The main reason I changed from Blogger to Weebly is because my blogging skills are useless. I feel slightly less of a failure if I have an occassionally updated website, rather than a tumblewood blog. I'm still trying to get to grips with the way Weebly works, because I'm not the most techno savvy of people. I also hate having to faff about just to make a first post with a picutre attached. I'll either get used to it, or I won't. Maybe I'll' return to Blogger if this doesn't work out.
Anyway, now I've embarked on my first post, I suppose I should update with news. 2011 wasn't a overly productive year for me, writing-wise. A crisis of confidence and a good dose of laziness are the only excuses I have. I did redeem myself towards the end of the year with a book I sold to Total E Bound. It’s called Loathing Leo, and here’s the wonderful cover.
I’ve also sold a book to Loose Id, which, I’m led to believe may be out as soon as August. I’ve got an up and coming short story (I say short, when at around 15000 words it’s more of a novelette), Trick of the Night, which will featue in my crit group’s anthology. The book should release at the end of this month. Hopefully my mammoth short won’t hog too many e-pages. I’m already 10,000 words into a sequel.
BTW, I have yet to locate the spell check here (if one exists) so I apologise for any typos that may feature in the post.
I'll end with a extract from Trick of the Night. I'll just add that Tony is a bit of a pig, and Laine is not all she seems.
*
BTW, I have yet to locate the spell check here (if one exists) so I apologise for any typos that may feature in the post.
I'll end with a extract from Trick of the Night. I'll just add that Tony is a bit of a pig, and Laine is not all she seems.
*
The waiter appeared, pushing a trolley loaded covered plates. Tony focused on the broad planes his black trouser-clad arse, but found the sight only a little more alluring than the slight swell of Laine’s breasts beneath her dress.
At least she’d ordered another bottle of champagne, which the waiter promptly opened. Good. If he remembered rightly, and he did, feigning sexual interest in a woman would prove thirsty work. Glass refilled, he downed the flurry of bubbles in a single mouthful. When he offered the glass for a refill, the waiter glanced at Laine as if in sympathy.
“Clearly,”Laine said, after the meals had been placed before them and the waiter tipped and dismissed, “you enjoy a drink. Doesn’t alcohol affect your fitness levels?”
“If, by ‘fitness levels’ you mean you’re worried about how it’ll affect my performance in bed, then don’t bother.” He swallowed the champagne in two gulps. “The champagne’s gonna be the least of our problems.” He belched, loud enough to blast a ripple of shockwaves through the chandelier above the bed.
Laine pressed her scarlet lips together, picked up her fork, and set about an exotic looking salad full of brightly-coloured and unappetising strips of fruit and vegetables. “We’re not in bed.”
“Yet,”Tony muttered, and reached for the champagne.
In one fluid movement, Laine leaned over the table and grabbed the bottle by the neck. She whipped it free of the ice bucket, rose, and stormed towards what Tony suspected might be the bathroom, in her crimson heels. She returned a moment later with an empty bottle, which she slammed between them on the table before resuming her seat. The she picked up a fork, and stabbed the wits from a cherry tomato. Juice spewed from the puncture wounds like miniature water cannons and almost doused the already feeble candle flame.
Tony cleared his throat. “You want me to leave?” He was already poised to hit the hall.
Laine lifted her gaze. A flicker of rage smouldered in the depths of her dark eyes.“No. Just eat.”
Fine. He could do that. He’d much rather eat than be talked down to anyway. He pushed his fingers into a blob of caviar set on a tiny slither of cracker, then touched the tip to his lips. Not bad. Tasted like cum. Nothing special. Did people honestly pay hundreds of pounds for this?
Why should he be so surprised? Wasn’t any less likely than a woman paying hundreds of pounds for a couple of hours in bed with him.
He pushed the cracker around the plate, and debated on whether he could bring himself to indulge a proper taste. Just as he'd made up his mind to give it a go, the plate was whipped cleanly away, quick as the champagne, by a red-taloned claw.
“Finished?”Laine dumped the plate on the trolley and banged another in front of him.
At least she’d ordered another bottle of champagne, which the waiter promptly opened. Good. If he remembered rightly, and he did, feigning sexual interest in a woman would prove thirsty work. Glass refilled, he downed the flurry of bubbles in a single mouthful. When he offered the glass for a refill, the waiter glanced at Laine as if in sympathy.
“Clearly,”Laine said, after the meals had been placed before them and the waiter tipped and dismissed, “you enjoy a drink. Doesn’t alcohol affect your fitness levels?”
“If, by ‘fitness levels’ you mean you’re worried about how it’ll affect my performance in bed, then don’t bother.” He swallowed the champagne in two gulps. “The champagne’s gonna be the least of our problems.” He belched, loud enough to blast a ripple of shockwaves through the chandelier above the bed.
Laine pressed her scarlet lips together, picked up her fork, and set about an exotic looking salad full of brightly-coloured and unappetising strips of fruit and vegetables. “We’re not in bed.”
“Yet,”Tony muttered, and reached for the champagne.
In one fluid movement, Laine leaned over the table and grabbed the bottle by the neck. She whipped it free of the ice bucket, rose, and stormed towards what Tony suspected might be the bathroom, in her crimson heels. She returned a moment later with an empty bottle, which she slammed between them on the table before resuming her seat. The she picked up a fork, and stabbed the wits from a cherry tomato. Juice spewed from the puncture wounds like miniature water cannons and almost doused the already feeble candle flame.
Tony cleared his throat. “You want me to leave?” He was already poised to hit the hall.
Laine lifted her gaze. A flicker of rage smouldered in the depths of her dark eyes.“No. Just eat.”
Fine. He could do that. He’d much rather eat than be talked down to anyway. He pushed his fingers into a blob of caviar set on a tiny slither of cracker, then touched the tip to his lips. Not bad. Tasted like cum. Nothing special. Did people honestly pay hundreds of pounds for this?
Why should he be so surprised? Wasn’t any less likely than a woman paying hundreds of pounds for a couple of hours in bed with him.
He pushed the cracker around the plate, and debated on whether he could bring himself to indulge a proper taste. Just as he'd made up his mind to give it a go, the plate was whipped cleanly away, quick as the champagne, by a red-taloned claw.
“Finished?”Laine dumped the plate on the trolley and banged another in front of him.
RSS Feed
