my stiff little bud. Just skimming the pad of one finger over its tense surface is like a punch to the gut. It feels immense, and every touch of it burns too hotly, and then he actually makes a sound as he forces the thing into me and oh God I can’t take it, I can’t.

I can accept something fucking my ass. I can take being bent over his desk. I can’t endure him grunting like that, as though maybe this whole thing affects him a little more than he usually lets on. Him grunting makes me imagine torrid, glorious things, like his cock all stiff and solid against the material of his impeccable trousers.

And though I daren’t look to check, I can almost picture him stroking himself as he does this to me. One hand on his hard cock, one hand on the fake one he’s pumping in and out of my willing body, until finally he gives in and lets himself spurt all over –

‘Oh fuck, Mr Woods,’ I moan, because everything is just too much. The heated pulse between my finger and my clit, the feel of the fake cock fucking into me, raggedly, the idea of him coming on my upturned ass … I can’t take it.

Instead, I press down hard on my clit and let the first trembling waves ebb through me, pushing back against the pounding he’s now doling out until said waves become a great wash of pleasure.

‘Yes, keep doing that, keep doing it, I’m coming – ohhhhh,’ I tell him, because by this point I’m beyond all good sense. I don’t know who I am or where I might be, and all I care about is the orgasm that’s shoving rudely through my body.

And God, it goes on and on and on. By the time it’s finished I’m a wet, trembling mess on the desk. Perpendicular hands forgotten. Perfect clothes sweated through. Ass so sore I’ll barely be able to walk for the rest of the day.

Though that’s not unusual, for our cold little relationship. At the very least I’m usually sitting on some red handprints in any afternoon meetings I then have – meetings that are actually going to start very soon.

In fact, they’re going to start so soon that my real self comes back to me far quicker than usual, and I go to straighten before he’s given me permission. I try to stand, but before I can get anywhere near said position that tented hand is back on my ass. His metallic voice is back in my ear.

‘Stay still, Ms Harding,’ he says, only he sounds different for just a second. That metallic tone peels away and reveals something rusted and old beneath, and then I actually feel it on my skin, just as I had imagined.

A searing stripe of something slick. And then another. And another.

Though that’s not the shocking thing. I mean, I’ve often imagined him losing some of his control. Sometimes I’ve hungered for it, with my hand between my legs and orgasm just one wretched inch away.

But in all of these fantasies of him breaking, I’ll confess: I never imagined him moaning something heated. The Benjamins of this world moan heated things. They let themselves go and can’t control themselves – not people like Mr Woods."





8. And finally, the buy links! Hurrah!

http://www.mischiefbooks.com/books/power-play/


http://www.amazon.co.uk/Power-Play-ebook/dp/B006PW46NY/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1332592458&sr=1-2


http://www.amazon.com/Power-Play-ebook/dp/B006PW46NY/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1332285507&sr=1-2




P.S. WINNERS: As there were only two entrants for the Sheltered contest, I've decided just to give those two lovely people a copy. So Astahil and Jen, email me at charlotte_stein@hotmail.co.uk and I'll get your copy to you!