Very excited! Aside from the great reviews which I appreciate SO much! There’s other stuff that’s happening. Reader clubs are putting my “Surrender” stories on their lists to read. (I love that) I’ve gotten emails from enthusiastic readers about both Reclaimed and Reluctant Surrender. More than ninety percent of the readers who emailed want to see Jo and Ted’s story and that’s coming. (It’s with my editor now) and it’s this story I’ve been given an extra special opportunity to do something creative with to share with my readers. I’m so excited!!!! I can’t tell you all of it yet because that would spoil the surprise, but I can tell you it’ s WAY better than just a book video! I’m super happy over all of this.

If you haven’t checked out my Goodreads page here’s the link. There’s reviews on my published stories and quotes from my next Surrender book (Jo and Ted’s story) on there too. Oh and here’s my next Dom hero, Ted Basel…

 

 

 

 Here’s an excerpt:

Ted may not have wanted to talk about this but Jo did.

“You’re not going to walk away from me again.” Jo hastily skipped to catch up behind him while simultaneously tucking in her blouse. She nearly slipped on the marble floor twice in her haste keeping up.

“I’m not walking away from you. I’m heading to my office. You’re free to follow. Obviously, because you are.”

She skidded to a halt in front of his desk. Slapping the hair away from her forehead, she glared at him. With him seated in his big office chair he looked like a king on a throne. “I want you to fix me.”

He leaned back. “Fix you? The only person that can fix you is you. If someone told you differently they lied.”

She kicked off her high-heels as her feet were numb beyond the point of pain. “I’m broken. You broke me.” He stared up at her and even now that busted part of her thrilled at the sight of him. She had to fight every urge she had to drop her gaze and behave for him.

“We’re all broken. We all have cracks. It’s not about making it through life in one piece it’s about narrowing the gap between the fissures so we don’t shatter.”

She stabbed a finger in his direction. “You see? It’s precisely this kind of talk that wears me down. You’re too…”

His firm look as he eyed her finger distracted her and she lost her train of thought.

“Hasn’t anyone told you before that it’s rude to point? Lower that finger.”

“All right!” He quirked an annoying brow and she knew why. “All right,” she said more reasonably. Scooping up her shoes, she hugged them to her chest. “I just want to be the way I was before. I need to be that way. I have to be strong. With no crying. I don’t want to cry. I never cry.”

His lip twitched. “I noticed.”

“That’s not the least bit funny you know.” She wasn’t going to let him off the hook until he made things better. She couldn’t face Anjay like this and now that Anjay was back and getting awards for being an upstanding guy she was going to have to. “I want you to change me back.”

He huffed out a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. “You think you’re not the same person and I had something to do with that?”

“I know I’m not the same person and you have everything to do with it.”

His arrogant gaze swept her from top to bottom. “You look the same to me.”

She almost dropped her shoes. “I look the…I look the same? That’s all you have to say to me?” His casual shrug made her gasp. “Jo Nehr of two months ago wouldn’t have shed a tear. Not one, you spell-casting mother fucker.”

Tsk, tsk. “Guttersnipe language, princess.”

“Ugh.” She grasped a shoe in each hand and plunked them down on his desk leaning over them. “I can’t be this blubbering mass of hormonal crapiness right now.”

“I thought the session went well today.”

“Session? This isn’t therapy.”

“For you it is.”

Her eyes narrowed and it was the first time in her whole life she abused a pair of Monola’s when she strangled the patent leather. “If you or the other dickwad did what I requested you to do, it might have been good. I wanted to be hurt not – not – not swept off my fucking feet with pleasure, asshole.”

One minute she was holding her own, killing her shoes and speaking so succinctly that spittle was spraying his desk and the next her whole body was wiping it up as he dragged her across the surface. She shot over the width like a hockey puck on newly polished ice.

“Let me go.” She struggled but it was no use. In two seconds flat she was slung over his lap. Head toward the floor and ass in the air. “Don’t.”

Too late, he spanked her with three hard smacks. She squirmed and tried to use the one shoe she still had hold of as a weapon, but he wrestled it from her grip and gave her another smack.

“Stop.”

She didn’t halt because he sounded mad, it was more because he sounded amused. She hated to think he was getting a kick out of this when she was close to dying inside.

“That’s better. Now, do I need to remind you about your hell?”

Blood rushed to her head while she admired the make of his shoes. The last thing she thought of before he spanked her again was the bastard had great taste in footwear. That stung her more than the smack did.

 

 

Okay, first off you need to know that there’s been a perpetual tug-of-war going on between my honey and my mom (Madge). Madge likes to feed the Blue Jays who live around our property, raw peanuts. Unfortunately, this draws the squirrels that create havoc which makes Honey’s life miserable. *shrug* Madge doesn’t care (hey, who do you think I take after?) she just patiently waits for him to leave everyday and once he’s gone, she heads out to her garden and showers raw peanuts with flagrant abandon all over the place.

Honey? Well, he’s been known to grumble and threaten, but you know? What can he do? Madge is a tricky little woman with an attitude who’s not afraid to pull the senior card when she has to. So Basically? He’s screwed. Thus, the creation of the tenuous cycle  by which we live culminated. When Honey’s complaints get loud enough Madge resorts to smuggling the nuts out to the yard  for a time until she gets more brazen, or forgets, and he sees and then he complains all again and she’s back to smuggling… and so it goes.

Well, yesterday morning her car wouldn’t start. We had it towed to the service station and later in the day when it was fixed, Honey and I went to pick it up. There we are standing in front of that multi-million-dollar hunk of junk (don’t ask) and Honey scratches his head.

“Was the problem in the electric?”

“No.” The service guy pops open the hood and stares down at the engine. “Some critter climbed up into here,” he points to the battery, “and chewed through the cable connections.”

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Honey swears. “I’m going to kill my mother-in-law!”

Without missing a beat the service guy turns on him and frowns. “Why? Ya think she’s the varmint that did it?”

I laughed my butt off! Poor Honey wasn’t amused, but then, neither was Madge when Honey confiscated all her raw peanuts.

Riley LMAO!!! :)

Oh, my! Yes! This is definitely what I drink, what I wear and what I type by when writing my romances. *Excuse me whilst I dodge the lightning bolts* Seriously?

Here’s the deal. My mom had surgery recently and the freaky snucker better known as anesthesia got the best of her. It seems while she was in the recovery room she blabbed to some of the nurses at the hospital who then blabbed to some more and well…the reader’s digest version? I was grilled about my budding career. Here’s one conversation that left me speechless.

We’re gonna call this nurse Florence for the nightingale. :)

Florence, “Do you have a special place you write?”

Me, “Nope.” I flash the laptop. “I was writing here.” (I didn’t add before all you guys came in here to interrogate me.)

“Don’t you wear special things?”

Me, “Of course. Black lace lingerie and supermodel makeup. My hair is always perfect and the candles are forever lit.”

Her eyes widen, “Really?”

“Um, no. Truth is I’m usually in sweats or still in my PJ’s while I write. Makeup is kind of a moot point as it would probably melt with the amount of time I spend basking in front of the LCD monitor. Don’t get me started on my hair. This is the best it’s looked in a month. Yeah, I know pathetic, huh? And candles? Aside from being hot, which, you know, is counterproductive to the AC I’ve got blasting, the flickering light would likely give me a headache.”

“What about champagne?”

“Champagne? Hm. All I can say about that is, if I were swilling back the bubbly all day I’d likely never get a word down right. But tell me. Do you wear a white nurse’s uniform with that stylish cap, white stockings and white orthopedic shoes when you defer to all the male doctors around here?”

She snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

Me, staring right at her. “Why?”

“Because nurses don’t dress like that. They dress like this.” She pointed to her colorful smock blue pants and decidedly brown shoes. “And don’t tell any of them, but we certainly don’t idolize most of the doctors around here.”

Meh, that may have been a little TMI for my liking. After all, if mom’s doctor was one of the ones they didn’t idolize?  >.<  Just saying…

“Right. So, why would you think a romance writer lives and writes like that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d like to think that’s how my favorite authors write.”

I thought about that for a second. Then I recalled my post, A Wizard Revealed, and why I was in the hospital in the first place. Eek. “I tell you what,” I said to her. “Let’s forget what I just said. I do write dressed in lingerie. I only use candlelight when I write the sex scenes and when I finish a story I toast myself with pink champagne.”

She frowns and tilts her head waiting for me to explain.

“Now,” I clasped my hands over my laptop and smiled. “Why don’t you tell me how all you nurses idolize every doctor in this joint. Especially my mom’s.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “How about I tell you I’m going to buy your books. You’re funny.”

Erm…truthfully, I would have rather heard her lie about the doctors. I spent the next twenty-four hours sweating bullets. ;)

Riley  

First, what is cream of Tartar?

Well, according to my honey, it’s a powder he found in the spice cabinet that I use and mix with secret ingredients to create tartar sauce for fish.  Um…WHAT?  Honest to god, that’s what I heard him tell our son one afternoon when he came across it.  Was I surprised?  Nope, because he also told my daughter when she tried her hand at making scrambled eggs for the first time that he thought I put sugar in them.  Sugar?  That makes all kind of sense, doesn’t it?

I bring this up because I’ve just recently realized that his lack of culinary knowledge bleeds into my stories in a big way. I mean, the poor guy loves his food he just doesn’t know how to prepare it.  Actually, he doesn’t care to know how to prepare it.  That’s what gets me.  Oh he’ll do the grilling, but for everything else?  I’m on my own.

The way I see it?  For the most part this works for us, the only real glitch is him imparting his limited knowledge to people who ask.  Example: he had my sister convinced that I put Kahlua in my BBQ sauce.  Kahlua?  That was interesting.  The day she made it she called me to say it tasted like something was missing.  I asked her what she’d put in it so far and when I heard the ecclectic list of ingredients and who she’d gotten said list from I agreed with her – there was something missing.  Like maybe one of her brain cells for listening to my honey in the first place.

When I asked him why he thought I put a liquor into the mix, he said, “Well, I know it was a dark brown liquid and from what I recall it was sweet.”  He was right about that, unfortunately, it was molasses I’d used – not Kahlua.  *shakes head*

Truthfully, I don’t know why I torture myself, but I had to press him on this.  I wanted to know why he explains cooking things, items, or recipes when he knows absolutely nothing about them?  His answer? 

“People ask me.”

*Crickets.* I got nothing to say to that because he’s right.

And why is that?  Why do they ask him this stuff instead of asking me?  That got me to thinking.  Sure, he is one of those guys who’d you want around if there was a major catastrophe, but asking him to prepare your Chicken Marsala?  I don’t think so.  No, seriously, I don’t.

So, right about now, you may be asking yourself how this relates to writing and alpha male and here’s the deal.   Even the most capable, alpha-type guy around still has faults and doesn’t know everything.  Usually?  His biggest fault is that he doesn’t know he can’t do things. In fact, most times he believes that he can do everything.  Making BBQ sauce for instance.

Now, when writing this type of guy in a romance the heroine will always gracefully point out where he’s erred.  Yeah, I know, gracefully?  Hey, it’s fiction, because in reality this would drive any sane woman crazy – need I say anymore?  But the point here is that these faults don’t have to be earthshaking or world shattering to make an impression on your reader.  Sometimes, just the regular old run-of-the-mill stuff tweaked a little, can soften a tough guy’s rough edges and endear him to your readers.

Riley

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