Thursday 29 December 2011

Guest Blog - Bekki Lynn: 'Annie and the Young Master

Annie and the Young Master is an erotic historical fairy tale based on the old folk-tale 'Cap O' Rushes'. This is Bekki's re-interpretation of that intriguing fairy story.

Blurb:

Banished from her home, Lillian Basford picked herself up and set out to start a new life. When Samuel Wadkins came along and gave her a real-life taste of what her dreams with him had teased her with, she became torn between her life as it was and what it’d now become. [erotic historical]

ISBN: 978-1-4524-3636-4




Excerpt:


She scanned the room, taking in the gowns of reds, greens and blues, even gold, silver and purples. They made her pastel pink dress feel drab. Stepping back to take her leave, her eyes landed on his. He came toward her and she froze. How was she going to escape?

He stopped before her and bowed. “May I make your acquaintance?” he asked. “My name is Samuel Wadkins.”

Manners led her to curtsy. “Excuse me. I can not stay.”

He held his hand out to her. “I’d be pleased if you danced with me.”

His eyes held hers when they met. Lillian could not deny him. With her hand in his, he led her to the dance floor and laid a hand on her waist. She followed his lead easy enough, having danced with her father many times around the house.

“I’ve not seen you before, have I?” he asked.

“Would it matter?” she asked, her eyes lowered, voice quiet.

“Who’s your family?”

“Many questions. Am I to believe you’re in training for service?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

“Forgive me.”

Samuel’s hand tightened on her waist as he whirled her around the floor, stopping to twirl and dip her. He held left her bent over his arm longer than necessary, his eyes penetrating hers. She worried he might see familiarity in her depths. Part of her wished not, part of her was glad to be near him even if she suffered another cold dip in the water to cool her wanting of his body. His eyes began to darken with desire and she shivered. If he laid her out now on the floor and loved her, the onlookers would be forgotten.

He drew her up, saying, “I feel I’ve seen into your eyes before. They’re such a unique blue, between the sky and the night.”

“It’s the lighting, maybe the event,” she murmured. Her heart pounded from both the dance and the desire steadily rising from being near him and remembering what it had felt like to have her body with his.

“I shall like to dance with you all night.”

She didn’t know what to say, but the change in the music temple set them off on a waltz. They glided around the floor as if they were alone. For her it seemed so. Their eyes watched one another as they whirled among others. If his could be trusted, he saw into her soul, the depths of heart. No laughter came from what he saw, but rather his eyes darkened with the same need she'd seen that morning too many fortnights ago.

When the music ended, he drew her close to him. She felt his breathlessness equal hers, from activity she would have believed had she not seen the growing need spread over his face. Was he so easily taken he couldn’t control himself? This thought pricked her heart, but she wanted to believe somewhere deep within him, a particle of him knew she to be Annie. It could wishful thinking or a way to save her heart for the moment, maybe.

He led her toward a table and handed her a glass of punch before guiding her through the nearest open door. She found herself in the night air, welcoming the breeze.

“I used to wonder about these affairs, but then I was sent off to school before I could attend.”

“Is it everything you imagined?”

“Yes, and no,” he said, closing the respectable distance between them. With a finger, he tipped her chin up. “There’s something about you, familiar.” His head bent near her ear and he whispered, “My body claims to know you in ways it desires.”

She swallowed and took a step backward. “Did your school teach you to be so forward?”

“Pardon my bluntness. I’m not normally brash.” He took her glass and set it down on the nearby table. “Shall we?” he asked, extending his arm.

Relieved to return to the dance floor, she wished for the normalcy the night should have had. Maybe know Samuel in an accepted sense of what's proper.

The chimes of a clock reached her. She listened and knew it to be the hour of ten. She must hurry home. Before the music began once more, she reached up on her toes and whispered in his ear. “Blessings to you, Samuel.” Then she turned to leave, but he pulled her back, holding her to his body.

His mouth claimed hers, releasing a hunger she should have kept back. Rather she drank and gave as she’d done that morning many weeks ago. The quiet of the room disturbed her and she pushed at him to let her go. “I have to go.” She ran from the room.

“Annie, wait!”

She heard him, but went for the buggy sitting beside the nearest carriage rather than wait for it brought up.

“Annie!” he called after her again.


Purchase Bekki's books at:
Smashwords, Kobo, Amazon, Lulu, Diesel, SonyBarnes and Noble.

Tuesday 27 December 2011

On the Right Track

Like to read a snowy story? I have a short - and cheap - one night stand story out with Decadent Publishing. If you leave a comment on -
http://decadent1nightstand.blogspot.com/

You might win a free copy.


Always driving through life along the straight and narrow, Hollie wants a break from staying within the lines. She hopes a hookup at 1NightStand with a tall fair-haired guy who’s organized and sensible, likes small-breasted brunettes, and can deal with any crisis life throws at him, will jar her from the mundane path she’s been on.

Except what seemed like the perfect plan when she set off, turns into the worst idea ever as the snow falls thickly. Slipping and sliding, her arms numb from clenching the wheel, she becomes frantic to avoid what’s looming in front of her.

Dark-haired Nick is on his way to a party with hopes of connecting with a busty blonde—assuming he’s even on the right road and can dig himself out of a heap of snow before he freezes solid. Too bad he never plans ahead, no coat and no shovel in the car, and soon he won’t even see a road at all, let alone any vehicle barrelling down it.

When two hearts get lost in a snowstorm of what they think they want, can Madame Eve's magic put them back on the right track?

Wednesday 21 December 2011

Don't you long for some summer heat?

This time of year is cold and dismal, which is one reason why we all long for the sharp frost and pristine whiteness of snow to be found in the mountain countries of Europe and America. Often we're scheduled to go skiing right after the festive fortnight - it's usually the cheapest time, for one thing, and for another, we're ready for the break before girding our loins for the next bit of hard slog through January and February, the two most miserable months of the year. This year, for some reason we now cannot recall, we've chosen to delay our snow break until the end of January and I feel we've nothing to look forward to for such a long time.

Which makes me feel quite nostalgic for France and the heat of summer holidays. The flower perfumes and the shimmery heat of the Dordogne in July and August are hard to beat. We'll go back this summer, but in the mean time, why not settle down with a copy of SHADOWS and let the warmth of summer wrap around you as you read about Melissa and Rory and their budding relationship? They've gone for a holiday to an old water mill in the Dordogne, and though they love it, they're not so keen to discover they're not the only residents. They're not the sort you can ask to leave, either; they've been there for over two hundred years.
Will Rory and Melissa pull together, or will they let the ghosts drive them apart? Check out the link : http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shadows-ebook/dp/B006JBXJRA and discover for yourself!

Jen Black

Tuesday 20 December 2011

Kick Starting the Muse

I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”

Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.

I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.

Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.

Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”

So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.

After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.

Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.

My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.

Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

Monday 19 December 2011

A. Faris - 'Last Christmas'

When writing my first publication Out of Joint, it did not occur to me that I would be writing a second book that is part of the same universe (Wings of a Butterfly) a year later. It certainly did not occur to me that I would be asked to write a third for a Christmas anthology. Funny how things work out; apparently, people do read my historical-time-travel-paranormal stories (and I assume, like them.)

Last Christmas inhabits the same 'verse, where demons mess about with the timeline, witches and vampires police the timeline, and love involves time paradoxes. The heroine, Nadine, is a time agent who has no time for Christmas. She's a jaded and cynical witch, who works on Christmas Eve. On the trail of a time insurgent, she does not expect to find love instead.

Buylink: http://www.decadentpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=415&osCsid=qj8n73s2d3h97eef6rhdhf76f1


Last Christmas is also in a print anthology Yule be Mine Vol. 2, published by Decadent Publishing. (Buylink: http://www.amazon.com/Yule-Be-Mine-Seleste-deLaney/dp/1613330286).

In the spirit of giving, I am holding a draw for Yule be Mine Vol. 2. To enter the draw, simply include your email address (eg, faris DOT writes AT gmail DOT com) with your comment. I will contact the winner for his/her mailing address by 21st Dec.

Bio:

A. Faris loves stories, be it in the form of prose, poetry, plays, music, paintings. Above all, she loves stories of romance and love. Not surprising then, to find her writing romance. Since being an author is a full-time job for the lucky few, she also works as a translator, proofreader, teacher and Mum (which also includes in the job description ‘cook’, ‘cleaning lady’, ‘driver’ and ‘handyman’).

You can find her at http://afariswrites.wordpress.com/, where she reflects on narratives, occasionally sidetracking into the minutiae of life and, when she has to, indulges in some self-promotion.

Blurb:

‘Tis the season to be merry…

But not when you’re on the trail of a time insurgent, and facing a demon’s servant at every turn.

For Nadine Venus, Christmas is a jinx. Two deaths in the family and an estrangement, all on the blessed occasion, she spends every Christmas alone since. A knock on her door reveals a mysterious stranger, a stranger who kisses sweet, knows her soul and offers his heart with no reservations.

Not everything is as it seems, however, with more at stake than Nadine thinks…


Excerpt:

A quick look out the spyglass showed a tall stranger, with shoulder-length hair that seemed unable to decide between being blond or brown. He hadn’t set off any of the level ten alarms surrounding her unit so, with a shrug, she opened the door.

She managed a glimpse of darkish eyes before she was hauled against the owner’s hard body. A second of lip contact, then, her instincts kicked in. She shoved, directing magic to her palms to lend her the strength needed to propel the solidly-built man away. He landed on his arse, looking surprised, as if he somehow expected a different response after mauling a stranger.

She watched comprehension dawn and he picked himself up from her front step, rueful now. “I knew it.” He eyed her still glowing hands warily. “Would you put that away if I apologized?”

Still suspicious, she kept her hands up. “Well? Where’s that apology?”

His shoulders shifted in some indeterminate gesture. “Four decades haven’t changed you much, Red.” He dimpled briefly, his eyes flicking to her hair with great affection, which made the simple adjective sound sweet. She told herself to resist the impulse to smooth her hair down.

“No, I don’t suppose it would have. You did tell me time passes differently for us.” He sketched a bow. “I’m sorry, Nadine.”

Her heart skipped a beat at hearing him speak her name. Used to the quirks of time-travel, after all her years with the Agency and now the Order, meeting a stranger who knew her did not surprise her. Meeting a stranger who knew her witch name disquieted her; it implied a degree of intimacy she had never granted anyone.

“May I come in?”

A. Faris
http://afariswrites.wordpress.com/

Sunday 18 December 2011

Kick Starting the Muse

Kick Starting the Muse

I would be a rich woman if I received a pound each time someone tells me, “I could write a novel.” I usually ask why don’t you write it. More often than not the reply is, “I don’t have time.”

Time is the factor which separates writers from would be writers. There is always something which beckons a writer whether it is a mundane task such as doing the laundry, which I should make a start on right now, or accepting an invitation.

I would be even richer if I received a pound each time someone asks, “Where do you get your ideas from?” When the writing is not going well I’m tempted to smile and reply, “From the supermarket.” Actually, that’s not quite as far fetched as it seems. I’ve often overheard partial conversations that trigger an idea or seen a face which seems to step out of a historical era, a Roman soldier, a Norman Knight, a Mediaeval lady, a Franciscan monk, a Cavalier etc.

Potential material to kick start the muse is all around me and in non fiction, biographies and autobiographies. I am a historical novelist so my muse responds to something I read about times past, which must then translate itself onto the computer.

Stephen King wrote. “Don’t wait for the muse. This isn’t an Ouija board or spirit world we are talking about here, but just another job – like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”

So, how have I trained my muse? I have always understood the importance of having a place to write in which my muse and I can settle down. Once it was at a desk in the corner of the living room, today it is the smallest bedroom in the house which I have converted into an office.

After long hard battles my sometimes reluctant muse now understands that I have a regular writing routine. I rise early in the morning, deal with some e-mails, edit the last few pages of the previous day’s work in progress and then write until 10 or 11 a.m. Later in the day I work from 4 or 5 p.m. to 8 or 9 p.m., and sometimes my muse prompts me at night with an idea.

Anyone can establish a writing routine. The important thing is to write for set periods whether they are long or short. For example, if we write half a page a day we will have finished a novel by the end of the year. A bonus is that the muse will respect this and, as the saying goes, knuckle down to work.

My muse stays with me most of the time. When I’m doing housework, gardening or shopping Muse helps me to plot and plan. Recently, while at the health suite enjoying my time in the Jacuzzi, my muse and I have been considering the sequel to my novel, Sunday’s Child. We have been tossing ideas backwards and forwards, rejecting some and building on others. By the time we settle at the computer or the laptop we will have a plot and theme.

Regardless of whether we are published or unpublished, if we are determined, with the help of our muses, we will find the time and space to write.

Rosemary Morris
Historical Novelist

Publisher MuseItUp
Tangled Love January, 2012
Sunday’s Child June 2012
False Pretences October 2012

http://www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

Christmas at Hartford Hall


As it's almost Christmas I thought I'd share with you an extract of my latest book with Aurora/Musa. I hope you enjoy it.

A Regency Cinderella story complete with a handsome ‘Prince Charming’, two nasty sisters and a wicked female relative.

When Elizabeth’s grandfather died there was no sign of a will and she, to her consternation, discovered she was now dependent on his heir. The new Lord and Lady Hartford and their twin daughters arrive and reduce her status to that of a servant. Elizabeth is determined to leave Hartford Hall in the New Year and work as a governess. However the arrival of Sir James Worthington to make an offer for Lady Eleanor only adds to her difficulties…

Elizabeth was lost in thought, recalling two Christmases ago when Grandfather had been well. From nowhere a horse reared up behind her. She had no chance to hurl herself to safety. Her last thought as she fell beneath the plunging feet was that she would be with her beloved relative at Christmas after all.

Her mouth was full of snow, her basket no longer in her possession, but she was not dead. She daren’t move. She was beneath a team of spirited horses. She could be trampled to death at any moment. Then two hands grasped her shoulders and she was hauled backwards through the snow in a most undignified manner and set firmly on her feet.

She spat the last of the white stuff from her mouth and glared up into the face of the most attractive man she’d ever seen in her life. He would have been even more handsome if he were not scowling back at her.

“What the devil were you thinking of? I could have killed you. Walking down the middle of a lane is the height of folly.”

This was the outside of enough. The wretched man had all but run her over and was now blaming her for his foolhardy actions. “That I am not dead is no thanks to you. Perhaps it has escaped your attention, sir, but the only place it is possible to walk at the moment is down the middle of the lane.”

He frowned down at her, his startlingly blue eyes unfriendly. “I do not intend to stand here bandying words with a servant girl, my cattle will freeze.” He raked her with an icy stare. “As you are obviously unhurt, I shall continue my journey.”

Good grief, what a ridiculous vehicle he was travelling in. She couldn’t help herself, her lips twitched and she hastily raised a hand to cover her smile. “I would think, sir, that driving in the depths of winter in that carriage might be considered even more foolish than my walking in the middle of the road.”

She thought he would suffer an apoplexy. His lips thinned and he seemed to grow several inches. Now he was even more formidable. His many-caped driving coat was snow-covered, his beaver equally whitened. If she thought of him as a rather cross snowman perhaps he would not seem so alarming.

Then his expression changed, his anger gone, and he smiled. My word! He was far more dangerous to her composure when he did this then when he glared at her.

“I beg your pardon, miss. The relief that you were not killed has made me behave appallingly. Although my carriage is not ideal, allow me to give you a ride to your destination. It’s the least I could do.”

Flustered by his mercurial change and not quite sure she wished to be squashed between him and his manservant so high from the ground, she shook her head vehemently. “No, it would be most improper. You continue your journey. I have not far to go; pray do not worry about me.”

Have a wonderful holiday and prosperous New year.
Fenella Miller

Saturday 17 December 2011

Warm up your winter: 'The Snow Bride'

She is Beauty, but is he the Beast?

Elfrida, spirited, caring and beautiful, is also alone. She is the witch of the woods and no man dares to ask for her hand in marriage until a beast comes stalking brides and steals away her sister. Desperate, the lovely Elfrida offers herself as a sacrifice, as bridal bait, and she is seized by a man with fearful scars. Is he the beast?

In the depths of a frozen midwinter, in the heart of the woodland, Sir Magnus, battle-hardened knight of the Crusades, searches ceaselessly for three missing brides, pitting his wits and weapons against a nameless stalker of the snowy forest. Disfigured and hideously scarred, Magnus has finished with love, he thinks, until he rescues a fourth 'bride', the beautiful, red-haired Elfrida, whose innocent touch ignites in him a fierce passion that satisfies his deepest yearnings and darkest desires.

Coming Dec 27th from Bookstrand Publishing 2011
15% discount until January 3! Pre-order here.

Read Chapter One

Here is another excerpt to tempt you:

Magnus was worried. The fire he had made should have brought his people. It was an old signal, well-known between them. His men should have reached the village by now—that had been the arrangement. They were bringing traps and provisions in covered wagons, and hunting dogs and horses. He had been impatient to start his pursuit of the Forest Grendel and so rode ahead, returning with the messenger until that final stretch when the man turned off to his home. He had ridden on alone, finding the wayside shrine.

But from then, all had gone awry. Instead of the monster, he had found an ailing witch, and the snowstorm had lost him more tracks and time.

Magnus shook his head, turning indulgent eyes to the small, still figure on the rough pallet. At least the little witch had slept through the night and day, snug and safe, and he had been able to make her a litter from woven branches. He would give his fire signal a little longer and then return Elfrida to her village. There he might find someone who could translate between them.

Perhaps she did have power, for even as he looked at her, she sat up, the hood of her cloak falling away, and stared at him in return. She said something, then repeated it, and he drew in a great gulp of cold air in sheer astonishment, then laughed.

“I know what you said!” He wanted to kiss her, spots and all.

He burst into a clumsy canter, dragging his peg leg a little and almost tumbling onto her bed. She caught him by the shoulders and tried to steady him but collapsed under his weight.

They finished in an untidy heap on the pallet, with Elfrida hissing by his ear, “Why have you done such a foolish thing as to burn all our fuel?”

He rolled off her, knocked snow off his front and beard, and said in return, “How did you know I would know the old speech, the old English?”

“I dream true, and I dreamed this.” She was blushing, though not, he realized quickly, from shyness.

“Why burn so wildly?” she burst out, clearly furious. “You have wasted it! All that good wood gone to ash!”

“My men know my sign and will come now the storm has gone.” He had not expected thanks or soft words, but he was not about to be scolded by this red-haired nag.

“That is your plan, Sir Magnus? To burn half the forest to alert your troops?”

“A wiser plan than yours, madam, setting yourself as bait. Or had your village left you hanging there, perhaps to nag the beast to death?”

Her face turned as scarlet as the fire. “So says any witless fool! ’Tis too easy a charge men make against women, any woman who thinks and acts for herself. And no man orders me!”

Magnus swallowed the snort of laughter filling up his throat. He doubted she saw any amusement in their finally being able to speak to each other only to quarrel. Had she been a man or a lad, he would have knocked her into the snow, then offered a drink of mead, but such rough fellowship was beyond him here.

“And how would you have fought off any knave, or worse, that found you?” he asked patiently. “You did not succeed with me.”

“There are better ways to vanquish a male than brute force. I knew what I was about!”

“Truly? You were biding your time? And the pox makes you alluring?”

“Says master gargoyle! My spots will pass!”

“Or did you plan to scatter a few herbs, perhaps?”

He thought he heard her clash her teeth together. “I did not plan my sickness, and I do not share my secrets! Had you not snatched me away, had you not interfered, I would know where the monster lives. I would have found my sister! I would be with her!” Her voice hitched, and a look of pain and dread crossed her face. “We would be together. Whatever happens, I would be with her.”

“This was Christina?”

“Is Christina, not was, never was! I know she lives!”

Magnus merely nodded, his temper cooling rapidly as he marked how her color had changed and her body shook. A desperate trap to recover a much-loved sister excused everything, to his way of thinking.

She called you a gargoyle! This piqued his vanity and pride.

But she does not think you the monster, Magnus reminded himself in a dazzled, shocked wonder, embracing that knowledge like a lover.

Lindsay Townsend
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net

Friday 16 December 2011

David Russell: 'Therapy Rapture' and 'My Dream of Madonna'

Extract from Therapy Rapture

Marina disappeared through a mahogany side door, leaving me agog with expectation. She came out in a flowing, low-cut purple satin dress, split skirts – like I'd seen in some 'Come Dancing' broadcasts. Her stockings were near flesh-colour, on the tantalizing edge of bare legs. Those lovely forms moved alluringly through and behind the splits. Sure enough, true to my intuition, Justify My Love came on, deep and sensual. Her shoulders were available to touch; her lips came close. My mind modulated between that video and our tactile reality, as if they were vying against each other. We swayed each other backwards and forwards; through Maria’s undulating movements, beautifully raising her skirt, her shoulders were available to touch; our lips came close. Her body wings flirted alluringly with the horizontal. Her back zip was giddily tantalising. Our dancing was sinuous, muscular, delicious. She drew out of me ballet steps and movements that I never thought I could do, undreamed of suppleness on my trunk, spine and legs. I felt as if I had satisfied a professional. I must have managed a pirouette. Our bodies orbited each other, into planet, out of asteroid, out of planet, into asteroid, into nova, out of nova . . .

"Well done, honey; you got every bit of me moving. Now we'll go on to Part 2. Undo me at the back." I had had a welling up of fantasy desire to do just that, cumulative too; all those years of Hollywood and video belles I had longed to disrobe, the chaperoned sensual icons . . . and then to have the sluice gate opened by an order from reality . . .

Oh, what I'd dreamed of, brought to life! The dress shimmered down to reveal Marina in an exquisite cream corset, luminous, reflective, flickering in the orange light. Madonna in the flesh! At last I could see her legs in full. I had already kicked off my shoes. She stripped me down to my shorts and singlet. We danced on, writhing, edging into an embrace. I massaged her back, felt her erected breasts under the boned corset. We swayed ourselves breathless. My inner fires were rising, seething.

"Now for the deeper plunge; we'll do a swim together."

We left our clothes in a heap in the ballroom. Marina led me through a long, dark corridor to the pool. It was huge, glass-roofed, warm, exotic, flanked with palm trees. The water was turquoise; it was an encapsulated lagoon. She pointed to the changing room in the far corner. There's a costume for you in there, ok?"

What suspense as we changed! Marina had been really telepathic in her planning. They were 50s-style Jantzen trunks. I got a wonderful thrill as I pulled them on in a real flush of hitherto unfulfilled youth. Never before had I felt so sexy in trunks, with someone eyeing me up that I really wanted to; it was almost as if I was going to appear in a male strip show, to show myself to all the most beautiful women in the world, who would sigh in ecstasy at the sight of my body. And Marina felt like all those beautiful women rolled into one.

We both tiptoed out of our cubicles, and came to the pool's edge. Now was the other side of the coin: I had been pretty turned on by the corset, but now Marina was in a clingy purple swimsuit with white stripes top and bottom. My bathing icon was before me, the sight of her glorified by the tinting of subdued light, Ursula Andress and Esther Williams rolled into one. Had there ever, in my whole life, been a plunge like this?

I got into the water first, and drew Marina down by the shoulders to join me; such beautiful shoulders too, just muscular enough. We splashed about a bit at first, then raced together, on and on, until I lost count of lengths and laps. All this unaccustomed exertion was releasing ever more energy. We did lots of different strokes, but my favourite was to see Marina doing the backstroke, her lovely breasts and thighs thrusting up through the water. My reverie alternated between the pool and a bed. We felt so youthful, so healthy, so supple, so strong. The heady power of this exercise was turning us into two supermodels. We submerged, embraced under water. Our self-made maelstrom was tightening our clinch. This was a breathtaking build-up – the flow, the ripples from outside building up the flow, the ripples from within. The Swim Fan sequence surged through my brain. I loved the first stirring of erection in my trunks, and sensed her fires were rising with mine. We were within an ace of doing it there and then, but Marina held me firm.

"We've got to go one step further on our path to make things complete.”

She took my hand and led me on. We approached a shower cubicle. She grabbed me by the waist and pulled me in. “Next item in the unwinding sequence,” she whispered.

It was so delicious; the steamy water pouring down, that tight embrace in front of the mirror, us still in costumes, the slow peeling down, the clinch, the foaming soaping, the gell, the abandoned thrusting in quasi-tropical heat, the total cleaning, the thrust together of all body parts, the rubbing all over with voluminous towels. It was so transporting, we could have been anywhere in our world of travel dreams.

Buy from Amazon UK or Amazon US


Extract from My Dream of Madonna


I was tossing and turning, half-dreaming my way into wakefulness. The telephone rang. Before it had finished its third ring, I picked up the receiver.
"Hello honey, you got through."

I sensed the voice with an ethereal shudder. It was hers and no other's. It must have been that chain letter, or that very special message on the Contact Line. "We've got to meet. Midnight at the Imperial Palace. Look your best; be your best."

So it was all going to happen, Madonna would approve me, fulfill me. I was all atremble. I hurriedly shaved, showered and dressed. I looked intellectually smart-casual in dark brown cords? What the hell? Whatever fashion I chose, Madonna was sure to do some really imaginative permutations.

I went down to the vestibule, meaning to call a cab. There, waiting for me, were her bodyguards—tall, coffee-colored, muscular hunks, perfect role-models for my workouts.

"Hi! We've come to collect you. This is your honor and ours."They ushered me into a plush Chevrolet. The engine purred. The upholstery was resilient and pliant, in time, in tune with my quivering anticipation. I was going to be a sex-object for Madonna.

The cathedral's columns tapered into the infinite darkness, like seductive limbs in erotic dress. The bodyguards motioned me to go in, then turned and left. The interior was swathed in a dim red light. I could hear the dulcet, ethereal sounds of a choir. But no singers were to be seen. I looked ahead. I was obviously in the chamber of state, where the emperor made his proclamations. There, in two lines, were twelve beautiful girls, all the same height—about five foot eight. They were wearing white silk robes with pink sashes. They beckoned me to kneel at the altar, and then to stand.

The lights dimmed. Then, from the rear, Madonna entered. She looked exquisite in a purple velvet ball gown, glittering with a handful of jewels flashing all the colors of the rainbow, revealing her shoulders, so wonderfully toned by all that sensual exercise. Her hair was now black and straight, her complexion fresh, without make-up. She stood between the two rows of girls, and then she smiled at me. "You're looking great," shesaid, "I must see more."

She lifted her arms in the air and nodded at the girls. The one on the far left undid her sash, parted her robe, and pushed it back over her shoulders. It fell to the floor to reveal the girl's athletic body, tightly encased in a white girdle and a black bra-top. She came and undid my jacket, then bore it away.

Each girl did the same with one more item of my clothing. Madonna's eyes gradually lit up as my body was revealed to her. At last I stood before her, just wearing black briefs. Madonna was feasting at the sight of my torso and legs. Our faces edged together. Our lips touched and our tongues drew together as we held our breath through a five-minute kiss.

"Wonderful," she whispered. "Could you help me with my preparations now?"

Now I was to undress Madonna! I went up to the altar, put my hands on her slender waist, and looked her straight in the eye. The gown had a zipper at the back. I undid it and eased it down. As it fell to the floor, it captured a moment of eternity.

Buy from Amazon UK or Amazon US


Reviews:

Therapy Rapture


4.5/5 Stars

I have been reviewing David Russell’s work the past couple of days, and I must say that I have saved the best for last. Therapy Rapture is one of the most eclectic short stories I have come across. It combines a short story, art, and poetry. Crazy cool, huh?

Our male protagonist has an issue separating fantasy from reality. Throw in a therapist and a fitness trainer, and we have all the hot makings of a sensual read. After reading a few of Russell’s short stories, I see that he has an eye for romance and subtle details. His character lives in the moment, and each movement is filed with emotion and meaning. This builds quite the anticipation for lovemaking. And speaking of lovemaking, David has a soft hand for these types of scenes, preferring to keep the erotic details hidden. I find it refreshing and alluring.

I also really enjoyed how Russell changed up things a little with artwork and poetry. It was an unexpected break from the usual short stories, and one I liked very much. After reviewing Russell’s work over the past couple of days, I’ve come to know his work as truly unique. His writing is very abstract, sophisticated, and sensual, and I highly recommend Therapy Rapture!


My Dream of Madonna &
An Ecstatic Rendezvous


4/5 Stars

David Russell delivers two shorts which focus on dreams and fantasies. His first short is My Dream of Madonna. This title is super brief – only a few pages – and is as it describes – a dream of Madonna. Starting with a phone call from Madonna herself, our male is taken by Madonna’s bodyguards to an extravagant church and then led to a swimming pool where not only does he meet Madonna, but he ravishes her.

Russell did an excellent job recreating a dream state of mind. Dreams are often a series of images, experiences, and desires that collide and form random scenes that elude to our deepest wants. This was certainly the case with this short. Russell excelled in building the anticipation between our male and Madonna. And what I liked even more was when the pair finally made love, there were very few details about the sex. The context clues were prefect and very fitting of this story. It was very different, written in an unique fashion, and I personally liked it.

In An Ecstatic Rendezvous, our nameless male is described as a narcissist from the start with a perfect gym body to match. He is so into himself that he dresses up in 50′s style swimwear and poses in front of a mirror. He even strips his clothing off as he watches himself in the mirror. But eventually he tires of the solo performance and searches for a woman on his level, and meets Sandra.

Our protagonist is serious about role playing. Before meeting up with Sandra, he lets her in on his 50′s era fantasy and even coordinate outfits over the phone, right down to the ironed linen underwear. When they do meet, they role play like it is a real beach party scene from a 50′s movie, complete with a couple’s beauty contest.

Russell was not kidding when he said the protagonist was a narcissist. I found humor in the lengths he makes to play out his fantasy, both alone and with Sandra. Excellently written – this was very much an ecstatic rendezvous, and a short story worth reading!

David Russell

Sunday 11 December 2011

FAIR BORDER BRIDE

This is the cover for my  historical romance Fair Border Bride. It's been up on Kindle since mid-October, and though it is selling in the US, not much is moving via amazon UK. Now this could mean that everyone in the UK buys directly from Amazon.com - or it could mean that I've failed miserably to tell anyone in the UK that it exists! and I think this may well be true!                                                              When the story opens in the summer of 1543, Harry is setting off on his first mission for his father, the Deputy Warden of the English West March, and adopts the alias Harry Scott.  travelling through Northumberland, he meets Alina and follows her home to Aydon only to fall foul of a marauding band of border reivers intent on stealing cattle from Aydon. Things go from bad to worse when Alina's father threatens to kill Harry. Alina is horrified, and Harry escapes only because Matho Spirston, captain of the Aydon guards, decides to help him. Alina fears she will never see Harry again, and attempts to prepare herself to marry a well to do neighbour as her father wishes. But she can't forget him...

There's a book trailer  here 
and a link to some 5-star reviews here
and here's a short excerpt:

Alina’s father  flings Harry into the dungeon at Aydon Castle and threatens him with the Leap next day. Alina creeps out of her bed to visit Harry at midnight when the castle is quiet.
“Tell me,” he said, before he forgot all practical things in the delight of her presence. “Your father threatens me with something called the Leap. What is it?”
“She dipped her head, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. “It’s the ravine, Harry.” She pointed towards the dark bulk of the hall. “On the other side is a ravine. It is deep, with the Ay burn at the bottom. Father…he makes prisoners jump from the precipice outside the hall.”
“Ah.” He raised her knuckles to his mouth, and kissed them to dispel the shadowy presence of Death looming in the darkness behind him. He remembered looking into the ravine the night he rode up here. His tongue probed the cleft between her fingers. She gasped. Harry’s blood sang through his body, and he kissed her knuckles again. “How deep, do you think?”
“Twenty times the height of a man, they say.” She shivered and frowned as she watched him nuzzle her fingers. “There are rocks and trees…”
“And no one survives?”
Her face crumpled. “Oh, Harry, sometimes they do, but they are broken, twisted creatures—”
A deep voice sounded from above, and Alina flung up her head. “Matho, please!”
Matho must have agreed, for she turned back to Harry. Her hand had warmed in his and when he kissed it once more, her other hand snaked through the bars and stroked his face, crept to the back of his neck.
“Ah, Alina,” he murmured. “Would that we had no iron bars between us.”

His flesh hardened. If this was his last night on earth, he wanted some pleasure to beguile his thoughts. He reached both hands through the grill and drew her close against the iron bars and in truth she was not reluctant, even when his hand roamed beneath her cloak, caught a ribbon and her nightgown gaped from neck to waist. His palm found the firm weight and curve of her breast and nestled around it.”

Friday 9 December 2011

Gilli Allan - Why I am a writer

I can't recall exactly how old I was when I started to write my first 'novel', but it was round and about the age of ten. Already an avid reader, I was influenced by my older sister - then in her mid teens - who was attempting to write a Georgette Heyer style romance. At the time, it seemed to me a brilliant idea to write the book I wanted to read. It’s what I still do.
I never finished anything, I always ran out of steam (and plot). That first attempt was only a 2 or 3 pages long. I gave up writing altogether when I went to art school and I worked as an illustrator in advertising, with no thought of becoming a writer. I only began again, this time with the serious aim of being published, when I was married and at home with my young son. Just Before Dawn, the first novel I ever finished, was an unconventional love story. It was published in 1986. In my second book, Desires and Dreams, I completely subverted the ‘romance’ stereo-types. It was published in 1987.
It was the end of an era when publishing was a gentlemanly profession, with premises in the old parts of London - dark, dusty offices, up many flights of stairs, and those clanky old lifts with concertina metal doors. I was published during the years of the blockbuster novel. Authors like Judith Krantz, Daniele Steel, Barbara Taylor Bradford were writing brick-sized novels which sold in shed-loads. Suddenly publishing was ‘hot’. It became big business. The publishing men and women of the past, who’d been in the profession for love, were either eased out or sidelined. The real power moved to the money-men. What became important was not the writer, but the product - and, by extension, the bottom line. My own, small, independent publisher, Love Stories, ceased trading after a few years of battering its head against brick walls. It could not achieve the marketing, promotion or distribution necessary to win success for itself, or for its authors. Other than the book shop in my own home town, where I’d badgered the owner, I never saw either of my books in a book store.
So started the next phase of my life. I’d gone from thinking, rather complacently, that I was ‘a writer’, to feeling like a wannabe again. And, as the years passed and the rejections from literary agents piled up - because ‘they didn’t know how to market me’ - I yo yo ‘d from elation to despair. The world of publishing didn’t stay static either. If anything, as the economics of publishing shifted and profits were harder to come by, publishers became even more focused on the bottom line, even more determined to find the next Joanna Trollope or the next Katie Fforde or the next Sophie Kinsella. I felt that I was ploughing a lonely furrow. I didn’t want to be the next anyone. I wanted to be the first Gilli Allan.
So, at the beginning of 2011, having received yet another rejection for TORN, a book I really believed in, I decided I had reached the end of the road. I either needed to shelve the book once and for all, and in the process break my heart, or self-publish. God bless Amazon - Kindle.
And the really good news is that since going it alone I have signed a contract with the new e-publisher, Lysandra Press. My book, Life Class, is coming out in the new year.

Everyone loves Christmas ... don’t they?

I certainly do. It’s a serious event in our house. We are not religious, but I love the Christmas story, as well as all the traditions of sparkle, snow, carols, coloured lights and presents around the decorated trees, which have grown up around the celebration of Christmas. We enjoy it as the mid-winter pagan festival it once was, in these islands.
The perpetuation of tradition happens on a smaller scale, within families. I am well aware that the things I insist upon  ̶  the foil wrapped nugget of coal, alongside the nuts, chocolate money and Satsuma, in the toe of the stocking ̶ is not necessarily what anyone else does, it is simply a repetition of what happened in my family when I was a child. So there is a lot of sentiment in the attempt to recreate the Christmases of your own childhood  ̶  a need to sink back into that remembered warmth, excitement and security.
About the writing of TORN
It is always difficult trying to describe what and how you write. We English are famously inhibited and self-deprecating. And though I'm sure there are many exceptions to this rule, I am afraid it afflicts me profoundly. I find it hard to ‘big myself up’. But needs must.....
I write unconventional, unpredictable, unsentimental stories. So when I came to write TORN, which begins a few weeks before Christmas, there was no way it was going to be a warm and cosy evocation of this time of year.

TORN. It is a few weeks before Christmas....


....Coloured lights were strung in swags from lamp-post to lamp-post. Lights delineated the stone gables and studded the fir trees on shop front pediments. She smiled, enjoying the sting of the night air on her cheeks as she paused there, on the step of the Prince Rupert, to shrug on her coat. It had only been a few months, but the fact was undeniable. Already she’d begun to relax, begun to see the future with optimism, begun to feel safe – safer than in a long time.
She must bring Rory into town one evening soon. There were many childhood years ahead of him – plenty of time to make trips back to London for its bizarre cocktail of the gaudy and the glamorous. For the present, the simple Christmas decorations in this old market town would seem magical enough to him. His happiness and security were all important. It might just be the two of them from now on, and their pleasures might be simple, but life would be normal and safe; on that she was determined.

Without warning the lights jagged upwards, meteor tails zigzagging through the sky. The ground tipped. A jarring thud reverberated up her spine. At first she was too stunned by the heavy fall to understand what had happened. Then came the flush of embarrassment and self-blame. Why had she chosen to wear these stilt-heeled boots? Who on earth was she expecting to impress in this backwater? Already, in the split second since the world had tilted up and smacked her on the bottom, she sensed the damp chill of the stone flags seeping through her clothes, reaching her skin.
‘Get up! Fucking histrionic cow!’
Comprehension shocked through her in a sickening rush. Only then did she register the drag on her scalp, the whiplash pain in her neck. She tried to get up; the urgent need to retrieve her dignity overriding fear. But again he’d grabbed her hair and was hauling her up from the ground – her high heels slid and scrabbled to gain purchase on the slick surface.
‘Stop it! Stop pulling my hair you bastard!’
‘Then fucking get up, fucking c... bitch!’
‘You pulled me over!’
‘Balls! You throw yourself on the ground and scream blue murder as soon as anyone looks at you!’
Anyone? Did he really believe he was one of many falsely accused?
‘You’ve always been a drama queen.’
Why was she so surprised? Because until this moment she’d managed to convince herself she would be safe here, that he would rather pretend he didn’t care than add to the indignity by running after her. As time passed her confidence had grown, the tight, hard knots in shoulders and neck gradually loosening. Now, disillusion took over from surprise. Defeated fatigue weighted her limbs, fuddled her brain.
‘Why have you come here?’ she asked bleakly. ‘What do you want, Sean?’
‘You know! Don’t be fucking stupid as well as fucking deceitful and cowardly! No one runs out on me! I want you to come home! I want us to be a family again!’
‘And this is the best way to persuade me? To make me realise what a fool I’ve been? Chase me halfway across the country, then assault and abuse me in the street?’
‘You don’t know what abuse is! I’ve seen real abuse. Women with broken bones, ruptured organs....’
‘Exactly! Didn’t want to hang around till it got that bad. Anyway, we’ve never been a real family!’
His face darkened. ‘You’re a fucking spiteful slag! So bloody superior and sanctimonious! Always making out I’m worse than I am, that I’m not worthy of you and Rory ... like I’m some kind of bloody animal!’
You said it, she thought. Sheila had the right idea. Give them enough time and all men revealed themselves as pigs - though that was being offensive to pigs. She wondered where he’d sprung from. Had he discovered her address? Had he been following her? The pub was full; he could easily have been lurking in a corner behind the older regulars hugging the bar, or the gangs of boisterous, bragging youths and raucous girls in their Friday night finery. Though it wouldn’t have been easy to remain hidden amongst the group of ‘new-agers’ who’d colonised a bench table near the window behind them.
‘You’re the fucking animal!’ Sean continued. ‘You’re the slut! And the second you’re out of my sight, you’re out gallivanting, neglecting your precious son!’
‘Neglecting him? This is the first time I’ve been out in nearly three months! And it’s not like I’ve been clubbing all night! This is a pub. It’s barely ten o’clock. All I’ve drunk is a glass of wine and some tonic. I came out to have a drink with a woman friend and I’ve been no more than a couple of hours. Rory is perfectly fine. He’s with my neighbour. But she’ll be expecting me back by now. You’ve already made me late. I have to collect him....’
‘I’ll drive you,’ Sean interrupted.
‘No.’ Apart from anything else he was obviously unfit. ‘How do you think I got here? My car is….’
‘Then I’ll follow you.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘I’d like to say hi to Rory.’
‘What are you...? Stop! Stop it! The car park’s the other way!’
‘We’ll go and get my car.’ His tone had moderated but retained a hint of exasperation as if she were the one being unreasonable. ‘Drive to yours. Then I can follow you.’
At once she was convinced this was a ploy; he didn’t know where she lived. Perhaps he’d come to the town on a hunch, knowing she had nostalgic memories of the area. Or perhaps a friend had let slip that she’d spoken of looking for a place near Warford. If so it was a dismal coincidence he should run into her on her first evening out. But if he really didn’t have her address she was desperate to keep it that way.
‘No, it’s too late. Where are you staying? I’ll meet you tomorrow,’ she lied, attempting a more conciliatory tone, ‘....bring Rory. We can have coffee and a chat.’
‘Oh no! I’m not waiting till the morning!’ His grip tightened. ‘I know you, you’ll chicken out...!’
‘I won’t! I won’t!’ She tried to pull away, but he held on. He couldn’t really intend to force her to go with him, could he? A cold sweat prickled her skin. She began to feel panicky, feverish. The heavy pulse of blood throbbed loud in her head. A fumbling struggle began, hampered by layers of winter clothing. Fighting and elbowing, she finally slipped out of his grasp; he was left holding her unbuttoned coat. Her bag skidded over the wet paving stones. She staggered backwards towards the pub and picked up the bag. Even though it was new and expensive she didn’t care about the coat. Nothing mattered beyond the imperative to lose him and get home to her son, but Sean dropped the coat and was after her, yanking at her long hair again, winding it round his hand.
‘We’ll do it my way!’ He started to pull her along.
‘Stop it!’ Stooped and tottering on her ridiculous heels, she still resisted him. ‘Get off me, Sean!’ she squawked, dipping and twisting her head to relieve the drag on her scalp. Traffic swished by on the damp road; cars, then a van, then a juggernaut, then more cars. None of them slowed. People on the opposite pavement were momentarily interested. A male voice bellowed something incomprehensible, followed by a laugh. No one was concerned about drunken argy-bargy outside a pub. The voices dwindled.
A sudden babble came from inside the pub. Whoever had opened the door was likely to be similarly indulgent to a minor domestic dispute, but by now she was in real pain and the fear was growing. If she achieved nothing else it was worth trying to embarrass Sean in front of an audience. She screeched louder.
‘Stop it! You’re hurting me!’
‘Shut the fuck up, slag!’ Moments passed as she writhed and ducked, scrabbling at his fingers clamped around the twisted hank of hair. A man’s voice chipped in.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Butt out! None of your business!’
‘It is my business. I don’t like to see a lady assaulted in the street.’
‘A lady? You’re mistaken there, mate!’
She began to struggle even more desperately, in the hope Sean might be distracted enough to loosen his grip.
‘Anyway, the slag’s not being assaulted ... she’s my wife!’ The declaration was made with the total assurance of a man who expected the world to agree it was husband’s right to do whatever he liked to his spouse. At this moment she broke free and ran a few paces towards the other man.
‘I don’t care who she is, pal. It’s an abuse of power and it’s unciv’lised behaviour!’ Though taller than Sean, her unexpected champion did not have his muscled bulk, and judging by his style of dress and knitted hat, he was a lot younger. She wouldn’t have given odds in his favour if this confrontation came to a fight.
‘Uncivilised!’ Sean spluttered. ‘You accuse me of being uncivilised! Look at you! You’re a fucking tramp!’
‘Call me what you like, but if you don’t leave the lady alone I’ll get the landlord,’ he tipped his head towards the pub, ‘to phone the police!’
Sean began to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, son. I am the police. And if you’re not careful I’ll arrest you for breach of the peace and threatening behaviour.’
At this the other man seemed to consider. ‘You’ll show me your warrant card then?’
‘I’m off duty,’ Sean improvised. And way outside your jurisdiction, she thought.
‘So, I’ll get him to call them anyway, then, shall I, Mister Policeman? You can explain why you were dragging your ... er wife? ... along the street by her hair.’
She could have kissed him. He even seemed to doubt Sean’s claim to be her husband. The rest of the ‘new-age’ group were gradually piling out onto the forecourt, and gathering around the first man in unspoken support. Though Sean continued to bluster he was now sounding less sure of his ground.
‘Are you coming with me or not, Jess?’ he eventually asked, as if by now she should somehow have been convinced she would be better off with him.
‘What part of go away don’t you understand? Get lost! It’s over!’
Sean took a few accelerating steps towards her, anger and frustration flared in his face. There was movement behind her, a murmur of resistance. He stopped an arm’s length away and spat out, ‘You’re such a fucking bitch!’
‘If that’s what you think why do you want me to come back?’
‘We’re a couple!’
‘Oh yes. Where one steals from the other?’
‘I borrowed it! I was going to pay it back!’
‘In your dreams! I’m not coming back with you, Sean. We’re not married! I don’t want to be married ... and certainly not to you!’
‘Bitch!’
‘And if I have any more of this harassment I’ll get a court order. Your employers would like that?’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ His finger jabbed at her repeatedly. The last aggressive poke thudded bluntly into the top of her breastbone. ‘Who’d believe you?’
She pushed his hand away. ‘I didn’t believe Gaynor. But I’ve got her address and number. If we’re both singing from the same hymn sheet it’ll be harder to dismiss!’
‘The girls would gang up on me, eh?’ he sneered, grabbing at her wrist. He darted quick looks at the eccentric audience, caution mixed with bravado, as if he yet hoped to persuade them he was in the right. She tried to pull her hand out of his grasp.
‘If we have to. Let go of me Sean!’
The group moved closer. The rumble of dissenting voices grew louder. As if suddenly aware of his vulnerability Sean looked around at the oddball band of individuals. There could be no doubt now whose side they were on. The man in the woolly hat moved closer, reached forward. Sean reared back, shoulder raised as if to strike. But the first man’s gesture was placatory.
‘You’re not hearing the lady, pal. Why give yourself all this grief? Force never solved anything. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to go with you.’
Sean let go of her wrist, flailed wildly at the man, knocking his hand away as if disgusted by his touch.
‘What do you know about it?’ he roared. ‘It was me rescued her! Picked her up and stood by her when she was in trouble!’
‘And I’m bloody tired of having to be grateful, Sean!’ Jess interrupted. ‘I’m tired of being pressured to go back to work. Tired of being shouted at or slapped whenever you feel frustrated. And I’m tired of you bullying Rory!’
‘Bullying? He needs discipline. You seem determined to turn him into a wimp. Well, don’t come running to me, darling, next time your life goes belly up!’ He glanced round at the others. ‘I should have realised you’d have found yourself another man ... men, by now. Don’t think much of your choice. You must be desperate! I’ll give it six months before you come running back.…’
‘It’s not up for negotiation, Sean.’
‘Even if you don’t want me, you’ll never hack it here! You’ll never be able to stay away from London. Impossible! You? Keep away from the shops? I’d like to see it.’
‘I no longer want that life.’
‘Then stay with your posse of weirdo friends. See how long you last! And don’t worry about harassment! I’m not coming here again. I’m not begging! You’re welcome to this fucking half-arsed town! Go to fucking hell, Jessica!’Sean stooped to pick up her coat and flung it towards her contemptuously. It landed on the ground near the young man; he stooped to pick it up.
Sean’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d just better be hot stuff in bed, son, if you’ve a prayer of keeping that bitch interested,’ he said, before slouching bullishly up the road, stopping just once to glare at the people clustered protectively around her.