Monday, May 02, 2011

Publication news! DREAM LOVER is out.

Dream Lover: Paranormal Tales of Erotic Romance is now out! This gorgeous book of short stories is edited by the awesome Kristina Wright and pubished by Cleis Press. It contains my rather dark and gothic tale, Where the Heart is, which was inspired by the moors near where I live in Yorkshire.

Supernaturally sensual and captivating, Dream Lover is a feast of fanciful delights. Kristina Wright, editor of the popular Fairy Tale Lust presents a potent potion of fun and sexy tales filled with male fairies and clairvoyant scientists, as well as darkly erotica tales of ghosts, shapeshifters and possession. Dream Lover asks the reader to explore the realm of the otherworldly and answer the question... who is your dream lover?

Now available from book shops and online retailers such as It should also be at Amazon UK any day now.

Here's an excerpt from my story!

Raw fear hit her. She was out on the moor and dusk was fast turning into night. The folklore witches were probably the least of her worries. Who knew what madmen were out here? Never mind the UFOs, more recent reports of big, wild cats preying on the local farms had hit the news. The tradition of the dark moor had called to her regardless, that fatal attraction of fear and desire latching her to the place, beckoning to her relentlessly. It was no one’s fault but her own, whatever happened. Hot, futile tears stung the back of her eyes.

She’d strayed from the path. It felt significant.

The sound of footsteps focused her. She recalled the sound from earlier.

“Hello?” It was a feeble effort that caught in her throat.

A dark shape blocked out the remaining light—a figure looking down at her. It made her think of the local TV news, a man scared witless by what he thought was a big cat, an escaped panther, a few weeks back. Was she going to find out why he’d been so afraid? Friend or foe? That’s what they called out during the war. Halt, who goes there, halt, friend or foe? As if any fool would say “Foe,” and get shot on the spot. So she didn’t ask if it was friend or foe, she just hoped, and prayed to a god she didn’t believe in.

The figure moved across her line of vision, squatted and leapt—on all fours. She gulped for oxygen, her heart hitting panic rate, her mouth drying. It thudded down into the ditch, the dark shape moving toward her, but as it did, light spilled behind it, haloing it. Moonlight—had she been out that long?

“Please, don’t hurt me.” Her voice was barely audible.

The creature, whatever it was, started to move towards her leg, where it was hurting so badly. Oh, Christ. She could feel it touching her, moving against her, nudging up the torn fabric of her combat pants. She writhed when she felt the flap of torn fabric lifting and then the rasp of a hot, damp tongue over her sensitized flesh, broad and wet.

Healing you now.

The words shot through her mind as her hands grasped at the earth. When she tried to rise up the creature moved, swift and sure, and began to run his nose along the length of her leg, toward her groin, like a wild animal in heat. Vulnerability and humiliation suffused her. Every nerve ending was wired, her blood rushing. She had to do something. She lifted up on her elbows and as she did, she came face to face with him.

He — undeniably he — was feral, wild as the moor itself, but she recognized him as the man she had dreamed about. He was strong and he had her held down, his body squatting over her, as fit and feral as a big wild cat, pure feline. His eyes were black, his hair long and unkempt shrouded his face, his clothing covered in a long cloak making his shape indistinct. He cocked his head on one side, and opened his mouth, breathing in her scent across his tongue, audibly rasping it in. Never had she felt so much the object of someone’s attention. Someone, or something. His face, to all intents and purposes was human, and yet…

“Edgar?” The question came out of somewhere deep inside her, and she reached out and stroked his head, instinct driving her.

His head lifted and he nodded at her. That simple sign sent relief flooding through her. His eyes were glistening with some secret inner power. The spirit of the moor? The suggestion whispered around her mind. Was he the truth behind the big cat reports, this feral, half-man creature?

A sense of calm descended on her, briefly. “You are Edgar, and you are in my dreams.”

He growled low in his throat, his hands clutching at her arms, as if pleading for her recognition. Then his head dropped back, and she saw his handsome face in the moonlight. His lips lifted back and he bared his teeth.

When she saw the fangs, her blood pressure dropped away into nothing. She was jolted back again barely moments later, because he hauled her body over his shoulder and lifted her. He moved fast, scrabbling out of the ditch with her body easily latched over his shoulder.

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