Stand Alone Erotic Destinations series
240 pages 35 pages
Contemporary Erotic Romance
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 vegetables.
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A New York Minute
Paige Alexander, successful host of A New York Minute, adores her job and will do anything to save the show that’s her brainchild. But when IBC, fronted by Josh Lambert, buys NYCBC, Paige’s show is cancelled, and her choices are unemployment or a non-starring role on a new show co-hosted by Jerk Lambert, a man who makes her hotter than hell in every way.
Having scaled the golden rungs of the corporate ladder, Josh doesn’t do relationships or complicated. Promised a multimillion dollar payday if he turns Wakin’ Up—the show that replaced Paige’s—into a hit, Josh kisses uncomplicated goodbye when she shows up. The woman fascinates and terrifies in equal measure, and he’s suddenly questioning the value of gold versus the value of her.
Forced together in an Hawaiian paradise, the steam just keeps rising—on set, in the sauna, and in the narrowing distance between them.
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“I’ve wanted this to happen since the day I met you,” he whispered in her ear, sending shivers up and down her spine.
“So have I,” she admitted, too quickly for her own taste.
He laughed, deep and gravelly. His green eyes sparkled—the mask of his professional façade had completely fallen away. She loved this real Josh above her. He was so boyish yet mature, hard-bodied yet gentle.
“But Paige, I thought you hated me.”
“What makes you think I still don’t?” She placed tiny kisses up and down the sides of his neck. Kissing him removed the veneer of his professional side, allowed her to peer behind the curtain to the soft core inside. A regular guy with power, a west coast boy with dreams. Wiping away the Hollywood lacquer revealed something even more attractive beneath.
“Well, this certainly doesn’t look like you hate me,” he whispered, fingertips trailing down the side of her face, over the dip in her neck, making swirls in the area between her breasts.
In the reality TV business, everyone is either a hottie or horny. When Turkish soap opera star Kadir shows up in Miami as a contestant on the dance show, Jenna is entranced. She’s made it a point to never go there with any of the celebrities she mingles with on a daily basis…but there’s something about Kadir that makes her second-guess her bottom-line. With so many women clawing for his attention, Jenna wants no part of the hullabaloo…but tasting this Turkish Delight might be worth bending the rules just once.
Kadir stood, hands on his hips, 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, a twinge of terror in his voice. “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 hilarious mess. 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 about him.
“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 mouth.
“Great? I’ll look like a fool. Nobody will take me seriously in America!”
“Oh, come on. There have been stranger costumes on this show, I promise you. Besides—” she did a slow perimeter walk around him—“it makes you look really ripped.”
Without a word, he kicked the door closed behind her. “Can you help me out of it?” Dark eyes gleamed with mischief.
Please write a 500 word guest post on a topic related to writing, your genre, advice you would give authors, etc. Please include your buy links etc in the post.
I’ve been writing novels for twenty years.
Sounds pretty impressive , right?
I started writing novels when I was 9 years old. It doesn’t matter that my first “novel” was roughly 25 pages long—it was a novel, by God! And I haven’t stopped writing them since. Only nowadays, I type them down first instead of scrawling them on notebook paper in my childhood bedroom.
Twenty years. Imagine that.
Truth is, often times I tell myself I should have more to show for it.
I started publishing seriously about two years ago. In that time, I’ve published two novels and three short stories. I feel good about it, and I’m constantly brimming with new ideas, new characters, new settings. My writing notebook is exploding, and sometimes I feel like I’ll never reach the bottom of the inspiration bucket.
But at the same time, there’s a little voice inside, whispering hot and dark down my neck, telling me I should just give up. That I shouldn’t even bother to continue. If I haven’t made it yet, I never will. Writing novels is just a waste of time. And on and on it goes.
Do any of you writers have that voice too? Or if you don’t write, does that voice show up in other areas of your life?
It’s an insidious voice when it appears. It deconstructs, deflates, dismantles, and depresses. It tells me that what I’m doing isn’t good enough, that what I’m aiming for is pointless.
But luckily, this voice can be managed. Eradicating doubt might not be a feasible goal, in any arena of life. But managing our reactions, the manner in which we press onward, is critical.
In my twenty years as a dedicated writer, there is one thing I have learned: honour the pace. If you hope to get anywhere, wherever that finish line might be for you, you must honour the pace at which you advance.
Don’t rush it, and don’t race. I am a master internet article reader, and often find well-meaning advice from other writers who are very different from me, at a very different point in their careers. And I take their well-meaning advice, and try to rework my entire life to fit around it. The result is that I stress myself out, hammering myself down to an unrealistic publishing schedule that has nothing to do with my own life. Then, weeks later when I am finding things much the same as when I started, feeling more and more like a general failure, I throw my hands up and wonder why.
What I forgot is that I must honour my pace, and honour my process.
When I get impatient, or off track, or try to rush myself along to adhere to someone else’s standards or schedule, I find that the voice flares up again. Stress leaves more room for it to speak out and criticize. Feeling “behind” other authors or bloggers just means a more ample breeding ground for doubt and negative feelings.
What I strive to remind myself, nearly every day, is that my pace is just fine. As long as our goals are firm and steady, our process doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s. In fact, they very often won’t. And that’s completely okay.
Too often, we get lost in the jungle of well-meaning advice and subtle comparisons, and the mean voices grow to a roar, and we realize we’ve wandered off the path altogether.
Just remember that YOU are the best judge and guide, whatever it is you’re working on.