Follow Allie By E-Mail

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Wanna hear the truth about Mr. Jones?

Get ready for Cerise Deland's wild, wicked & wonderful new release, Me and Mr. Jones. It's really starting to heat up. Now find out why...

What woman wouldn’t crave an annual erotic, exotic rendezvous?
With a demanding lover who’s proven over and over again that he’s as scintillating and devoted in bed as out, Corin Campbell tears open her instructions for her yearly tryst with her insatiable Mr. Jones. Eager to experience what heart-pounding excitements Mr. Jones has created for them both this year in Paris, Corin knows that the Chinese love balls, her leather outfit, the masseur, the caviar and the five exhibitionists are only prelude to hours of intoxicating delight in Jones’s arms. What can he teach her this year about the enduring charm of his loving and the delights only he can summon from her?

Dear Reader, This weekend in Paris offers nibbles of exhibitionism, BDSM, M/F and M/F/M/F/M. C’est bon!

Buy link: ME AND MR. JONES ~

But when she told the desk clerk she was here to join Mister Jones, he nodded politely as if he understood the nature of her appearance here. He must, she assumed, because he did not ask for her passport or any other identification, as most hotels did for security. Mister Jones, Corin concluded once more, had done a marvelous job of preparing the receptionist staff for her arrival.
Mademoiselle, s’il vous plait, please follow this gentleman to your room.”
Grateful and eager as a cat now, she walked to the elevators and rode up in the gilded little cage to the designated floor. Would Mister Jones be here? Would she have to wait much longer to see him? Have him kiss her? Caress her? Tell her how he’d missed her?
Mademoiselle?” the bellboy drew her attention as the doors swished open. Then, he led her down the corridor. At the end, he unlocked the door, deposited her luggage in a large closet to one side of the expansive foyer and led her to the sitting room. In the middle of the floor, he stopped short. She stood to one side of him, her nipples beading, her pussy swimming in fresh cream, her heart pounding.
“Is there anything else I may do for you, Monsieur?” he asked the man seated in the far corner in a large red velvet chair.
“No, thank you, you may leave,” said the rakish blond creature, yet his green gaze absorbed only her.
Long delicious moments passed as the bellboy left and the man in the chair took in her appearance from the tips of her black suede knee-high boots to the long black river of her hair, her pouting mouth and her eyes.
“You stun me,” he told her in that bass voice that rubbed her nipples raw with need each time he spoke so soft and low.
“As do you. Your instructions have been irritating, darling.”
One side of his mouth drifted up. “Is that all?”
“Never all.”
“Tell me then.” He threaded his fingers together, twiddling his thumbs. Self-satisfied bastard.
“Demanding.” She took a step forward. “Exciting. Inventive.”
“You were surprised?”
“I was.”
He nodded, his ash blond hair catching rays of the afternoon sun, his crisp white dress shirt brilliant in the lush décor of whites, black and regal red. “I am gratified.”
“Would you care to be more gratified?”
In assent, the other side of his mouth hitched up. Here was her Mister Jones with the grin that he wore only for her. The full appreciation of life that destroyed the stern-faced businessman and brought forth her lover. Corin’s Lover, he called himself on these rendezvous when he did not refer to himself as simply Jones.
 She spun in a three-sixty to view their surroundings. The sitting room was sumptuous, even more so than the spa she’d left minutes before. The bedroom, she could see at one side, lay beyond. And the edge of a huge mattress beckoned. But she knew she could not, would not spoil their fun by running in and throwing herself on it. Mister Jones had worked so long to create this year’s rendezvous, she couldn’t simply tear her clothes off and beg him to fuck her.  She would be a good girl, go along for the anticipation of fulfillment.
She strolled forward, a slow seductive roll of her hips, her pussy gushing in more cream at the sight of him. Her nipples hard with need at the mere hope he might soon lick her and suck her there. When she drew near him, she nudged his knees apart with one of her own and stood between his legs. Here she could inhale his citrusy cologne, the one he wore now always, the one she had had privately blended for him two summers ago when she went to Grasse in the south of France on a site research trip for a film that had failed to green light. The fragrance of the lime and cedar on his skin had her swallowing hard in need. Yet, she did not touch him. Not yet.
“What would you like first?” she asked him, her voice failing her because her desire for him was so palpable. This was his weekend, his commands ordered the events. “Shall I open the last envelope?”
“That is for much later, cherie.”
“What then?” She leaned over, drawing near to his wide slashing mouth and the temptation she always yearned to taste first and often. “Shall I kiss you?”
“Remove your street clothes,” he told her in a hush.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Trinity's here!

Oh yes finally Trinity's story is here. Just wait until you see what those wild women of Club Botticelli have done now.

Teasing Trinity by Allie Standifer now available from Total E-bound Publishing. Get your copy today!
Book four in the Club Botticelli Series

Some mistakes can never be forgotten, especially when they turn up looking hotter and sexier than ever.
Last year Trinity made a mistake. She had one night filled with the best sex of her life. In the morning he was gone. Gone as in left the country gone.
Hunt ran from the best thing he’d ever had, but now he’s tired of running and denying the woman who haunts his every thought. Time to play dirty.
Trinity wakes up in another country, alone on a desert island except for the one man she can’t forget or forgive.
There’s a long way to go before Hunt can get the woman of his dreams back in his arms, but the more she balks the less he can resist Teasing Trinity.
Reader Advisory:Beware this book contains a pissed-off kidnapped clothing designer, one sneaky hot doctor and an island paradise where everything is possible. This book contains fun D/s, bondage, naughty words and sand in some very uncomfortable places.
By reading any further, you are stating that you are 18 years of age, or over.
If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
Copyright © Allie Standifer, 2011
All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Total-E-Bound.

Excerpt From: Teasing Trinity
Somewhere in her brain Trinity Mailer knew something was wrong or at least not very right, but the comforting sound of her friends’ voices kept her from worrying. She floated around in her own head, not able to open her eyes or move her limbs, but her ears worked perfectly.
“She’s almost drooling,” Olivia whispered right near her ear.
“Well, shit. How much of that stuff did you give her, Recee?” Sweet Emma’s concerned tone almost made Trinity worry, but even that temporary feeling faded away.
Drifting in a cloud of medicated bliss she moved along, barely conscious of the strong male arms that carried her protectively pressed to his chest.
“Hell will have a new location once she wakes up, Hunt. I, for one, plan on being far far away. Like someplace in the rain forest or maybe Siberia. She’ll do very bad things to my body, soul and checking account when she gets back.” This was Briley’s voice and Trinity wanted to pat her friend for having such good sense. Of course she’d come back and ruin all their lives…or she would once she got over feeling so damn good.
“Oh come on,” Ethan said. Olivia’s love-monkey fiancé’s deep tones were sceptical. “You slipped a roofie in her drink, Recee. This is the plan all four of you dreamt up and perfected. Don’t tell us you’re having second thoughts.”
“Friends do not let friends drug friends,” Emma’s soft whisper brushed Trinity’s ear. “This is so wrong on so many levels.”
“You’re telling me. I hear the North Pole is nice this time of year.” Briley had an eager note in her voice. “I can always use it as an opportunity to expand my travel business.”
“You go nowhere without me.” This came from the new man to their group, Carter Moore. Mr. Sensitive and Reliable, all around geek king. The man so in love with Briley Evans that he had faced Recee—knives and all—without flinching. Love made fools of the best of them.
But still, while she mentally twirled in her happy place, Trinity did feel general good will to her friends and the men they’d found to love them. Only Recee and Trinity remained the hold-outs to love, but Trinity knew sooner or later a man would come along to sweep her smart-mouthed friend off her feet and into his bed. Well, this perfect man would have to tunnel his way through Recee’s fetish for knives and other deadly sharp objects. Trinity wondered if Recee’s obsession went hand-in-hand with her other focus in life, designing curvy women’s accessories. Making all those necklaces, earrings and what-not had a tendency to keep her friend armed. What with working, cutting and shaping all the metals Recee used, sharp objects were always within her reach.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, baby.” Briley’s sugar-sweet tone broke into Trinity’s thoughts. “But we’ll need to start packing right away. I don’t want to be around when she gets back.”
A male snort followed Briley’s declaration. “Trinity’s not all-powerful. She’ll be pissed then get over it. There’s no reason to be afraid.”
Everyone went silent around her. Trinity could picture her friends’ amazed stares directed at Brock, Emma’s hunka-hunka-burnin’-ex-military-love. Yeah, Brock might be all big and bad, but the solider played by the rules. Well, most of them. If she didn’t count the time he kidnapped Emma, but still he couldn’t even enter Trin’s playing field. Trinity believed in winning at all cost, no matter who stepped onto the pitch.
“Be afraid,” Olivia whispered,” be very afraid.”
“This is ridiculous,” a man growled.
Trinity knew that snarl, and knew Hunt all too well. Even in her fogged confusion he presented a danger she had no ability to fight.
“I’ll take care of her,” he said. “She’ll take whatever revenge she wants out on me. The rest of you will be safe.”
“Safe, my ass,” Olivia said.
“I’ll protect your ass and everything else.” Ethan had a smile in his voice.
The sound of kissing drifted to Trinity before she felt the cold wind of Avalon’s winter brush over her uncovered cheeks.
Her body shifted as Hunt pulled her closer to his warm chest. “This is my last chance. Thanks to the private plane and island I’ll have plenty of time and privacy to convince her I’m here for good. She doesn’t stand a chance of running away from me with no way off the island but boat. Plus, Briley assured me there’s no phone, Internet, cable or anything resembling modern communications. Trinity will have to deal with me if she ever wants to leave.”

Sunday, April 17, 2011

I'm dying of the frog virus

so this will be short. Yes, I know I missed last Sunday, but hey I was in LA recovering from a night at a BDSM club. I'm not as young as you used to be :) So in honor of still being alive I'm posting a deleted scene from Poseidon's Fortune here. Yep my editor made me take it out. Said it took away from the Bailey and Talos' story. My reply...HELLO it's Bastien, of course he takes center stage, that's who he is and what he does. Some people have no respect for the self-centered and egotistical. Poor poor Bastien....

Here it is in all it's un-edited glory. Yep, I'm being a tad of the sadistic side since you won't have a clue where or how this takes place. What can I say I like to tease....

LLet me know what you think because shortly I'll have both the cover & release date ready to drop into your greedy but loving hands :)

Poseidon't Fortune Deleted Scene

Blue and pink mist twined together and circled their bodies, erotic yet somehow innocent at the same time. A merging of one soul between two bodies so separate yet interconnected. The trust Clio showed in opening every private and personal part of her being, mind, heart, and soul.
The absolute conviction she had in Kryssin’s love and his in her made the men feel like an intruder. Bastien grabbed Talos’s arm and jerked them both out of the room.
“Hey, what was that for?” his older brother demanded, a stern frown creasing his usually stoic features.
Bastien shook his head not wanting to share his feelings with the other man. Getting mushy with the same brother that used to shove Bas’s head into a whale shark’s mouth for fun didn’t sound like the best idea.
“Thought they might need some privacy or whatever.”
Talos didn’t look convinced as he narrowed his eyes at Bastien. “You’re sure? ’Cause you’ve been acting different since he found Clio.”
Bas didn’t think so, but he didn’t want Talos going further with the line of questioning. He shrugged off the unusual sentiment, plastered a sardonic expression on his face, and turned around. “Hey, for all I know clothes were going to start flying off and the last thing my beautiful baby-blues need to see his Krys’s hairy white ass.”
“From personal knowledge I can assure you both his ass is neither hairy nor white. It’s nicely tanned, taut, and very bitable.” Clio shared that unwanted knowledge from the other room.
Both men heard Kryssin mutter something to his mate about over sharing, but Talos spoke before Bas could taunt the newly mated male.
“So do we have a place and a plan?” he asked and walked back into the room.
They found Krys with his arms wrapped tightly around Clio. Relaxed, sated smiles graced both their flushed faces and disheveled bodies. With his chin propped on top of his wife’s head Krys looked like a demi-god satisfied with everything in his world.
A pang of jealously shot through him before Bas locked down his emotions.
In a low, lazy voice, Kryssin answered the question. “We’ve got a place, a name, age, hair color, and Facebook page even.”
“What he means to say is that we know pretty much everything surface about her. The”—Clio waved her hands around—”vision, for lack of a better word, gave us everything we wanted and more. If we hurry we should be able to save her from the Scabers.”
“Hey, she’s doing a pretty good job of holding her own, I’d say,” Kryssin protested in a surprised voice.
“She is now, but how much longer will her strength hold up against an immortal demon that feeds off fear and blood?”
“Good point,” he said and released her. “However, my love, you are staying here where it’s safe.”
“Not a chance in your seven oceans, sex toy.” Clio flipped around, stroked her finger over his chest.
“Clio, baby, be reasonable. We don’t know what we’re going to find. I love you too much to put you in that kind of danger,” Kryssin explained to his wife.
As excuses went Bas thought it a winner until Clio gave another snort.
“Yeah, right, pull the other leg. We both know exactly what we’re going into. I saw it all with you, remember, honey?”
“Shouldn’t we go rescue the female first then you two can argue your way into bed again,” Talos asked in a bored tone.
“Absolutely,” came the dreamy feminine reply. “I love being on my honeymoon.”
“We noticed,” two bored voices chimed.
“There’s not much time left. If we’re going to go, let’s go instead of talking the thing to death.” Looking tired of the debate, Kryssin pushed forward.
“Should we tell Alexial?” Bastien asked.
“There’s no time,” Clio suddenly shouted and stomped her foot with urgent demand. “We need to go now. Something’s happening and she may not make it if we don’t go now.”
The words still hung in the air as Clio’s form misted into colored water then disappeared.
“Clio!” Kryssin’s roar shook the jewel-encrusted walls as his mate disappeared.


Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Rants of a romance writer

Happy Wednesday, everyone! I'm back from RT & all I have to show for it is some weird voice destroying plague!  Yes, I have plenty of gossip, news & other happy tidbits, but it's going to have to wait until I stop seeing pretty pink & purple spots dancing before my eyes.

So for now I'll post a little rant I wrote after watching people buy books in the airport bookstore. Oh how little we pay attention to those watching us :)

Someone please explain this situation to me. A person can easily and happily pay for a non-fiction book about true crime or some sex manual without a hint of a blush. But ask that same person to buy a romance novel and all bets are off. What is up with that? You're too shamed to purchase a book that guarantees you a happily ever after, but proud to by a serial killers autobiography? I'm not even talking about the old school books with the heaving bosoms and all that.  Covers today are more detailed and some are truly works of art so please tell me...where is the shame?

I write romance. I'm proud of my work. When someone asks me what I do for a living I tell them. I don't say I write women's fiction or mainstream fiction. I'm a romance writer..the end.

Here's a happy little fact for any who dump on my favorite genre. While most other categories' sales have fallen in the past two years romance sales have gone through the roof. Yep, we are kicking butts, taking names and all the while remembering we're ladies. Romance novels top over a billion dollars a year in sales and that ain't nothing to laugh at. So it seems we (the writers) must be doing something right in a time where even movie ticket sales are down.

Sorry didn't mean to jump on my Diet Coke box and get started again, but it just bothers me. Today I saw a woman slide a paranormal romance across to the sales clerk like she was buying snuff porn. People, wake up. Romance is a good thing. You're always left feeling happy and satisfied. Can you say the same thing for self-help books or real life murder novels?

Keep you fingers crossed that the plague either kills me or leaves me in one piece. I'll start writing down tidbits, rumors and all the wonderful gossip that floats around.


Sunday, April 3, 2011

Beguiling Briley is up for Book of the Month!

Check me out over at Miz Love Loves Book where Beguiling Briley is up for book of the month. To vote click this link & support our favorite smart-ass heroines!
 Anyone who reads my work or follows the blog knows how special I think Desiree Holt is. She's an amazing writer, fabulous person & generally one of the most unique people I've ever met. What's this all about? My fabulous friend is celebrating her 100th release, Downstroke. I know, amazing isn't it. Head over to her website, to find out all kinds of fun info & really great prizes.

I'm in the last stages of packing for my LA trip. Ughh, I hate packing, but it's a necessary evil. And I know I'll be coming back with more crap than I left with. How that happens I never know, but it always does.

So that's it for this week. I'll be sure to give all sorts of fun details next Sunday from LA. Until then


Friday, April 1, 2011

Ready for a little heavy & a lot of hot????

Check out Cerise Deland's latest & greatest release. I'm so proud to call this talented writer a good friend!

A bastard. An American. An English noblewoman he should not want. A man enslaved. A woman captured. Both, captured by pirates and taken to an exotic citadel. Made to perform for a pasha as salacious as he is blood-thirsty.
This is THE BASTARD'S PASSIONATE PRIZE, the 4th in Cerise DeLand’s best-selling Regency period, Stanhope Challenge series!
Out March 30!!! At Resplendence Publishing
Here is a nibble of Cerise’s new cherry: (Copyright 2011, Cerise DeLand. All rights reserved.)
Sirena had spent, by last count, six days in a world predominated by women. Lithe, young, lovely women. Guarded by giant, fleshy black men whose eyes slid to each other in some secret code of conduct that she suspected did include their sexual interest in the women. Sirena suspected her purpose here, though she longed to learn otherwise.
Reality killed her hopes. As a child in her nursery, Sirena had listened to stories read by her governess of a land filled with godless men who ruled the East with no regard for human life. As a young woman, she heard rumors of dissolute Ottoman pashas and their penchant for deflowering female sex slaves and keeping them behind locked walls. Those had always seemed like fables meant to embolden men to travel to exotic lands and to keep English women safely tucked away at home. While Sirena’s desire to see China or sail to Bombay had seemed more dream than possibility, she had never wished to become part of any man’s harem. And this gaggle of females imprisoned was most definitely that. What with the women who did little but eat, drink, bathe and admire themselves in numerous mirrors, Sirena assumed they were the mates of the ruler here. The presence of the men who served as guards confirmed it. And on the third day of her imprisonment, Sirena met a young Spanish woman, Valentina, who told her in broken English that the men were their jailers and to ensure the women’s purity and safety, each man had been castrated.
Sirena shuddered at the idea of such brutality done to one man by another. Yet, you will soon learn what atrocity these pirates have in store for you.
The manner of her days, however, did not presage any harm might come to her. Though she got no inkling of Mark or his men’s condition or whereabouts, she was treated like a precious gem. True, after the Barbaries had climbed aboard Mark’s Water Witch, they had seized her by the wrists, chained her and separated her from Mark and any of his sailors. None had manhandled her, although many had made snide suggestions she could not mistake in any language. But once off the corsairs’ galleon, she was put atop a camel and led through the teaming city up into a gleaming alabaster palace. Though she had asked in vain for the whereabouts of the Americans, she learned nothing in the high-walled sumptuously adorned seraglio except how to be pampered.
Each morning, Sirena was roused by an elderly maid, gnarled and wrinkled like a prune, but kindly. She’d follow her maid to a cool reception room. There, a tall, imperious older woman appeared who directed her to turn about, a doll on display. She complied. What else could she do but fume? At once, the woman led her to a large room, humid with fragrance of jasmine rising from a huge azure pool. Stripped naked by two young women, Sirena quivered in modesty and indignation. But once she was directed to step down into the soothing water, her body melted in the forgiving heat. Ordered up and out of the pool, she’d be led to yet another room, this time filled with oblong copper baths three times the size of any hipbath she’d ever seen at home. Commanded to submerge in one of those tubs, she sank, grateful once more for coverage of her person, until two different women appeared armed with soaps, towels and pumices. Scrubbed, rubbed and submerged time and again in this tub, finally she was told to rise and without a stitch of clothes, she was told to  follow her maids to yet one more room. Here, with other women on tables, stark naked as Sirena, she would lie down. For god knew how long, her body was examined, then massaged, oiled, her eyebrows plucked, her hair bathed and scented.  Surrounded by dedicated servants who neither spoke nor looked her in the eye, she could not deter them from their goals, nor did she have the strength. In fact, she found herself astonished to submit to their gentle ministrations, primping her for a dreaded exhibition of the most lurid kind. Each morning, as the servants bathed her and refined her looks, she feared how she would be exposed. To whom? When? How? But as they probed into every crevice of her body, denuding her of hair, even to her most private parts which no one, save she, and Mark, had ever touched, she feared to know the answer.
Pampered more like a princess than a slave, she pondered her future each night in her own cozy private room filled with fat feather pillows for her bed. She received pitchers of cool water, oranges, limes and lemons. Each day, she was fed a milky concoction, the consistency of pudding but tart, tasty with nuts and fat sultanas. Each morning, her nightshift of plain linen was taken away for the laundresses. Then she’d be given a garment that made her blush and gasp. Translucent pearl silk, the kaftan had a clasp of two jeweled frogs at the neck, huge sleeves flowing to her wrists, and a flowing drape to her toes.
Aghast at its suggestiveness, she knew at once its intention was to arouse and to titillate. Without any other item to cover her nakedness, she donned it, assuring herself that her appearance did not diminish her inner character. Nor did it represent her person. Only her condition.
Enslavement, she contemplated in those first few hours in the harem, was an astonishing condition for the daughter of a duke of the British Realm. She laughed bitterly at that first thought. Then sobered. She had left her rights and privileges as an aristocrat the minute she had left her home in London. Going to Dover, intent on building a new life for herself, perhaps even learning how Mark Stanhope cared for her, was a liberating stroke. That she was here, imprisoned, seemed a bitter irony.
Where was Mark? Dead? Tortured?
She caught back cries of outrage that that might be true. She had to learn where he was, how he was.
Her resolve bore fruit on the fourth day when her friend Valentina arrived in her room to share news.
“I hear the matron, there,” Valentina nodded to the older woman who was the mistress of the seraglio, “tell our Nubian eunuchs you will go before our pasha, Al Hassan.”
“When?” Her throat went dry as dust. Her stomach rolled in fear.
“After he decides what to do with your man.” Valentina’s cobalt blue eyes snapped as she spoke low to avoid detection. “Your body has been prepared for Hassan but—”
Sirena’s heart stopped. She grabbed Valentina’s hand. “What?”
“You may be given to any man he wishes.”
“As his concubine?” Sirena tried not to let her terror overcome her.
 “Of course. It is why we all are here.” Her eyes circumscribed the room filled with lounging, laughing women who, it seemed, had come to terms with their servitude.
“How do you live with that?” Sirena asked, in indignation at such bondage.
“I have been taken up once to Hassan. He is impotent.”
“Thank god.”
“Do not think thus. He has other ways to make you arouse his flaccid member.”
“How so?”
“Have you ever put your mouth to a man’s tool?” Valentina put her hand to her own mons.
Sirena shook her head, her thoughts drifting to Mark and how she might gladly take him with her lips and tongue that way.
“Hassan likes that.” She waited until the masseuses passed them by with large bowls of steaming honey and creamy depilatories. “He also likes to see men take women from behind. Like animals.”
Serena’s eyes widened. “That’s appealing to men?”
The blue-eyed woman nodded. “It is forbidden, haraam, to take a woman in the ass. These pirates may say they follow the teachings of Mohammed, but they are part-Spanish and French, ex-patriots, criminals who know no law. They follow neither god nor man’s rules. Therefore, remember only one thing.”
“Whatever you are asked to do? Do it and live another day.”
Sirena turned away, filled with desperation to see Mark, know he was safe and to escape this hideous existence. All the sumptuous foibles in the world could not fill the void of heartless existences without law or love.