As a writer of romance, I live in a fantasy world. Each day brings a world where dreams happen through my hero and heroine. This idea scares a lot of people...actually, the word fantasy scares many people. I've always wondered why. It's a beautiful word and opens the door to ideas and joy and happiness. When I was a kid I read book after book after book. Like a sponge I absorbed every romantic detail, every fantasy, every story line. What young girl didn't open the crisp pages of a romance novel and dive in and return with our own dreams of the future? Each day we should step outside of our comfort zone, breathe in danger and feel the thrill of adrenaline. Sometimes our first step is through a romance novel.
In Wicked Pleasures, I stepped outside of the box, or my comfort zone. I'd never written about wolves and this was all new. I loved it so much, I tuned it into a sequel...Wicked Wolves, and I'm currently on the second book, Wicked Lust.
Buy link: http://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Pleasures-Wolves-ebook/dp/B00F1JX2X2/ref=pd_rhf_se_p_imgnr_4
Blurb:
He’s her captor, but the passion he ignites within her is beyond anything she’s ever imagined…
When Bronte Sheridan is kidnapped and taken to an isolated house in the Colorado woods, she is determined to free herself from the wolf, Roark, who claims he is protecting her. As the story unfolds, Bronte is stunned to learn there is truth to his story. And even more shocked to discover the explosive sexual chemistry between them.
Roark needs Bronte for more than sex. She holds the key to saving his family. But what happens when she discovers the true nature of the evil spell that has loomed over the pack for a century? Human and wolf aren’t meant to mix, but the hot sex factor is off-the-charts. Can either of them walk away from the magnetism, and history, that draws them together? Can Bronte ever truly love a half-wolf?
In Wicked Pleasures, I stepped outside of the box, or my comfort zone. I'd never written about wolves and this was all new. I loved it so much, I tuned it into a sequel...Wicked Wolves, and I'm currently on the second book, Wicked Lust.
Blurb:
He’s her captor, but the passion he ignites within her is beyond anything she’s ever imagined…
When Bronte Sheridan is kidnapped and taken to an isolated house in the Colorado woods, she is determined to free herself from the wolf, Roark, who claims he is protecting her. As the story unfolds, Bronte is stunned to learn there is truth to his story. And even more shocked to discover the explosive sexual chemistry between them.
Roark needs Bronte for more than sex. She holds the key to saving his family. But what happens when she discovers the true nature of the evil spell that has loomed over the pack for a century? Human and wolf aren’t meant to mix, but the hot sex factor is off-the-charts. Can either of them walk away from the magnetism, and history, that draws them together? Can Bronte ever truly love a half-wolf?
Excerpt:
BRONTE
SNUGGLED DEEPER into the nest of pleasing warmth. She’d never felt such
comfort. Stretching her muscles, she
sighed languidly as a rush of indulgence whirled through her. The nightmare of
being held hostage by an arrogant ass couldn’t even fade the glorious feeling. No other time had she slept all night.
Rolling over,
her face pressed against something iron hard. Inhaling deeply, she froze. Her
heart skipped a beat. The smell was familiar—woodsy mixed with mint. And who
the hell was breathing in her ear?
Sliding one
eye open, she jerked. Shit! She
darted across the bed, pulling the red satin sheet with her. The kidnapping
wasn’t a dream. The arrogant ass was here, in bed, with her! Worse, she was in his
bed and he was sleeping soundly. Damn! He was naked!
She raked her
gaze downward, soaking up every inch of his nudity.
Hell, she
didn’t want to look at him, but for the life of her, she couldn’t help herself.
Admiring his physique broke some
unwritten rule about captive not ogling her captor, but if he wasn’t aware,
maybe it wasn’t so wrong. He was the description of perfect male, making her
self-conscious of her own less-than-perfect body. From his broad shoulders, over
massive chest, narrow waist, and—she jerked her glance away. Oh hell! He was hard and a size that
matched every other large part of him. It was so wrong that such a jerk had a body of
Adonis.
“Forget the
body,” she whispered. She wondered how he’d gotten naked. She lifted the sheet.
And how the hell did I get naked?
She was going
to be sick. Stomach twirling, she squeezed the bridge of her nose between her
forefinger and thumb. She couldn’t remember anything after he’d pulled out
needle and thread and—
Biting back a
moan, she held up her bandaged hand. With haste she’d never known, she tore off
the white gauzy material. Shit! Shit!
Her heart beat faster. She stared at her wounded hand neatly stitched and
covered in clear salve. Looking over at the sleeping man, her mind fabricated
ways she could teach him a lesson on boundaries, and so proudly flaunting his
goods. Her eyes naturally fell to his long cock. She should follow through with
a few of her own evil ideas. Wonder how
he’d like a few stitches in his tool?
No use. She was a wimp. At the mere sight
of blood she’d probably pass out, and ending up unconscious was the last thing
she wanted.
A horrible notion
flashed through her mind. Was it possible they had sex? If she was out while he
stitched her wound, anything could have happened. She reached down and touched
her inner thighs. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, no swelling or
sensitivity, and with a cock his size, she’d have physical evidence.
Some tension
left her muscles. Although he didn’t violate her, would he next time?
How had he
knocked her out? Had he hypnotized her?
There was no
time to stick around and debate her questions. She knew this could be her one
and only chance to get the hell away.
Bronte gave
the sleeping figure one more glance. He still slept. His breathing was heavy
and his chest rose and fell evenly. As quietly as possible, she slid to the
edge of the bed, eased her legs over the side and placed her feet onto the cool
floor. She stood and wrapped the sheet
around her body as she scanned the room for her clothes. They were gone. She
guessed Roark had hid them from her, thinking she wouldn’t escape without
clothes. Dressed or not, she’d get out of this place. Nudity was nothing
compared to spending more time in Roark’s loony bin.
With a quick glimpse
over her shoulder to make sure he was still asleep, Bronte started across the
room toward the door. She took each tiptoed step with great care, but every
breath and every time her foot pressed against the wood, it sounded like an
explosion in her ears. I can do this. I
can do this. I can do this. Her heart fluttered at the possibility of
freedom. Reaching the exit, she placed her palm on the knob, twisted and her
hope dropped. Nothing happened. It was locked. The bastard! Maybe she could stand the sight of blood, just this
once, if it meant getting revenge. She turned on heel and ran into a wall of
flesh and muscle. Bringing her gaze up into an expression of pure wickedness,
she gulped loudly.
“You didn’t
think I’d allow you to walk out of here, did you?” His voice was husky from
sleep. He yawned and wiped his eyes.
His laid-back
attitude made her want to rip his eyes out. And having him stand there naked
and proud, made her fury multiply. How dare he be so smug! “You can’t keep me
here forever.”
“How long you stay is completely up to you,
sweetheart. You’re in control more than you think.”
She slanted
her eyes, wishing she could shoot daggers into his head. “I’ll never have your
child. You said you have plenty of willing women so why not find someone who is
eager to have your baby?”
The corner of
his lips curved downward. “I also told you that I didn’t pick you.”
Holding the
sheet over her with one hand, she used the other to rub her aching temple. It
wasn’t possible to have a conversation with someone who was in serious need of
mental help. “Okay, you’ve told me that.
You didn’t pick me.” It was no use.
“Where are my clothes? I am allowed to wear something, right?” He lowered his
eyes over her sheet-covered body and every part of her quivered, in a very bad,
but good, way. She tugged the satin material tighter as if it was a shield from
his view. He brought his gaze back to hers and his twinkling eyes offended her,
yet excited her. She’d need to see a therapist after this.
He laughed. How
could he think this was humorous?
“Of course
clothes are permitted. That is until you decide you want to frolic naked. It’s
such a feeling of freedom, not to mention, without all of that material in the
way it’s much easier to gain access to the lovely parts.”
Her face
flamed with heat. She wanted to tell him just what she thought, but knew he’d
give her some egotistical response. For now, she needed to get dressed.
“Clothes? Where are they? White top, black pants.”
“You can’t wear those.” He turned his
back to her and went to the wardrobe. “I’ve already thrown them out.”
“Thrown them
out? Why?” Bronte wanted to scream. She
watched him take out clothes from the cabinet, thinking he was going to give
her something to wear, but instead he shook out a pair of dark denims and
started to put them on. Her eyeballs itched to watch his tight backside, but
she refused herself the pleasure. Nope,
she wouldn’t do it. But as the jeans moved upward, her gaze went downward.
She swore the man was a devil with power. And to top it off, his sex was
hard…again. Did it ever deflate? She wondered how he’d fit himself inside the
pants?
He turned and
she made sure her stare was on his face. “They were spotted with blood.”
“Huh?” Her
mind was confused.
“Your
clothes. That’s what we were talking about.”
“And whose
fault is it that they were bloody?” She huffed.
“Relax,
Bronte. That color of pale doesn’t work for you,” he said as he passed her to
the door. With his back to her, she wondered if she had time to find something
to crack him over the head. She scanned the room until his voice snapped her into
reality. “Tsk, tsk. Such brutal thoughts for a wisp of a woman. I’m not sure
you could reach high enough. I liked you admiring my body much better.”
She opened
her mouth to blast him with a four-letter word when her mind wrapped around the
fact that he’d just read her thoughts. Every hair on her body stood erect. It
wasn’t the first time he seemed to know what she was thinking.
He looked at
her over his shoulder. “Do you think you can behave outside of the confines of
this room? I’d hate to tie your wrists again. Touching you is much more
tempting when you’re bound and pissed off.” He wriggled his brows.
“You’re
unbelievable,” she snarled.
“Unbelievable
is not the right word, sweetheart. I haven’t lied to you once to earn that label.”
He smirked. “Now, answer the question or I’ll leave you in here until you lose
some of that ladylike charm.”
“I deserve
answers to my questions as well.” Her
strength was weakening. Her hope of getting away was fading. This man had her
right where he wanted her, but she refused to give up. Maybe he’d come to his
senses.
His jaw
loosened and his features softened. “You’re right. In time, you’ll get the
answers you want. For now, let’s go to your room. Your new clothes are in
there.”
“My room?” The words spilled out like a
bitter morsel of veracity. She had a room. He planned to keep her. The madness
grew deeper.
He reached
above the frame of the door and grabbed the key. She bit her bottom lip. So that was his hiding place. He opened
the thick wooden door and stepped back, motioning for her to lead the way into
the hall. “Remember what I said, fiery wench. Bounds and defiance are
irresistible to me. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment you cocked me in
the jaw.”
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