Hell on wheels meets hell in high heels.
Bad boy mechanic Josh Stone likes to get his hands dirty any way he can—the filthier, the better. Ever since his wife walked out on him and their young son, he’s only had room in his heart for two loves: the kid and cars.
Roped into playing his best buddy’s gay boyfriend during a romance writers convention, the player meets the girl who’s gonna rock his world. Leelee Songchild. Shy, bashful, beautiful Leelee who blushes at the drop of a hat yet writes hardcore smut to rival Josh’s backlist of Penthouse Forum.
The only problem is his hands are tied. Josh can’t stab his old friend/fake lover in the back even though all he wants to do is take luscious Leelee to bed, and maybe, love her. When the truth comes out, all hell breaks loose.
Too bad romance is just for books.
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The Hens Have a Heyday
A new scene featuring The Hens from Stone, At Your Service
The overcrowded hotel lobby-cum-bar at the 7th Annual Literary Love convention literally roared with the noise of a thousand-plus attendees. The Hens laid claim over a banquette table, glaring at any interloper who dared approach.
“There are ears everywhere.” Janice plucked at the loose neckline of her embroidered peasant blouse.
Jacqueline shuddered. “And agents.”
“Now, now. Not all agents are the stuff nightmares are made of,” Missy Peachtree of the BDSM persuasion tutted. Then she gave a feral grin. “I am.”
The Hens hooted with laughter so loud a bevy of heads turned in their direction.
“Eavesdroppers,” Jackée hissed. She dug in her purse for a bottle of salon-grade nail polish and her monogrammed fingernail file.
The Hens didn’t think of themselves as such. They preferred the term Queens, if it must be known. It was the opening night of the LitLuv convention in Atlanta. They’d enjoyed a thoroughly enlightening/eye-opening dinner with fellow romance writers Leelee Songchild and Nicky Love with the addition of Love’s longtime lover, Stone. Now they were ready to dish dirt, in the privacy of the packed lobby/bar.
Janice pushed her Lennon glasses to the top of her head. “That lucky Mr. Lurve . . .”
“Lucky little freak in the bed with all that Stone hard man meat next to him, on top of him, inside of him.” Jackée sawed the file across her nails. “I don’t know about you ladies, but I could lick Stone from head to toe and start right back at the bottom again.”
“I’d like to see Stone bottom.” Missy closed her eyes with a sigh. “Scratch that. I’d like to harness them in dual swings facing each other, strapped to a double-ended dildo. All trussed up. I’d really get my flogger on for that.”
“Tweeting that.” Janice scrunched her plump face, tapping with fast precision on her phone. “Hashtag stonelove.”
“Girl, that would certainly give me some inspiration for another novel.” Having touched up her nails in vivid purple, Jacqueline proceeded to moisturize her hands until her cocoa-colored skin gleamed.
“Maybe we should do a collaboration, Jacks.” Missy slapped a Vera Bradley notebook on the table and found her I’m a Damn Good Domme pen, the one with the tiny silver handcuffs swinging from it. “You can handle the penetration and I’ll take care of the punishment.”
“Oh yeah? What would we call it?”
“Hard Love!” Janice shouted, drawing another round of attention from the nearby drinkers.
The three of them started plotting a male-male bondage book, which not a single one of them had time in their writing schedule to work on. It was part of their yearly ritual at the convention, the only occasion the three girlfriends and their token gay guy got a chance to catch up face-to-face. By the time an hour had passed, they’d moved onto their second bottle of wine and the sequel to Hard Love: Bound to Love.
“So, what do we think about our NKOTB?” Janice asked.
“Shh. Keep it down,” Missy advised. “That creeper-stalker-starfucker agent has been seen sniffing around our girl.”
“Already? She just got here.” Janice had momma bear instincts for any new writer, but Leelee Songchild was different.
Since she’d joined their exclusive Facebook group, the stunning twenty-something ingénue had created quite a stir. She kept her private business private, and the Hens had decided—minus Nicky’s input—that just wouldn’t do. They liked to know a person’s background, past flings, new conquests, and future hopes. They were impressed by Leelee’s whirlwind authorial debut with her New Adult book and her professional dedication, but they needed to know more. Especially if they had any hopes of protecting her from the money-grubbing, ass-grabbing claws of one creeper-stalker-starfucker agent, Andrew LaForge.
“I don’t know what’s worse.” Janice ran a lacquered nail around the rim of her wineglass. “LaForge’s shady contracts or his skuzzy come-ons. Fucker gives creeper-stalkers a bad name.”
They’d finished plotting their Love trilogy based on the imagined escapades of Stone and Nicky . . . in a BDSM setting, then they put their creative heads together to plot LaForge’s downfall.
After they were satisfied his black moment would be nothing short of epic, Missy continued scheming. “Did anyone else notice Stone tripping over his tongue around Leelee?”
“Maybe he’s shy.” Janice countered.
“Honey chile, a man who’s built like a brick shithouse has absolutely no right being bashful.”
“Word!” Missy crowed at Jacqueline, causing another ripple in the massive ocean of people. “I don’t even think he’s gay.”
Janice’s eyes popped behind the pastel lenses of her glasses. “You think it’s a ruse?”
“Oooh, girl. The plot thickens.” Jackée crossed her arms over her chest. “But I’m calling bullshit this time, Missy. I know my gays, and he might be butch—”
“Sooo butch,” Janice breathed out.
“But that man is h-o-m-o-sex-yew-l.”
“Care to wager on it?” Reopening her paisley notebook, with her dominatrix pen poised, Missy waited for the bets about Stone’s sexuality she knew were forthcoming. Janice and Jacqueline liked to gamble as much as she did.
They were writers, after all.
A Yankee transplant via the UK and other wild journeys, Rie happily landed in Charleston, South Carolina, with her English artisan husband and their two small daughters--one an aspiring diva, the other a future punk rocker. After earning her degree in Fine Arts, Rie promptly gave up paintbrushes and canvas for paper and pen (because she decided being a writer was equally as good an idea as being an artist, of course it was). That was fifteen years ago, her writing career started! With a manuscript of super epic proportions! Safely stored under a lace doily in a filing cabinet. Possibly in England . . .
Since then she’s done this and that, here and there, usually in the nonprofit arena, until she returned to her dream of being a writer. Even though Rie basks in the glorious southern sunshine as often as she can, she’s mostly a nocturnal creature adjourning to her writer’s atelier (spare bedroom) in search of her next devious plot twist or delicious passionate tryst.
No matter what genre or gender pairing she’s writing, she combines a sexy southern edge with humor and heart--and a taste of darkness.
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