Hey everyone. Long time no speak. Busy month. I’ve been getting a book ready to publish at Smashwords, plus activating a blog on my site. I hope you’ll stop by at my blog after you’ve stopped by The Bradford Bunch. I plan to have contests and during October I’m having a Chill Me Thrill Me Halloween event with guest authors blogging every day. That’s almost 31 chances to win ARC’s, paperbacks and other goodies just in time for Halloween.

Good news! Hideaway is out in paperback at Ellora’s Cave (www.jasminejade.com) Hideaway is one of my Special Investigations Agency stories. It was one of those books that demanded to be written. The heroine is a writer, too. She’s also hiding away to rid herself of writer’s block. What happens next is danger, adventure and some weird paranormal stuff with a seriously hot Irish hero. You can also get Hideaway as an ebook.

Here’s the blurb and excerpt to tantalize you. Enjoy.

**

Love can be a bitch…

Romance author Gina Aames has hit a low point in her career. Sequestered in an isolated mountain cabin, she hopes for inspiration. She lapses into a fantasy featuring her old college friend, gorgeous Ryan “Irish” Ahern. When Ryan appears at her door, unconscious and packing a weapon, her instincts tell her Ryan brings danger with him. At the same time, her body and heart yearns for the cocky agent.

Love can be dangerous…

Ryan awakens in a cabin with a woman who claims to have known him for ten years but he can’t remember her. All he knows is the pretty woman who fires his libido stirs protective instincts inside him, and his intuition tells him peril lurks around the corner.

Love can save the day, or break a heart…

Something unholy draws nearer, and as they escape into a shadowy realm unlike anything they’ve seen before, only their scorching connection and answers to an incredible mystery can save Ryan and Gina from a terrible fate.

***

Another thump hit the door, hollow and disturbing. She licked her lips, her heart pounding like a triphammer.

“Who is there?” Gina asked with conviction.

When she received no answer, she wondered if a bear or other large creature had found its way to her door. Gina didn’t know which to be afraid of—human or animal interference.

She undid the deadbolt and left the safety chain hooked. Slowly, she inched the door open and peered around the side. A head of thick black hair appeared at foot level. Not a disembodied head, but one attached to the big, gorgeous body lying on the porch. A body belonging to a man she’d know anywhere.

Ryan Ahern had materialized right from her fantasy straight into reality. “Oh my God.”

He moaned and she undid the chain to open the door completely. Ryan flopped onto his back, half in the door and half out, his eyes closed. He clutched a nasty-looking firearm in his right hand. Stark fear gripped her.

Stunned into immobility by Ryan’s abrupt appearance, Gina stared at him.

“Shit,” she murmured as she knelt by his supine body and felt for a pulse in his tanned throat.

A steady beat under her fingertips sent a sigh of relief between her lips. Glancing over his formfitting blue T-shirt and worn blue jeans told her nothing about his condition. No blood. No tears in his clothing. The weapon gripped in his hand like a lifeline shouldn’t have surprised her—he’d joined the same government agency Tara’s fiancé Marcus belonged to. Was Ryan on assignment?

Thunder growled, and moisture scented the air. She had to remove him from the elements. Placing one hand on his stubble-rough cheek and one on his shoulder, she tried to rouse him. Damn, but his muscles felt solid. Big and invincible. She palmed down to his muscular chest and her breath caught as he heaved a soft moan. Laced with pain, the sound worried her. Nothing mattered now but making certain he was all right.

She placed both hands on his chest. “Irish? Come on, Ryan. Wake up.”

His eyes popped open, and he sat up so fast she toppled back on her ass with a squeak and grunt. His eyes, mountain-sky blue and ringed by thick black lashes, latched on to her without remorse. An angry gaze pinpointed her like a laser. A weird little thrill tumbled in her belly at the intensity in that expression. She’d become so used to warmth and acceptance in his gorgeous eyes—the fierceness in his gaze startled and aroused her in a whole new way. Wow. She’d had rare glimpses of his kick-ass-and- take-names personage years ago, but this glaring, forceful man startled her. She stood rapidly.

“Who are you?” His voice, a raspy, deep sound tinged with a hint of Ireland, always sent tingles straight to her stomach.

“Who am I?” Her echo sounded incredulous. “We’ve known each other for a long time. How can you ask that question?” He blinked, his gaze turning a bit unfocused and confused. “I found you lying on the porch up against my door. Did you hit your head?”

He scrambled upright, his muscles fluid as a panther as he came to his feet, still in possession of the gun. He towered over her, his gaze laser strong. He swayed and his eyelids flickered as he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. While he defined black Irish with his tousled, collar-length black hair, blue eyes and normally pale complexion, he’d acquired a tan in the last couple of years during the summer.

She approached him as she would a wounded animal. “Ryan, why don’t you sit down?”

He glared at her then his eyelids flickered again.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said in alarm, afraid he’d pass out. Quickly, she went to his side. Ignoring the gun he still clutched, she slipped under his arm. “Come on. Lean on me.” To her surprise, he did as told. She staggered under his weight as they wove their way to the leather couch. She eased him down. “Here. Lie down.”

She expected him to protest, but his gaze turned foggy. He slid sideways onto the pile of pillows, his eyes closed. She scooped his heavy legs up onto the couch, and he sprawled in a male abandon both defenseless and primal. He still possessed the weapon, his arm lying over his stomach. God, if she tried to take it from him—no, that wasn’t a good idea. She hurried back to the front door and closed it, then returned to the couch.

Apprehensive about touching him again, she got down on her knees beside the couch. Slowly she brushed a tangle of thick hair away from his forehead. She gently touched the pulse point in his throat. His pulse beat rapidly under her fingertips. She didn’t see any blood or obvious bruising.

“Ryan? Ryan, can you hear me?”

Worried, she stood and went to the kitchen to get a cold cloth for his forehead. She had to try to rouse him and obtain medical attention. Reaching into a small cabinet, she retrieved a cloth and then went to the sink to wet it. After soaking it thoroughly and squeezing the cloth out, she turned around.

“Oh, shit!” she gasped, startled.

Ryan stood not that far away, just beyond the kitchen counter, weapon in hand. Muscles tensed, he represented uncompromising masculinity. Once a soldier, always a soldier described him.

No one compared to Ryan Ahern. Every line of his body boasted tensile strength and sinew. Corded muscle bunched, flexed and made sensual promises. She recalled one day when she saw him chopping wood during the summer. Raw power had drawn her eyes to the long lines and distinct masculinity in each powerful swing as he brought ruthless metal down into wood.

“Ryan, what happened? Why are you here?”

He turned toward the front door with a jerk then stalked in that direction. He swept the door open and surveyed the wilderness outside. He closed the door and locked it with a firm click, engaging the chain.

“Damn it.” He rammed the deadbolt home. “This might not hold for long once it finds out where I am.”

“It?”

He continued to stare at the door, as if expecting something to crash through it any minute.

Fear returned as she watched his broad back ripple with strength. “Ryan—”

“Lady,” he said as he swung back toward her, “we don’t have time to play games. We’re in serious trouble.”

**

Until next time, everyone have an awesome day.

I’m happy to announce that several of my backlist titles are well on their way to being re-released for kindle and several other ebook formats (look for print next year!). You can learn more about them here.

And I have to do a quick thank you to Mandy Roth/Nat Winters for providing such awesome covers!!

And now, please join me in welcoming Shelli!

Shelli Stevens, Interview by Michelle M. Pillow
Multi-genre author Shelli Stevens might not have been abducted by aliens or raised by a shifter clan, but that doesn’t stop her from creating imaginative paranormal worlds. I had the opportunity to talk with Shelli about her latest erotic paranormal offering, Sexy Beast VII where she delves into a world of were-jaguars to discover what it is that inspires her.

Q: In your book, His to Reclaim from Sexy Beast VII, you delve into the world of shifters. What inspired you to write about this?
Shelli: Well all stories in the Sexy Beast books need to be paranormal. Kate Douglas is in each book in the series with her popular Chanku stories. I was thrilled to be invited to write a story for the Sexy Beast anthology, and it was a great experience for me to plot out this fun capture and reclaiming story, and delve into the world of shifters.

Q: When world building, did you base your story off of known myths throughout history?
Shelli: I really don’t base my shifters on legends or other ‘rules’ from other shifter books, those just make me feel boxed in. I try and just have fun and make up my own world and my own rules.

Q: Why do you think readers, and society in general, are fascinated by the paranormal?
Shelli: I think because it’s the unknown and the fantasy aspect. Authors/Movies humanize these paranormal characters and make us care and become even more drawn to them.

Q: What are your favorite paranormal shows, movies and books?
Shelli: I love A Haunting on the Discovery channel, and have to confess I do like the Twilight series *wince* Well, until the last couple books. She lost me there.

Q: Do you believe in the supernatural?
Shelli: I do believe. Definitely with the paranormal ghost/haunting aspects. Other stuff…not so much. But it’s fascinating to imagine. Hence the escapism of reading it in a book or seeing it in a movie.

Q: Have you ever had a paranormal experience?
Shelli: Possibly. On the haunted tour in D.C. last summer, our group was at the last house that was not occupied. Totally creepy, fantastic house with so much history. And as the guide was talking about it, the lights inside flickered. Even he was surprised.

Q: How would you react if you came face to face with a paranormal creature?
Shelli: I’d probably freak out for a few minutes, then interview the heck out of it.

Q: Have you ever been abducted by aliens?
Shelli: Sigh. No. How boring am I?

Thanks for joining us, Shelli!

You can learn more about Shelli and her books at her website, www.shellistevens.com. Sexy Beast VII is currently at all major bookstores.

Interviewer Michelle M. Pillow is a multi-published, award winning author writing in many romance fiction genres. She can be found at www.michellepillow.com. Paranormal Underground Magazine’s website is here.

I like to laugh, but humor is rarely universal, nor timeless. One person’s side stitch is another’s head scratch.

Tomorrow, I’m going to Peru.

On September 15, I have a book due. On October 1, I have a partial due. On October 15, I have a book and a short story due. On December 1, I have a proposal synopsis due. On December 15, I have a book due. When I think about it all at once, I start getting a little frantic, but when I break it all down and just focus on one task at a time, it feels more doable.

I get so tired of people asking me how long it takes me to finish a book. Honestly, what does that matter? Even more, I hate when people tell me I am “so lucky to be a fast writer”. Well, no. Emphatically, no. I am not lucky in that I was born with the ability to write 3K a day. I trained up, just like athletes do for a marathon. Once, it was super hard for me to write 1K a day. But I got to the point where that was doable and then bumped my goal to 1500. And I kept going in that manner until I could do more. It took years of focused, disciplined effort. That’s not luck. Nor does it feel fast when it takes me twelve hours to finish my words because it’s not going well. So yeah, I’m neither naturally fast, nor lucky. I work hard.

Now I’m not saying my way is the only way. Writers should do whatever works for them. This is how I accomplish my goals, and other folks should figure out their own systems. How I work doesn’t take away anything from the way they do. I hate such comparisons. The only person I’m trying to measure up to is myself. I do want to do better than I’ve done before and improve my craft. I strive for that continually.

And speaking of that, I have words to write today. What good stresses do you have in your life right now?

None of the bookstores around me did a midnight release party last night, which I think is a bummer. The midnight release party is my favorite new tradition. I’ve been to several of these over the years—mostly for Harry Potter books—and though I know it’s extra work and money for the bookstore, it’s really just such a cool idea.

First, because the other readers who are there at midnight are just as devoted to the books and excited as you are. So, it’s always fun to strike up a conversation with a stranger because you know you’ll have that in common.

Second, it adds that sense of an “event” to a book release. I mean, for those of us who write the books, release day is an event anyway—years of hard work coming to fruition on this one special day. So cool! But I like the idea of a party and special timing surrounding a book release—even someone else’s book—because it reinforces the idea that books are special, wonderful, and something to be excited about, you know? It’s not just movies that get the special midnight showings—books do, too!

Third, the kids love it. Remember being young and wanting so badly to stay up late because that’s when all the cool stuff happened? Also, I think there’s a bit of mind-blowing wonder when kids say to their parents, “I want to go out at midnight to get this thing I really, really want.” And the parents say, “Okay.” Yea for parents who support that love of reading…even if it is past bedtime!

One of my favorite memories is the first midnight book party I went to. It was for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I was just married, and my parents and my little sister came to visit. I found about the Books-A-Million midnight release party for HP4, and I told my parents I wanted to take my sister. She was eleven at the time. She was the one who’d introduced me to the Harry Potter series and told me I had to read them. She was right. : )

So, my sister, my new husband, and I piled in the car in our sweats/pjs and went over to the bookstore at 11:45 p.m. There were so many people out and about in the area, even though the rest of the shopping center was dark, and a definite buzz of excitement was in the air.

We got our copies of the book from a staff person, eagerly chatted with other buyers nearby while we waited in line, and generally had a blast. The store gave us “house” stickers, one for each of the Hogwarts’s houses so we could show our allegiance to our favorite. The cashier gave my sister her stickers, along with a set for “Dad and Mom,” meaning my husband and me. We accepted them without comment and laughed about it later with great delight that someone had mistaken us for parents and child. I was twenty-four at the time. (Now I’m thirty-four and she’s twenty-one, and I don’t find it nearly as funny when that happens!)

In short, it was a blast and a special memory for me. And I don’t want midnight book parties to stop just because Harry Potter is finished.

I realize it must be done in moderation or the midnight book party ceases to be special. But one or two a year for the books we’ve all been anxiously awaiting? Yeah, I think that’s just about right. : )

What do you guys think?

I just got back from doing something I haven’t done in just about five years. I went to the dentist. I know, I know! Five years?! I’m horrible, I admit it, but what can I say, life intervened.

At least life intervened the first couple of years, then fear got in the way the last few. I was certain I’d go to the dentist, have them take x-rays, only to discover I’ve got nine cavities need three root canals, and my gums look like something out of zombie horror movie.

And so I put it off. I started developing tooth hypochondria, where every little sensitive spot was a three hour torture session waiting to happen.

I put it off, and put it off some more. I made excuses. I haven’t got the time. I’d need to get a babysitter…. the list goes on and on.

Well today, I went to the dentist, and you know what? My teeth are fine!

All the fear, all the worry was for nothing.

I don’t know about you, but I do this all the time. I put things off and procrastinate because I’m terrified of bad news. Usually things work out, and the times when there was a problem, I found putting things off only made the problem exponentially worse. I always felt better when I pulled up my bootstraps and dealt with it.

So, if you are out there in writer land. Don’t put off finishing that book, because you’re afraid of what people will say when you do. Don’t put off getting it out there to editors and agents once you’re ready for that step. Do it! Sure, some part of the whole process might sting, but we’re never going to get anywhere if we don’t get out and do it.

Oh, and go to the dentist.

Happy reading everyone!

Jess

Anyway, that’s my random, not so fabulously creative post (work with me here, still dealing with a sick kid). If you leave me a comment on how your summer’s gone, I’ll draw a name for someone to win a print book or ebook off my backlist. Now I’ll leave you with pics to sum up my summer!

I attended my first-ever RWA conference a few weeks back and pretty much had a ball. But I was tired when I came home. So tired. I had a week to catch up with my life and my writing before I was sequestered into the woods with 20+ family members and friends to a huge lakeside cabin with no Internet or TV. Now, I don’t generally watch much TV—that was one thing that had to go as I carved out time to write when I was working full-time. I keep up with the Kardashians through People magazine and online sources. But my Internet? That’s where I read local and national newspapers (yes, I’m contributing to the decline of print publications), hang with my writing friends, shop, blog and Tweet occasionally. I found it very difficult to relax in the sunshine, and actually snuck home twice to check my e-mail.

I’m glad I did get home, because the page proofs for Maggie Robinson’s novella Not Quite a Courtesan in Brava’s December release Lords of Passion arrived by Fed Ex. I worked on them during the vacation and sent them back like a good girl. And I also got a great review for Margaret Rowe’s Tempting Eden from Fresh Fiction. (to read it, click on the link) To celebrate the review and my return to civilization, I’ll give away a copy and some other goodies if you tell me what you’d miss most if you were in the woods incommunicado for a week!

Isn’t, after all, superstition just a mundane way for us to break down magic and mayhem into easy-to-understand bites? Like old wives’ tales, are they simple warnings and old rules of a time long since forgotten?

Or is Friday the 13th a myth; a laughing warning to scare children and the gullible?

I’ll tell you what I think: I think no matter what it is, where it came from, it’s really fun to scare people with it.

When I was a girl growing up all over the country, I got see all sorts of ways of dealing with unlucky 13. Friday the 13th ran the gamut for me. Some places I lived tended to ignore the day as just any other, while others used to make sure never to schedule tests or field trips on the same day. Some friends would walk through the school halls pale and withdrawn, warily anticipating every unlucky thing that could possibly go wrong. Other friends gleefully went about their business.

Me? I used to look forward to the terrible scary B-movies that would air on TV every Friday the 13th, even if I watched them through my fingers.

As a paranormal romance author—and self-admitted addict—I can’t help but be fascinated by the concept of Friday the 13th. Where did it come from? Read more to find out what the superstition is… behind the superstition.

Knights Templar Burned at the Stake

One suggestion comes as “historical fact” (please to put tongue firmly in cheek) from Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code. It states that the origins of “unlucky Friday the 13th” stems from a political catastrophe of monumental proportions: the dissolution—and subsequent persecution—of the Knights Templar. Renowned as one of the most elite fighting forces of its time, and extending its power from its humble monk origins to something far more wealthy and powerful over 300 years, it took the combined efforts of a conspiracy between church and state to bring them crashing down.

As told by Katherine Kurtz in Tales of the Knight Templar:

On October 13, 1307, a day so infamous that Friday the 13th would become a synonym for ill fortune, officers of King Philip IV of France carried out mass arrests in a well-coordinated dawn raid that left several thousand Templars — knights, sergeants, priests, and serving brethren — in chains, charged with heresy, blasphemy, various obscenities, and homosexual practices. None of these charges was ever proven, even in France — and the Order was found innocent elsewhere — but in the seven years following the arrests, hundreds of Templars suffered excruciating tortures intended to force “confessions,” and more than a hundred died under torture or were executed by burning at the stake.

Another origin theory goes to the number 13 itself, which has all sorts of connotations of misfortune to it. According to Norse legend, twelve gods were all invited to a banquet—except for Loki. Loki, as the thirteenth guest, crashed the party. (And wouldn’t you?) True to form, the Evil God caused more than his fair share of mischief, inciting Hod—the blind god of winter—to lay the smacketh down upon Balder the Good, who was the gods’ pet… well, god. Loki, not really one to let grudges lie, offered Hod a spear made out of mistletoe—”Hey, nancy boy, kiss this!”—and flung it at Balder. It killed him instantly. (Not bad for a blind guy!) All of Valhalla flipped a gasket. Despite the multitude of morals easily gleaned from this tale (such as, Just because Loki crashes the party doesn’t mean you have to let him stay, or Don’t give the blind guy sharp weapons, or Hire better security, for example), they instead left it at the “fact” that thirteen people at a banquet was simply bad luck.

You know, because it was just bad luck that put a mistletoe spear in the blind guy’s hand.

This superstition lingered long into more modern times, when it became necessary to hire a “professional” banquet or party guest in order to round out your guest list to 14, should you happen to have only  13 attendees.

But wait! Not to be outdone, the Christians came along and decided to add their voice to the “thirteen, bad idea, let’s not” crowd. According to the Bible and various religious experts, there were thirteen guests at the Last Supper. You remember that one, right? Thirteen guests, on the night when Jesus was betrayed, followed closely by the Crucifixion (which is only the weirdest word ever to spell). And of course the nailing of bits to wooden crosses happened on a Friday.

Any of this working for you?

I have to say, not me. But do I have an answer?

Let’s try it.

Asking for Trouble

We’re a superstitious lot. Some of it is honest to god faith—haha, no pun intended—and some is simply a philosophy of, “Well, why not?” Some is passed down in families (I once knew a family who would not allow empty bottles to be put in the trash without caps, just in case spirits tried to make a home inside them while they were still in the house), and some is adopted because of comfort.

Much of the superstition is handed to us as kids. We adopt it from our parents or from others in school; and whether we believe or not, we go along with it because (let’s face it) peer pressure sucks. These days, we’re not nearly as overtly religious as we used to be. And by used to be, I mean, say, in the Medieval ages. Even so far back as the 1800s, for that matter.

Many of us lack an organized religion to tell us what to believe (or provide answers to questions of belief), and those of us that have religion find it leaves as many gaps for the unknown as anything else.

Can your god protect you from the evil things lurking outside at night?

Can mine?

Can hers?

Will his?

We don’t know. (Or at least, those that do know aren’t telling, but they’re awfully smug over there…) Are there things lurking outside at night? Is luck the whim of the Fair Folk and sprites of myth and legend, or is it—as the Irish would say—in the blood? (If so, I think I’m screwed, as I’ve not a drop of Irish in me and Germans don’t tend to fare well in luck….)

So in defense of the unknown, the uncertain, the unanswered and the downright creepy, we turn to little tricks and habits. Things that may mean nothing—avoiding ladders—or that might provide a little bit of comfort—holding your breath as you pass a cemetery, so the spirits don’t recognize you as one of the living. Some cultures still believe in putting sour milk out to entice, or to appease, the mischievous sprites while others think that having an upside down horseshoe traps luck for those bad days. Some are more onerous than that—the jock who won’t wash his socks, or worse, for the whole of a season, or the guitarist who cannot play without his lucky pick.

And there are others still who believe in these superstitions as faithfully as others believe in God, Allah, Danu, Odin and so on. Why not? Much like debating religion with the truly faithful, their answer to “You have no proof it works!” is to smile and say, “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Touche, superstition. Touche.

As for me, I have a handful of superstitions that I logically tell myself I don’t believe. Not really. Not, you know, if I had to press the point. And yet, as I say it (often laughing, tee hee, oh do be serious, sir), I can recount offhand the things I do to ward off, or bring on, luck. I do, actually, lift my feet when we drive over train tracks. That is something my older brother taught me, and to this day, I never really know why I do it.

I also hold my breath when we pass a cemetery. I got lots, and lots, and lots of practice when my mom had to drive past the Arlington Cemetery nearly every day. I view it, logically as an unnecessary waste of effort. But somewhere in my head, I’m always thinking, “Don’t notice me. I’m not really here. Be at peace, restless dead, I’m totally not worth your attention…” Oh, yes. I do believe in the restless dead, much more than I believe in any other type of ghost.

I have never thrown salt over my shoulder, but I do have a heretofore unexplained obsession with four leaf clovers.

I have always made it a point to step on sidewalk cracks, and my mother has yet to even strain her back, much less break it. (Hi, mom.) I’m not sure why, except the rhyme annoyed me as a child, and I still carry that annoyance with me today. I also stop to pet black cats—but then, if it happens to be a witch’s familiar, so much the better for me and my curiosity! I have never avoided walking under a ladder, unless doing so would endanger the people on it.

I believe that there’s a grain of truth to every old warning—such as Bloody Mary in the mirror—but I don’t believe in Ouija boards. (Actually, I was pretty good at those; I started my matchmaking very early with a few well-placed comments from “spirits”.)

And I have never put much stock into Friday the 13th. Except for Jason, who scares the ever-loving hell out of me. I cannot watch those movies still.

Of course, it’s not yet midnight here, though it’s officially Friday the 13th over in other timezones. Shall we see what the day brings me? (If it happens to be a man in a hockey mask, I swear to god, I’ll come back and haunt you all.)

So what about you? What superstitions do you believe, and why? Are there any you still practice from childhood, or that you’ve found yourself adopting as you got older? Do you believe in the curse of Friday the 13th? Have you ever thought your luck was worse on this day than others?

Karina Cooper is a paranormal romance author for Avon. Her debut novel, Blood of the Wicked—a post-apocalyptic romance set in a world torn apart by a war between the accused and the hunters sworn to kill them—will be released in 2011. She’d attach a picture to this awfully pretentious-sounding bio, but she’s just not thrilled with any of them right now and suspects posing with a Dove ice cream bar would be somehow unprofessional. Or, more like, she just doesn’t want to share the Dove bar… Omnomnomnom.

Last week my book Power Struggle was released with Ellora’s Cave.

I truly never anticipated writing stories about BDSM when I started writing romance, but I’ve now written three. The first one, Sexpresso Night, was about a woman who entered into a D/s relationship with a man who was deliberately cruel, who used humiliation as a form of domination. Humiliation is one aspect of D/s that I will probably never include in my stories as a positive thing. In that story, Danya swore she’d never get involved with D/s again, but she finds herself unsatisfied with every relationship she has until she meets Carter. Of course he’s dominant but he’s a gentle, caring Dom and Danya finds her perfect match with him.

In the second BDSM book I wrote, Rigger, Shaela disapproves of BDSM even though her best friend Alek is into it. But she gets pulled into it when he asks her to model his Shibari bondage for the art photography book he is putting together, and she discovers her inner submissive.

In Power Struggle, I wanted to explore the D/s relationship from a different angle. In this story, Tori is an older woman (37 compared to Dev’s 29) and is a successful, powerful executive. At work, she has to be in control, but outside of work, in the bedroom, she likes to give up control. At her age, she’s had a few relationships, and most of them haven’t worked out because the men haven’t been able to deal with what she wants – to be dominated, bound, even hurt. She knows what she needs and she finds satisfaction with a play partner at Le Château, a BDSM club.

When she meets Dev, at first she dismisses his flirting because he’s younger. But the attraction between them is strong and she agrees to go out with him. When they sleep together, she sees how he likes to take charge in bed, and as they grow closer, she feels tempted to confess to him what she really wants. Dev’s not completely naïve, and he’s had what he considers dark fantasies about sex and bondage, but he’s never in his life hurt a woman, so this is shocking to him.

Power Struggle explores D/s as an experienced submissive falls in love with a dominant man who’s just learning about that side of himself, and explore the things they have to learn about themselves if they want to be together. I enjoy writing stories with the strong internal conflicts that BDSM can produce in the characters, and the journey of self-discovery the characters must take to find love and happiness.