Sunday Smooch - Inherited for the Royal Bed, Annie West

Welcome to another LoveCats DownUnder Sunday Smooch!


Today we have a smooch from but first 


... the winner of last week's Sunday Smooch Giveaway is PAMELA LOWERY


Can you please contact Kandy Shepherd at kandy(at)kandyshepherd.com to receive your copy of The Best Man and the Runaway Bride.


And now for today's Sunday Smooch from INHERITED FOR THE ROYAL BED. Don't forget, if you leave a comment you'll go in the draw to win a signed paperback copy of it! Here's a taste:

‘I now belong to you.’

He will finally claim his inheritance!

Four years after inheriting—and liberating—a concubine, powerful ruler Sayid is shocked to see the transformation of Lina. No longer shy and naive, she is a feisty, irresistible woman. And Sayid has never wanted anyone more! But, duty-bound to his country, Sayid can only commit to a brief affair. Will Lina accept his outrageous proposal of a week in the royal bed?

Scene set-up
Lina and Sayid met four years earlier when her family sent her to the palace as a gift for the Emir. Unlike the previous Emir, Sayid isn't thrilled to find a beautiful young innocent in his bedroom. Despite his instant attraction, honour overcomes lust and he sends her away. Now she's back, even more beautiful and distractingly disturbing and he can't get her out of his mind. Unable to sleep, he takes a midnight dip in the palace pool, only to run into Lina, literally, alone in the dark.

Smooch  -

‘Lina! Don’t look at me like that.’ The words ground from him, harsh and ragged.

Again that quick swipe of her bottom lip, as if her mouth was as dry as his.

‘Like what?’ Still she didn’t move away.

Sayid shook his head, determined to do the right thing as soon as he could unlock his hold on her arms.

Except she breathed deep and her breasts grazed him. A trail of fire rocketed through his ribs and abdomen, straight to his groin.

‘Like you want me to kiss you.’ He heard the rasp in his voice as duty battled desire, but she didn’t respond to that harsh warning.

She blinked up at him, her lips parted and slowly shook her head, her hair caressing him. Then her words, soft as the flutter of a nightingale’s wing, came to him. ‘But I do.’

The night stood still, except for his heart slamming his ribs and the saw of his breath, loud in the silence. Yet, hard as he fought, control was beyond him now.

A moment later his mouth captured hers.

*

Hard, callused hands grasped her tight. Sayid’s warm breath feathered her face. His rich, potent scent swirled within her as if she’d absorbed his essence. And above all, the press of his wet, hard body against hers devastated her senses in the most thrilling way.

Lina lifted her hands to his wet shoulders, relishing the strong bone, solid muscle and satiny skin beneath her questing hands.

Her daring surprised her, as if she made a habit of embracing men, when instead she’d spent years learning how to be friendly yet not encourage their advances.

Because, despite the stunning audacity of it, her heart, or perhaps her body, had fixed on Sayid Badawi as the only one she wanted. The one who, he’d made clear as he’d gently but firmly bundled her out of his bedroom and his life, was not for her. For of course he demanded sophistication and glamour, women who fitted his world of prestige and power.

This then was magic. A moment’s aberration.

An opportunity not to be missed. For too soon reality would end it.

Lina fell into his embrace. So long she’d imagined his mouth on hers. So long she’d pined for his touch. There was no holding back, no hesitation. And she discovered her imagination was a poor imitation of the real thing.

Being held by Sayid, kissed by him, made her head spin and her heart pound in delight. The taste of him, so rich, so…intimate, made her weak at the knees. Lina would have been completely overwhelmed except that it felt right.

His powerful arms dragged her up so that her breasts were crushed against that imposing, naked torso and she revelled in his strength, the urgency she sensed in him.

His lips were softer than she’d expected. But there was nothing tentative about his kiss. His tongue dived in, probing, licking and swirling. It inviting hers to curl in a dance of give and take that made her body prickle with a searing heat despite her damp swimsuit.

If being near Sayid was like being bathed in starlight, this was like being tossed up into the bright Milky Way itself.

She slipped her hands higher, combing them through the drenched hair at the back of his skull, spreading her fingers and cupping his head possessively.

If she could, she’d hold him here forever. Everyone knew magic was fleeting and she didn’t want this to end.

His hand dragged up her side, almost but not quite touching her breast and she shuddered. A second later that large hand planted itself on her cheek, angling her head higher as he bowed her back across his arm.

That combination of tenderness and mastery undid her.

With a great thump of her heart Lina abandoned any attempt at thought and let herself go, knowing Sayid wouldn’t let her fall. Everything his kiss demanded, she gave, revelling not just in the delicious new physical sensations, but her tangled, contrary feelings of power and helplessness.

When she pressed closer, slicking her tongue against his, he responded with a growl of pleasure deep in his throat that vibrated from his slick, hot body to hers. It made her quiver in delight.

She’d never felt so connected to another person. So… aroused. It was a heady new experience.

Liquid heat poured through her, pooling low in the centre of her body. Lina squirmed in his hold, trying to assuage the blind eagerness for more, more, more.

Then suddenly, devastatingly, it was over. Sayid’s hands gripped her upper arms, holding her steady as he straightened away from her.

His broad, bronzed chest rose and fell like overworked bellows. The furnace heat of his body encompassed her. But though she still tasted him on her tongue, her tingling lips couldn’t reach him and her hands had slipped from his head as he’d put her away from him.

Doubts assailed her. Regrets. Not for the kiss but because she hadn’t wanted it to end.

Hadn’t he enjoyed kissing her?

And of course the answer is YES. Sayid enjoyed it very much. He's having a difficult time letting her go.

I'm always interested in body language, behaviour and unspoken signals. So my question to you is, how do you know when someone is attracted? Is there something specific you've noticed (apart from the person telling you) when someone likes you? What do you notice about them?

Come back next Sunday, when the winner of today's giveaway will be announced and a smooch will be posted!

Smooch Graphic by WebWeaver

Sunday Smooch with Clare Connelly

Welcome to another LoveCats DownUnder Sunday Smooch!


Today we have a guest smooch from Clare Connelly but first 


....... the winner of last week's Sunday Smooch Giveaway is Nadia!


Can you please contact amy (at) amyandrews (dot) com (dot) au to receive your copy of Playing It Cool.






 And now for today's Sunday Smooch from The Sheik's Christmas Mistress which appears in Clare's A CASACELLI FOR CHRISTMAS  anthology - four stories featuring one dynamic and powerful family. 

Charlotte Faber falls head over heels for Sheikh Malik Desara the first time she sees him. And she thinks he's falling for her too. Until their holiday comes to an end and he proposes... for her to be his mistress!

 Malik might be all-powerful and super wealthy, but he isn't at liberty to marry a wife of his choosing. His future's been mapped out for him since birth. But the beautiful Charlotte captivates him in a way he's never experienced, and he will stop at nothing to keep her in his life, and in his bed. 

Charlotte Faber’s in a Swiss ski village to look into the mystery of her parentage. She doesn’t want to be derailed from her research, but when she walks into a bar and hears a tall, handsome man singing the most beautiful version of Hallelujah imaginable, every single cell in her body is intrigued … Later, in the warmth of his limousine … 

“Fancy,” she said with a dry tone, as he effortlessly uncorked the bottle, smothering the loud ‘pop’ with the palm of his hand.

“You don’t like champagne?” He asked, pausing in the act of filling a glass for her.

“It’s just a bit of a step down from the Ukrainian wine I usually drink.”

He laughed throatily. “You are being sarcastic.”

She shrugged. “This is so not the norm for me. Riding in the back of some space-ship car, drinking a bottle of champagne that probably costs a month’s rent on my flat, with a strange man I can’t decide if I’m annoyed at or...” she tapered off, her cheeks warm as she realised what she’d been about to say. Wildly attracted to.

“Yes?” He urged, his lips tilted in undisguised amusement.

“Even more annoyed at.” She substituted crossly, but his mocking glance showed he understood exactly what she’d been thinking.

The silence was anything but comfortable for Charlotte. Every second she spent in his company was doing strange things to her central nervous system. She could have sworn her skin had actually begun to tingle. Finally, he spoke. “So because this is unusual you want to end it?”

“No,” she contradicted. “I’m not ending anything. You kindly returned my coat, and that’s the end of our business together.”

“I think you’re wrong,” he said quietly, handing the champagne to her.

“Oh, do you?” She was surprised that her fingertips wrapped around the stem of the glass. Even more so when she lifted it to her lips and tasted the incredibly fine liquid.

“I think our business together is just beginning.”

She laughed, in spite of the way her bones seemed to melt at his softly spoken words. “That’s such a cheesy line,” she chided. Who cared that it had the exact effect he’d intended? Her heart was racing, her nipples straining against the soft fabric of her shirt.

She was excited. Very excited.

“Not one I’ve ever used before,” he promised huskily.

She found his declaration difficult to believe. He was too effortlessly charming. Too confidently suave. “That doesn’t matter. I’m not the kind of woman you think I am.”

“Oh? And what do I think you are?”

She rolled her eyes, self-conscious suddenly. “I know the way I look. I know that men see big breasts and blonde hair, and think I must be lining up for one night stands.”

“And you’re not?” He asked, leaning forward, so that his face was only an inch from hers.

“God, no!” She shook her head, but when she realised that it brought her mouth within striking range of his, she cleared her throat and pressed back in the seat. “Look, to each their own. I think it’s great that women can have a healthy sex life in this day and age. I’m not a prude. But I don’t appreciate being hit on by men I’ve just met. Even if you are as sexy as they come.”

Malik didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh in amusement or groan in frustration. He was not accustomed to being turned down. Even before he’d ascended to throne of Ashan, he had never found it difficult to entice women into his bed. The problem had been kicking them out when they no longer interested him. But the desire this woman had flared in him was intense. He wanted to explore it.

And yet, there was something about her that was even more appealing than the way she made him feel. She was fascinating. Like a bug under the microscope, he was enjoying watching her squirm.

“You think I’m sexy,” he repeated, and this time, when he moved closer to Charlotte, his mouth hovered just above hers.

Charlotte gulped nervously. “Yes.” It was just a whisper. A soft admission of thought-guilt.

“Good.” He took possession of her mouth, as he had wanted to do from the first minute he’d seen her. He’d intended it to be a light kiss, but the second they connected, his body sparked with electricity, and the kiss blew out of his control. His hands hungrily ran the length of her body. He balled her shirt in his fists and lifted it, so that he could feel her warm skin beneath. Her heart shuddered beneath his touch as he skimmed his hands over the lace of her bra. He lowered his mouth, nibbling and tasting the sensitive flesh to the side of her neck.

Charlotte’s moan was almost his undoing, but he forced himself to remember who he was, and where he was. His driver was completely scrupulous but Sheikh Desara had a reputation and a code of honour to protect. Public love-making was not acceptable. With eyes that glittered with promise, he lifted his head, but he kept his hands where they were, in contact with her generous curves.

“Invite me into your hotel,” he demanded, moving his thumb in a rhythmic pattern across her sensitised nipple.

Charlotte was tempted. Oh, so tempted. But she knew she couldn’t do it. She shook her head. “I told you, I don’t go in for one night stands. One kiss isn’t going to change that.”

Malik’s respect grew, for he knew how torn she was. Her desire for him was as great as his for her, yet she was sticking to her original declaration.

“I understand,” he surprised her by saying. “I have no interest in a one night stand with you, anyway.”

“You don’t?” She squeaked, immediately regretting that she’d said ‘no’ to what would undoubtedly have been a night of mind-blowing sex with this guy.

“No.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat then handed the champagne back to him. The disappointment was gripping. “Then if you’ll just get my coat...”

“First, I want you to promise me something,” he said quietly.

“What is it?”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow.” He named the finest restaurant in the resort town, run by a famous French chef.

“I... but why?”

“I should have thought that would be obvious.” He said smoothly. “I don’t want a one night stand with you. But I do want you.”

Charlotte lowered her eyes, her mind buzzing with doubts. “So lunch is what? A pre-cursor to seduction?”

He reached over and lifted her chin with the pad of his thumb. “Yes.” He would have her. It was written in the stars as surely as her cheeks were flushed with desire and her pupils dilated with lust. Before he returned to Ashan, he would have conquered Charlotte Faber. Body, mind and soul, she would be his.

The Cascelli anthology is full of festive magic and traditions – and debate over what constitutes a truly great Christmas pudding! I’m a little torn on traditions. My husband’s family have a really old pudding recipe – as in seven generations. BUT it’s a wine-free pud, and that seems all kinds of wrong to me (my homemade fruit mince could drive a car on its fumes alone…). My mum used to make pomanders with us every year, so the smell of cloves makes me want to break out into carols regardless of the season. We also used to forage wild flowers and kindling to make our own wreaths – something I now do with my kids every Christmas. What’s your favourite festive tradition? Do you stick with the time-honoured or have you made up your own? 

Clare is giving away a signed paperback copy - open internationally - of the anthology (four books for your reading pleasure!!) to one lucky person who comments below!

Come back next Sunday, when the winner of today's giveaway will be announced and a new smooch will be posted!

Smooch Graphic by WebWeaver

A guest post from Clare Connelly

It is my pleasure to introuduce everyone to Clare Connelly. I met Clare at the recent RWAustralia conference in Adelaide at the cocktail party. Here we are -

We got chatting and I dsicovered that she'd written dozens of category romance novels as an indie. I was very excited to learn this given how category romance is my first love and to meet an Aussie indie author who loves it as much as I do and is making a successful career out of it, is totally aweome. So we asked her to come and tell us a bit about herself because we know how much you guys love category romance too and finding a new author to love, especially one with such an extensive backlist, is like finding gold! So...here she is!

A huge thanks to the LoveCats for inviting me to post on the blog today. I feel really (really, really) thrilled to be here. 

So far as she could tell, his thick dark hair was still as wonderfully dark as ever, although he was wearing it shorter than he used to. Apart from that, nothing seemed to have changed. Every little line, all the small laughing creases were all the same. He was as wonderful as ever.

Thus began the first false start in my career as a romance writer, and wasn’t it a doozy?

I wrote my maiden full-length category romance at fifteen, and you’ve just suffered but a brief excerpt from within its pages. Looking back, it’s a hybrid that reflects with horrifying accuracy a crucible of my interests. At the time these were, Jane Austen, The Bold & The Beautiful, all things Emma Darcy and apparently a weak-spot for hyperbole and repetition.

But I wrote the thing, all fifty thousand words of it, printed it out, had my mother and sister edit it (what they must have thought!). Despite their kindly-couched tips for improvement, I sent the manuscript off to the London Harlequin office. This was in the days well before e-submissions and I waited with baited (you might even say arrogantly hopeful) breath to hear. Six months later, on beautifully watermarked letterhead I received the crushing death knell to my teenage aspirations: WHILE WE THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUBMISSION … You can imagine the rest.  I consoled myself with the dreariest Hanson song I could find (WEIRD, for those of you playing along at home.)

It would be more than a decade before I completed another manuscript though, like many aspiring writers, I wrote tirelessly in the interim. I filled the internet with the ramblings of my heart (thank you, Wordsworth), penning blogs, emails and recipes. And all the while, I read voraciously – on average, a category romance novel a day. It’s a wonder my feet could touch the ground!

In 2012, I gave up a dream job working with Maggie Beer to have my little people. The business of being a mum to two kids under twenty months was H-E-C-T-I-C and I craved both the routine of my career and the distraction of grown-ups – even if I had to make them up.

And so I wrote. I treated my writing as a job long before I had any real hopes of publication. I figured that the best way to be a real writer was to start acting like one.

My word-count-goal used to be two thousand words per day. Multiply that by thirty-ish days and bam! A full-length category romance could be completed in roughly a month, if it was well-plotted. Because writing is easy and things always go to plan, right?

No.

It took a lot longer the first time around, and it was rubbish (plot holes everywhere). The first five I completed felt wrong. Something was missing. I wrote, and I wrote, and I read and I read and finally I finished a book that, after giving it some breathing space and returning to it with fresh eyes, caused within my heart the same flutters it feels when I read my favourite romances.

Having yet again knocked ever so gently on Harlequin’s doors and been told ‘no thanks’, I was becoming convinced I would need to set aside my dreams of making any kind of career out of writing. Until my sister strenuously urged me to stop being such a wuss and do that thing everyone’s talking about: self-publish.

And so, dear reader, I married him. Wait. That’s not right, but you get the gist.

I self-published with remarkably little research, preparation, fanfare, and with a compensating degree of Dutch Courage in the form of red wine. Thanks to Amazon’s almost Orwellian reporting algorithms, I saw a sale flash up on my graphs about five minutes later. And then another. And then another. I wasn’t going to be the next EL James just yet but, right from the start, hundreds of copies of my book were selling each week which, to me, was utterly surreal. Who were these people, and how were they finding me?

It’s been two years since that large glass of Maggie Beer Shiraz (you know she produces wine too, don’t you?) and I have published thirty-eight single titles, several anthologies and now write full-time. Or as full time as a five and four-year-old allow.

“Jenevieve!” He pulled her closer, gritting his teeth. She could feel the purity of his anger as he stared down at her, nothing but hatred in his black eyes.

Which brings me finally to my predilection for angsty alpha-males (sorry, having dragged out the old MS I don’t seem able to stop.) Even as a teenager I seemed drawn to those passionate anti-heroes. The kind of bad boys who are all heart – but a heart that’s buried a long way beneath their arrogant, angry, mocking exteriors (and what exteriors they tend to have, swoon). Half of my catalogue falls into contemporary catalogue romance (think Billionaire Mediterranean hunks) and half are Sheikh romances, which I adore for their arrogance-by-birthright. I no longer describe their purity of anger and I allow them to have a little lust in their eyes…

What kind of hero makes you tick? Are you a sucker for good-at-heart-bad-boys or do you love to read about those sensitive, kind new-age guys? Or a little bit of both (because who says you can only have one book boyfriend at a time?).

Clare's bio - 

Clare Connelly first discovered romance novels as an adolescent and learned almost everything she knows about life from within the pages of a Mills & Boon. She has a small family and a bungalow near the sea in South Australia. When she isn't chasing after energetic little children, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.

You can check her out a little more or just perve at the background picture) at www.clareconnelly.com