That's right, you heard correctly. I let it go free, all home on the range, for a while.
Come check it out!
Explicit Country Boy Hotness! You've been warned!
Rusty never dreamed he'd be tempted to break from the humdrum day life of working pastures and nighttime rush of riding bulls. Never again.
Office manager of the Coalside Ranch, Darlene had been burned by men—the danger addicts, the adrenaline junkies; so much so that she barely got over the last one. It was stupid to fall in love with men who had a passion for danger. So why couldn’t she stop herself from daydreaming about the cowboy who lingered in her office?
When a night of riding bulls brings lusts to the forefront—can they pull away before they lose it all to temptation? Or will desires trump fears?
Only two things are for sure:
Cowboys are meant to ride...and be ridden.
I thought I'd share a little love with some authors I see on Amazon. Share the love. :)
FROM #1 INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR SIERRA CARTWRIGHT
‘A hot exciting read and quite the page-turner’ ~ The Jeep Diva
‘Flawless, classy and evocative’ ~ Totally Booked Reviews
‘As in all of Ms. Cartwright’s novels, the BDSM scenes and sex are extraordinary, but there is more. The author not only sucked me into the BDSM lifestyle once more, she sucked me into a new world: the world of Sarah and Reece, of luxury and decadence, of heartbreak and love.’ ~ Long and Short Reviews
Book one in the Bonds series.
She still craved him… The sight of a collar in her boyfriend’s drawer had stunned Sarah. Panicking, she had fled. But no other man has ever been his equal.
Two years ago, the woman he’d hoped to collar and marry disappeared. So Reece McRae is stunned to find his former girlfriend on her knees, behaving as the submissive he’d always wanted.
Is it too late? He should refuse her, but an undeniable sexual attraction consumes him.
Sarah had been under Reece’s spell from the moment she met him. When she found a steel collar in his drawer, she panicked. The idea of a lifetime of his relentless demands, sensual and otherwise, suffocated her.
In the years they’ve been apart, she hasn’t met his equal. Now, convinced one last night will vanquish his memory, she sets out to seduce him.
The Reece she returns to is even more determined to have his way. Is she now strong enough, brave enough, to surrender to his love?
I love the names of my romances so far. So why would I want to change that?
Because there's something fun about writing a title that's completely ridiculous. I love getting my friends involved, mostly because they're awesome and have a keen insight on dirty names.
Have I mentioned how I love my friends? What would your dirty book title be called?
I took a nap, but I still feel whiny.
Consider me a possum. I need a friend to pick me up, hold me with a pair of thick gloves while I kick and scratch and bite, until I tire myself out, feed me a cheese doodle, and maybe pet my forehead before letting me back into the writerly wild.
There's so much I need to do to help promote my works. You know, get them out there in the world. Let people know they're there. You know it, right? Who told you? Don't ignore me, answer the question!
Sigh. Well, I've made my attempt at promoting tonight. Look. I'll even put a pic here right at the bottom, sort of sneaky like. Didn't even know it was there, did you? Go ahead. Click the pic. It's a link. That's right, I'm a promoting ninja like that.
Possum ninja. That's right. What every writer must attempt to be.
There are lullabies on the wind
Laying in it's mournful howl,
In the flap of swallow's wings
And the cricket's sound.
You can hear this pagan melody,
At the last crux of the light,
See it falling gold as amber
Bleeding red and leaving night.
And look at all those distant suns,
Which ones have gone to sleep?
And are there some, that've just begun
Which just now I can't see?
Oh, hear the mournful gallows,
As the wind cuts down the leaves
And they crunch and crumple to the earth,
Preparing for the freeze.
Silver threads, reflected sun, shadows carving deep,
My lovely from the moon to tide,
And the suns far gazing reach,
The wind holds on to all of it.
Darling, listen to the breeze.
I don't know that we ever get over being scared of writing. I've been writing for a long time, and I'm still scared.
Some of my fears are rational (makes them even scarier), and some aren't, like an urban myth someone whispered to you long ago at a campfire, and you don't really want to tell anyone that it still scares you.
There are some fears like wanting it to be as perfect as you can get it, hoping readers like it, hoping you didn't miss anything important, hoping you have the imaginary fuel to complete the story with some amount of inspiration, rather than running out on the third page. Some writer's think that's silly. Some don't.
Then there's that one fear, that you won't make interesting stories. Or that you'll run out of ideas. That's the urban myth that keeps staring at the pen and page trying to make words fit, even when you're blocked, just so you have proof that it won't last forever, that whatever modicum of talent you felt, that others seemed to see, isn't gone forever.
And sometimes those fears come together all at once. Like now, when I've so many stories in my head and I'm afraid I won't finish them all. Like now, when I want to hurry up and write them all at once while I'm still inspired before the block hits that makes me feel relatively useless. Like now, when I want to go to a friend and tell them all of my fears and have them make me believe that I can do what it feels almost impossible to do.
Sometimes it puts the fear at bay. Sometimes the fear just lingers while you do what it feels impossible to do. And you do it scared.
I've got some really good intentions. Honest. I plan to do lots of things. I mean, not plan enough to, you know, actually make a plan, but loosely. Like, maybe I'll clean those ceiling fans today. And the intentions are really very good, but hen I get wrapped up in the other things and whoosh! there goes the day.
I should become a better planner. Make a list or something.
Yeah, I can do that. Maybe later.
Ooo! Look! Something shiny!
The chicken's defrosting in the pan and Gunsmoke is playing out black and white across the TV screen. (I so love how tall Matt Dillon is. He'd make a really big target, but I imagine not very fun to tussle with.)
And in the middle of figuring what to write next. Not that I don't have an idea. I know what I want to write. More like how to get is started. Like picking the end piece of tape. If you get it done right, it unrolls perfectly. If you force it, you'll end up losing half the tape.
So that's what I'm doing. Trying to edge a portion of my nail under the of the tape and get it started. Wish me luck.
There's so much time between thinking about a book and the actual time taken to sit down and write it. And yes, you'll find so many things about how writing is a job and to do it even when you don't feel like it, if you want to be an actual working author and whole lot more of blow it out your ass.
There's quite the difference between writing when you're inspired and writing when you're eyes are tired, your head's killing you, and you've drank about as much coffee as your stomach can stand. It makes the difference when you're writing the book, to how you feel about writing it.
So, right now, I'm in that time where I sit on the floor and contemplate how to move forward. I've got all of the things I need to contemplate my story. And right now, it's brownie time.
What even is that anymore? Have we lost it? Is it something we made up and it just never caught on? Did we have it and lose it? Seriously, where is it?
I don't know what it is. Do we find me time when we're cleaning? Or when I'm lost in the zone writing, is that me time? What about when the TV is turned on and we're half-watching it, half-worrying about things like bills and whether we're working hard enough to get where we want to be. Is that me time? What is it? Where does it reside? And can I please find some?
Madam La Zuray
Hello, darlings, I'm Madam La Zuray, author of dirty books you can't help but fall in love with. I bring the hot and the dirty and everything in between, all in a read you can swallow on your lunch hour. No sense in messing around with perfection.