Carlos & Casey and When in Rome
We are touring with Books 1 and 2 of the series, but there is also a sneak peek at book 3!!
BLURB, CARLOS & CASEY:
Join two ex-lovers, four years after their last romp. When a work trip brings Casey back into Carlos’
territory, she knows she’d have him right there in the airport parking lot. But Carlos doesn’t seem so
eager. Unsure of herself post-divorce, Casey knows only one thing: she wants this man as much as
she did the last time she saw him. And she’s more than ready to relive every saucy adventure they
had together. Can the sparks be salvaged, or has time left them behind?
BUY LINKS, CARLOS & CASEY:
CARLOS & CASEY EXCERPT:
Her breath caught as she followed him up the staircase, tucked to the far side of the
house. Carlos had always been fit enough, but it looked like he’d taken up some new form of
exercise in the past four years. He was beefier, yet still lean. His ass moved round and tight in
front of her as they climbed the stairs. At the landing, he gestured in front of them.
“This is my studio, but it’s all yours for tonight.”
It was a rec room that took up the whole second floor, and far more standard male
than the ground floor alluded to. Movie posters, gaming systems, books scattered on floors
and coffee tables, and, off to one side, the trumpet, asleep in a bed of sheet music. In the
corner there was an overstuffed couch just about as wide as she was long – it would be great
to sleep on, even better if he could bend her over that armrest and fuck her until dinner was
She cleared her throat, deciding adult friendships could be fun, even after four
questionable years. “I thought I’d be sharing a bed with you?” She tried to keep her tone
playful as she sauntered toward the couch. She tossed him a smile and she caught a glimpse
of him looking very stricken. Shit. Too far. Things are too different now. Abort!
Maybe too much time had passed in general. Maybe he was courting a girl and
wanted to take it slow with her. Maybe he no longer found her attractive, four years
becoming the dagger in the heart. Maybe he’d become celibate, or found her life too normal
and boring. There was a whole list of reasons why she shouldn’t make the first move.
“I was just joking,” she said after a moment, rolling her eyes. “Come on, lighten up.”
He exhaled slowly, looking down at the ground as his tongue found the corner of his
mouth. “I know it was a joke, Case.”
“In case you forgot, we used to share a bed.” She looked at him pointedly, already
horrified that the words were coming from her lips. What was she getting at? Who had
authorized this dialogue?
He squeezed his eyes shut and laughed softly. “Oh, I remember.”
BLURB, WHEN IN ROME:
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do”…right? Alexandra is a travel junkie and foreign air aficionado.
When she finally decides to do Rome, she never thought it would involve a hot Italian, too. What’s a
girl to do when a desire to see the world and instant lust collide in the middle of one of the most
popular touristic destinations in the world? Just DO the Roman!
BUY LINKS, WHEN IN ROME:
WHEN IN ROME EXCERPT:
He pulls me toward the inner rail, and points to the upper rim of the Coliseum. The heat
of his palm against my low back sends shivers through me. A lip of arches is topped with a
low wall, dotted with boxy windows. In one section, the wall has crumbled away. The clear
blue Roman sky breaks through. “Now that is where, honest to God, they installed a …what
do you call it? The device to listen to conversations about the dissolution of the Roman
I snort. “Wiretaps in the 1500’s. I totally believe that.”
“Hey, I’m Italian.” He flashes a cheesy grin. “You have to believe me. It’s my country.”
“You should work as a tour guide.” I poke his belly, pleased by the hardness beneath his
thin t-shirt. “I would pay good money to hear your bullshit.”
“Luckily, you don’t have to pay. Today. But tomorrow, full price.”
“Oh, you’ll be here tomorrow? I could call upon your Bullshit Guide Services again?”
He grins, dimples flashing. My knees weaken and I want to take that grinning face into
my hands and kiss him until my lips hurt. And then he grabs my hand as we walk, and
squeezes it. A gush of moisture releases between my legs and I know this is serious. Really
We watch each other as we walk. His hand is warm and a little moist, but not the weird
moist. Just-right moist. I imagine the warmth traveling through my body like a snake,
seeking out the farthest extremities and then circling back again to settle conveniently in my
About a minute later, he stops and pulls me into a dark corner of the corridor, behind a
large stone pillar. His body connects roughly with mine as he pushes me against the wall, my
chest heaving as I appraise the situation. I am startled and insanely aroused, like a woman
caught masturbating in the shower by her sexy gardener. The parts of his body that connect
with mine are like lightning, causing hot zips of painful pleasure right beneath the surface.
“Can I kiss you?”
I nod, and he presses his lips to mine. My eyes flutter shut and his scent consumes me, a
mixture of aftershave and heady male. Our second kiss is deeper, and the third mind-
boggling. The smooth texture of the stone pillar is cold through my t-shirt. He cups my
cheek, fingertips connecting hot with my jawline.
We break apart. My mind is spinning like I just took a flying leap off a bridge. Was this
actually real? I swear to God, thirty seconds ago I was just walking around the Coliseum like
any regular person, mapping my trek through the anatomical eyeball. Then, this guy comes
along and pins me to the wall and has his way with me. And I am notcomplaining. Maybe
there’s something to the idea that if you want something hard enough, it will come. It seems
that the past twelve hours imagining sex with this guy has paid off.
He smiles, his face so close to mine that his breath comes out hot against my cheek. It
does not smell like olive oil, as I once callously suggested all Italians might.
“That was nice,” I say.
He nods, and kisses me again. His tongue meets mine hesitantly, and then we begin a
round of sloppy, desperate kisses that could probably qualify for the lamest of chick flicks. I
moan and then quiet myself, not wanting to tip off tourists or security guards. He tenses and
breaks the kiss, peering around the pillar at something. I shift against him, and I swear his
cock is hard as a rock against my hip. I glance down, trying to discern if it’s that or
something else, like a belt buckle.
No belt on. That’s a good sign.
SNEAK PEAK BOOK #3,
All the female staffers go wild for Kadir when he arrives in the USA to compete in a reality dance
competition. A Turkish soap opera star with eyes that could melt snow, he’s got the women clawing
for his attention— except Jenna. She wants no part of the hullabaloo. Though she can’t help
wondering if tasting this sexy Turkish Delight might be worth bending the rules a little…
Kadir emerged from behind the curtain of his dressing room in a skintight black suit with a
startling array of bright blue sequins. It was like a futuristic space suit mated with the gaudiest of
show tunes. He grimaced as her gaze fell on his costume.
“I can’t wear this on stage,” he said, sneaking a glance in the mirror. “I’ve never worn
something so overtly gay.”
Jenna bit her lip as she looked him up and down. He was right, the costume was laughable.
Though it might look spectacular under the lights and grandeur of the stage, up close it was a
But it wasn’t all bad. Kadir was sculpted, a fact that wouldn’t go away no matter how much
she tried to dodge the issue. And it seemed every way she turned, his biceps or an errant brush of
his hands was waiting for her, tugging at her resolve.
It didn’t help that his cock was perfectly showcased in this get-up, caressed by the strange
black satin in a way that made it impossible to look away. She cleared her throat, working hard to
keep her face neutral and breathing even. He must be huge under there. Probably bigger than her
favorite vibrator, the one she’d been using over the past few days as she entertained lurid fantasies
“It’ll look great for the cameras,” was all she said. And every woman in America will be dying
to put your dick in their mouths.
He watched her, a strange smile on his face. Without a word, he kicked the door closed
behind her. “Can you help me out of it?” His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.
She jerked her head into a nod. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.” And if you need me to
touch any parts of your body, or use my lips in any fashion, please let me know.
He turned around. The wide expanse of his back still commanded her attention despite the
glittering array of sequins. She reached for the zipper, tugged it down the length of his back. It
stopped just above his ass, and the unexpected glimpse of his ass crack made her heart flutter. No
underwear. None at all. His butt looked smooth, unexpectedly white, and even more round and
firm-looking from inches away than all the distant gazing of recent times had suggested.
He faced her, grinning like a devil. He pulled his arms out of the costume, revealing a wide,
fair chest dotted with dark hair. Her gaze followed the fabric as he removed the clothes— two dime-
sized nipples, a pleasant convergence of chest hair into a happy trail, washboard abs.
Kadir paused when the costume was at his hips. “I can keep going, if you’d like.”
The moment hung heavy and confused before clarity burst through like sun after a
rainstorm. “Yes. Please.”
Ember Leigh has been writing erotic romance novels since she was far too young. A native of
northern Ohio, she currently resides in South America with her Argentinean partner, a detail she
uses to justify her Bachelor’s degree in Latin American Literature. In addition to romance novels, she
also writes travel articles, maintains three blogs, and continually attempts to complete a mildly-
gripping short story. In her free time, she practices Ashtanga yoga, travels the world, and eats lots of
Write What You Know? What about ‘Write What You Relate To’?
“Write what you know”. One of the most debated, agreed upon, ripped apart, speculated-for-hours,
solid pieces of writing advice known to mankind. Articles espousing all angles—from the Atlantic’s
“Don’t Write What You Know” (http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/08/dont-write-
what-you-know/308576/) to “Write What You Know—Because You Know More Than You Think!”
(http://www.writing-world.com/fiction/know.shtml) –show that we authors are interpreting this
along a wide spectrum of viewpoints and experience.
And that the jury might be out for a long time. Perhaps eternity.
Let’s use these articles as a reference point. The first article (for those who haven’t read it yet) states
that ‘writing what you know’ can ultimately hold a young writer prisoner to their own experience.
That trying to recreate what we’ve actually lived prevents us from creating a self-informed work of
fiction, one that exists unto itself, and takes its own path different from what the young author has
The second article starts by saying that ‘writing what you now’ is the most misleading advice any
writer can receive. If we haven’t lived in space or fought in alien battles, how could a human ever
conceive of a saga like Star Wars? It’s only because, as human beings, we do know the depth and
breadth of universal experiences—like fear, or the feel of the sun on our shoulders. We notice (and
therefore know) the personality quirks of our friends and loved ones, like how “Harry has this
nervous habit of tapping a pencil against his teeth while he thinks”. People around us and our own
personal emotional history inform aspects of our writing, even if our direct experiences don’t mimic
what we write about.
Two articles pushing for opposite actions, yet the end goal is the same. And as an author myself, I
like what both of these articles are saying, even though the titles can be immensely confusing to a
new writer doing frantic Google searches at night.
In my most recent release, When In Rome, my main character Alexandra travels to Rome to begin a
backpacking trip through Europe. She meets a sexy guy at her hostel named Alessandro—two
Alexes, technically, didja catch that?—and they bump into each other at the Coliseum the next day.
One thing leads to another, and pretty soon they’re screwing in the ruins in the middle of the day.
Now, if writing what you know meant I had to mimic my personal experience…well, you’d all be
reading a pretty tasty piece of my personal history!
But the truth is, that’s not my personal history. Not exactly. I did go to Rome, and I did sneak into the
Coliseum as my main character also did. But I didn’t meet a sexy guy name Alessandro; nor did I
have public sex near one of the world’s most famous cultural sites. Hell, even the hostel Alexandra
stays at is completely fake, though cobbled together from my own ample history with backpacking
and staying at hostels.
That’s just the point. Our stories are not direct mimicry of a live well (or poorly) lived; but rather, a
cobbling-together of places, moments, people, and experiences at the author’s discretion. And in the
uniting of these disparate elements, a new story is created that exists beyond the author’s
association with any one of those details.
I can’t tell you how much of me is in Alexandra, or how much of my ideal sexy man is in Alessandro;
but I CAN tell you that when I write what I know, it varies wildly between emotional details and
physical details. “What I know” is comprised of fleeting glimpses of humanity coupled with the
lingering sensation of an evening in Rome; an actual, singular event pushed up against the
personality of an acquaintance; the feel of a first kiss, blended into the background of a country
where I spent a few magical days.
The bottom line is that we all know plenty to write from…but maybe we should change the advice
from ‘What What You Know’ to ‘Write What You Can Relate To’. Because the magic of emotional
connection in literature all stems from that small kernel of ‘I’ve been there, I’ve felt that’.
Whether you relate to it because you’ve been to the Coliseum, or have launched an open-ended
backpacking trip, or can remember the magical thrill of an elicit encounter in public doesn’t matter
exactly. What matters instead is that some kernel speaks to you.
That’s the only sign that the author has written what they know, and well.