A Few Observations on My Authorversary

CoverI always like to start my blog posts off by coming up with the title, but I had trouble coming up with something suitable for today’s post and that, in and of itself, is disconcerting. In other words, sorry for the lame title. 😉

So, where should I start?

Well, today is my authorversary. On April 29 of last year, I published my first novel, Doctor’s Orders, and Jaye Elise was born. At that point, I still hadn’t told my husband that I was a published author and I already had another book in the pipeline. All in all, it’s been an exciting year! Three solo novels published, three more with my amazing co-author, Jack Crosby, and a short story in a Christmas anthology…not too shabby. And this doesn’t even include the Wicked Daddy-inspired stories I’ve been posting! 😉

I’ve made some amazing friends over the past year as well, including you, dear readers! A few who readily come to mind are the aforementioned Jack (bacon lover and cheerleader extraordinaire!), Katie Douglas, Wicked Daddy, Gracie Malling, Marlee Wray, Philip Mitchell Stein, Ruth Storm, J.B. Crown, Seanna Cullen…and the list could keep growing! What a pleasure it is to learn, grow, and share ideas with you all!

It’s a bittersweet day, though, and there’s really no hiding that fact. Without overdramatizing my situation, I wouldn’t call what I’m going through right now “writer’s block”…it’s more like “writer’s paralysis”. I’ve bought loads of my friends’ publications and have them ready to go on my iPad…but I can’t bear to read them. I’ve got four or five novels in various stages of development…but I can’t even open the documents to see what a shambles they are. I’ve got suggestions, support, and recommendations about moving forward coming in from all across my network (thank you, by the way)…but it’s falling on deaf ears.

I haven’t written—really written—in months.

I’ll be the first one to tell you I’m not a creative type. I don’t obsess about my “craft” because I don’t have a craft to obsess about. It’s simple. I like smut. And I like writing quality smut that resonates with people. I’m pretty sure I’ve done that.

At some point, I’m sure I’ll do it again.

Now is not that point.

Broken Woman

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Book Release: Hostile Spankover!

Hostile Spankover - CoverSo, my newest release with Jack Crosby—Hostile Spankover!answers the question, “What happens when a couple of authors with similar (somewhat juvenile) senses of humor and a shared love for erotica and the movie Die Hard dare each other to write the craziest, most outlandish smut novel in the history of ever?”

I mean, we’ve all asked that question. Right??

Simply put, Jack and I were on a crazy writing spree at the end of last year. Punch drunk from late nights spent writing and a few too many bacon benders, we started talking about how most erotica seemed to take itself too seriously. But what about those readers who love a nice one-handed read and who also enjoy some serious laughs with their naughtiness?

On that fateful day, Hostile Spankover! was born. For those of you who may be used to our other collaborations—Rules of the Wild and Running Wild—please note that Hostile Spankover! is a major departure from our typical style. This one isn’t for everyone. And we’re cool with that.

You’ve been warned. 😉

Please enjoy this blurb and an excerpt from the ballsiest smut novel you’ll ever lay your hands on!

I give you….Hostile Spankover!


Bond. Bourne. McClane. Stryker?

Special Agent Gabriel Stryker has a penchant for packing heat, thwarting his enemies, and dropping awful puns. And not necessarily in that order. When an international weapons dealer sets his sights on pulling a major job in New York City on New Year’s Eve, it’s up to Stryker to get to the bottom of his nefarious plan before the clock strykes zero.

With the help of his not-so-ex-girlfriend and intrepid, acid-tongued reporter, Vikki Phoenix, Stryker will need to call on every last bit of awesomeness–and the occasional spanking–to keep Vikki on the straight and narrow and out of harm’s way. Get in on the action as the FBI, the CIA, and a host of the wildest characters ever to grace the pages of a one-handed read join forces to maintain law and order in a city on the verge of going to hell in a hand basket.

To make a long story short, this ain’t your typical “wink wink” read. Consider yourself warned.

Publisher’s Note: This book contains terrible puns, two ridiculous main characters who totally deserve each other, a lot of the hot n’ heavies, and a poor soul whose name is not Manny but that’s tragically what we’ll all remember him by. Reader discretion is advised.

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Excerpt:

Back at the station, I scrolled through all the police reports and the articles the major papers had released over the past day about the incident at the café. Most of what I found were weak-ass regurgitations of the same story I’d scooped not even eighteen hours ago.

The sketchy details remained the same. Apparent contract hit. Eurotrash dipshits of unknown origins. Both presumably shot and killed by the very targets they’d been sent to kill. A shitload of glass and freaked out customers left in the wake of the incident. And, if I’d really seen what I thought I saw while on site, what was Stryker doing there? And what was I going to do about it if it was him?

But first things first…

Work the problem, Vik. Trace it back and work it, I talked myself up, taking a sip of the mud in a mug that the station insisted was coffee. Wincing after witnessing the parting of the oil slick resting atop the viscous liquid, I swallowed the vile brew and ran my fingers through my hair. The adrenaline I’d been coasting on had long since waned and I just needed a solid hit of caffeine to jolt me back into action.

Christ, what I wouldn’t give for some nice imported Ethiopian or Costa Rican beans. Hell, I’d even drink that fancy Asian cat shit coffee right about now.

Holy hell. Wait a second. That’s the angle I needed to pursue. These guys weren’t from the States and they would’ve had to come through border control at some point.  Snagging my phone, I ran through my contacts until I found the name I was looking for. J. Jeffrey – Immigration and Customs.

Girding my loins and gearing up for the performance of my life, I dialed him. The phone barely rang once before he picked up.

“H-hello? Vikki? Is that you?” If I didn’t know we were the exact same age—we’d graduated from high school in the same class—based on the cracking in his voice, I would’ve pegged Jeffrey as a pubescent teenager.

“Oh, Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey…” The worst part of my opening gambit was that repeating his name oh-so-seductively wasn’t a rhetorical ploy. The poor son of bitch was actually named Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey. Needless to say, his parents were total dicks. “Yeah, it’s me, buddy. Long time, no talk to, huh?”

“Um, yeah, Vikki. So, what do you need this time?” The best part about Jeff Cubed was that he knew when to get down to brass tacks. The only possible reason I’d be calling him would be to pump him for information, so why beat around the bush with the whole “what’ve you been up to lately” crap?

“You hear about the guys who got popped at that café in Midtown yesterday? They’re not from the States and I was hoping you might be able to work some of your magic to see if we could get some identifications on them?”

“Oh, yeah. I saw your report on the news last night…you looked great, by the way,” he murmured, the breath catching nervously in his throat.

“Aw, thanks, Jeff. So,” I refocused on the task at hand, “think you might be able to get me something on these guys?”

“Um, yeah. Sure. I can try. Are you, uh, are you still offering the same, uh, deal as before?”

“Oh, Jeffrey, aren’t you the naughty one? If it works for you, it works for me, big guy.” Pro tip: it never hurt to call a man who barely measured up to your chin “big guy.” First off, it was sure to grease the wheels and get a faster response. Plus, based on some high school rumors, apparently our dark horse Mister Thrice Jeffrey was packing some heat in those off-brand polyester slacks of his.

“Yeah, give me a few and let me see what I can dig up for you. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?”

“Sounds great, Jeff. And thanks. Thanks a lot,” I replied, my tone finally indicating my gratefulness to my old classmate.

After hanging up, I had a little time to kill and nobody to put on blast for the moment. Given how exhausted I was, a few minutes strolling down memory lane couldn’t hurt, right? I popped open the cache of photos on my phone and thumbed through until I got to a batch from a few years back. And there he was.

Gabriel Stryker, in all his drool-worthy glory. I might’ve been the sexy darling of nighttime news in this city, but Gabe was the gritty, ripped, hot-as-shit god of sex that kept this darling in line. We were one of those couples that was so goddamned good-looking, we would probably have been doomed to have the world’s ugliest kids, just on principle.

Even though the memories hurt—nobody liked getting spurned for a badge—it didn’t mean I couldn’t be self-indulgent for a moment. And Christ, was he decadence itself. Gabe wrapping his arms around me from behind. Kissing my neck as I took a selfie. Running his bearded chin along my temple as we skated at Rockefeller Center. Sipping champagne together at dozens of brunches and dinners. Screwing my brains out in an ill-advised, blurry, naked action shot.

Reckless or not, I was glad I hadn’t deleted that last one. It was all the proof I needed that what we’d had was real. And that there was a time when there was a man in my life strong enough to take me in hand and make me his. To burn me to the ground with the intensity of his love and to help me rise up from the ashes.

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Sparing the Rod…or Not: A Wicked Daddy-Inspired Story

Seductive MouthHello all!

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a naughty little story about one of Wicked Daddy‘s glass training rods. My dear friend WD had been feeling under the weather and I was convinced that a bit of smut was the best medicine! He’s on the mend now, so it must’ve worked, right?? 😉

But, as it turns out, one story wasn’t nearly enough to cover such a delightful, versatile set of toys. Soooo….in other words, I couldn’t stop thinking about them and just had to get this titillating tale down so I could share it with all of you!

I do hope you enjoy this one. And while it’s not intrinsically linked to the first story (nor are they the same characters), due to the shift in point of view (sub v. Dom), I think you may find it fun to read both together. 😉

Enjoy and happy reading! 🙂


When he’d placed the five rods on the bed earlier in the day, fanning them out across a towel in all their glory, his goal was to create a visual display to reinforce her submission. The narrowest of the implements, the #1, was about an inch across—not overly intimidating for his adventurous baby girl—but the largest of the set was nearly two inches wide and was guaranteed to elicit a visceral reaction from her.

He had no intention of using #5 on her—not quite yet—but its very presence during her training would keep her mindful of the limits to which he could and would stretch her. This presentation was the final mental gambit designed to bring her to her knees and to willingly offer up the dark treasure of her gorgeous ass for his use.

While he could’ve commanded her to submit to training whenever and however he wished, the delayed gratification was proving to be a strong aphrodisiac. The thought of her begging him to stretch her ass—to fill her with his cock—was a stimulus that never failed to get him hard, day after wonderfully agonizing day. And by continually denying her requests to begin her anal training in earnest, he was stoking a need in her that would pay dividends once he started her on the path.

He’d been planting ideas in her fertile mind for the past month, sinking his finger into her tight bottom as he’d fucked her mind into a place beyond temptation. Her deep seated need to be fully claimed gradually became apparent in the plaintive mewls and grunts that escaped her lips as he slowly, methodically teased and stretched her tight passage. All the while, he listened to and absorbed the chorus of her desire with rapt attention, becoming the maestro of her darkest fantasies.

Months ago, she’d come to him with mixed emotions about anal penetration, equal amounts of fear and curiosity wrestling with each other in her sharp mind. She’d been hurt before and wasn’t eager for a repeat of the painful, unprepared experience. Once bitten, twice shy, it was therefore tasked to him to divest her of her prior experiences in order to imprint himself on her body in the most fulfilling and all-consuming way possible. The undertaking was one of the most challenging and delicate he’d ever assumed.

And she was worth it.

Her time had come.

“Join me, little one. Up on the bed and present.” He called her in from the living room where he’d left her, nude and squirming, to contemplate the fate that awaited her. Ravenous anticipation hung in the air, thick and syrupy, as a barely audible squeak slipped from her trembling lips. His cock twitched, noting the momentary pause as she approached the bed, saw the tools he’d set out for her, and got into position.

Her bold bravery blended with the tiniest traces of trepidation at what was to come and he savored every delicious moment of her predicament. As a dominant, these were the moments he lived for, the ones he most cherished, the ones he stored away and recalled during moments of solitude.

As she took up position on the bed—knees spread wide apart, bottom low, and with her hands spreading her cheeks apart for his inspection—he noted goose bumps erupting across her forearms and pert ass. Despite keeping the room warm for her comfort, the central heating was no match for her nerves and it seemed as though her overactive imagination was beginning to kick into high gear. It was his cue to intervene.

“Shh. Calm now, my little one,” he purred, trailing a hand across her exposed hip and squeezing her cheek possessively. “You’re quite nervous about your training, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” she mumbled into the sheets, respectful as always.

“But yet you also want this, need this, crave this, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” she admitted, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding since she’d taken up position on the bed.

“Then you shall have it, little one.” He took the opportunity to grab the corner of the towel and slide the rods toward the edge of the bed, just out of her line of sight. Screwing the lid off the jar of coconut oil he’d left on the nightstand, he continued to delve into the hazy headspace he’d been cultivating.

“Does my little one think she can take the biggest rod in her tight little ass by the time I’m done with her tonight?” Although he knew his question to be rhetorical, he wanted to jolt her into the proper frame of mind, to get her beyond her fears, to reassure her that she was his most precious possession and that he would never harm her. But first, he needed her complete submission.

She didn’t keep him waiting.

“If Daddy thinks I can take it, I will take it.”

“That’s my good girl,” he whispered, stroking her lower back with one hand while he grabbed the #2 rod and twisted it into the oil jar. “Well, Daddy’s going to start with the smallest and then see how far we can go tonight, little one.”

It was a white lie, but one that suited his goals nicely by bolstering her resolve and eventually instilling her with a sense of pride once he revealed to her what he’d done. If he ever did.

A devilish smirk curled its way across his lips as he used the very tip of the smooth rod to swirl and melt the oil around her tight ring. “You know, funny enough, I’ve always framed this as Daddy training his baby girl’s ass,” he explained as he dipped an inch of the rod inside her and held still, “but the truth of the matter is that, at least for now, you’re going to be training your own ass to please your Daddy.”

Her body tensed with uncertainty, her taut bud clenching around the thick toy he’d teased inside her. He didn’t leave her waiting long for an explanation.

“I’m going to hold the rod in place and you’re going to fuck it for me. You’re going to fuck it as long, as hard, and as deep as you can take it. And you’re going to make your Daddy proud, aren’t you, little one?”

Even as she nodded, breathing a rasped yes, Sir and not bothering to disguise her trademark enthusiasm, she began to slide her hips backward. As her snug asshole swallowed the first few inches of the rod, a low moan escaped her lips and a single dewdrop of her arousal trailed its way down her inner thigh.

Though they were just beginning the journey together, he’d already come to the realization that his little one would learn to savor the unique pleasures of truly sublime anal play. And, if her first confident strokes were any indication of her devotion to him and his tutelage, she would never disappoint him.

Looking down at the other rods splayed out alongside his little one, he cautiously eyed #5 and wondered…wondered if he might be able to test the strength of her conviction.

The night was young. She was perfection itself. And she was all his.


Glass Rods, 1