From the Cutting Room Floor 5

More conversation between Rye's Parents (At their house after Rye found out about Lacey's date)

“Does your son know it’s the middle of summer,” Emily Ann asked absently as she tried once again to curl a stubborn sliver of chocolate into a flower petal. When it broke into several tiny pieces, she threw up her hands, her frustration obvious.

“Why don’t you take a break and try again later? You’ve been working on that one section for an hour,” Jackson advised gruffly, looking over the top of his newspaper.

He and Emily Ann were in the kitchen, him at the breakfast table, her at the granite-topped island, both periodically peering out the picture window at Rye in the backyard. His son, donned only in an old pair of old basketball shorts, was chopping his second cord of firewood of the day. It didn’t seem to matter that it was early June. Sunday after returning from their visit with Jensen in New York, they’d discovered Rye holed-up in the woodworking shop. Today was Tuesday, and Rye hadn’t once ventured over to spend any time with them. Emily Ann was about to drive him insane with her worrying.

This morning for his daily walk he just happened to end up next door, spotting John gathering vegetables from the garden. As Jackson had suspected, John relayed there had been some friction with Rye and Lacey on Sunday. Enough said. His son had woman problems.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Emily Ann asked for the hundredth time as she agonized over the instruction sheet for the curling set. “I don’t understand why I have to keep prodding you to check on your own child. I would talk to him myself but obviously it’s not something he needs his mother for.”

Jackson sighed and turned the page of his paper. “He’s a man, Emily Ann. Sometimes you have to let a man work things out in his own time,” Jackson muttered even as he cast another concerned glance at his son.

“Yes, and I know a man who’ll have to work some things out all by himself, too, unless he checks on my baby,” Emily Ann said, sending a pointed look at his crotch. Then she returned to studying the instructions laid out in front of her, as if she hadn’t just brought out the biggest gun she owned and aimed it at him.

Suddenly, as if he was on fire, Jackson walked out the patio door to the backyard. As he walked, he shook his head and berated the weakness of his flesh, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Writing Process Blog Tour

I got tagged by the phenomonal Nia Forrester, author of prolific works ‘Afterwards’ and ‘Afterburn’, to take part in a blog tour of authors, discussing their “writing process”. Here goes:

What am I working on?

Currently, my main focus is my second release, ‘I Do…Unless I Don’t’. The full-length novel follows Mila Vincent, a former supermodel set to marry her unexpected love, Jaxon “Jax” Hawthorne—that is, if he can keep his rogue father in check.

 

I’m also working on another stand-alone novel, ‘Unraveled’, which follows the emotional journey of Jace and Jasmine. The bond between the pair seems solid…unshakeable, until it’s dismantled—one layer of deceit at a time.

As soon as those two novels are finished I will begin a stand-alone offering based on a supporting character from my debut novel, Taste of Lacey. A reader contest will determine who will get her book first, Lisa or Monica.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I’m so new to writing that I haven’t quite defined my ‘style’ yet. I love a mix of romance combined with a hint of intrigue, a heaping of sexiness, and bit of multi-cultural spice. I’m probably a little different from others because I throw all those ingredients in at the same time. I also try to incorporate ethnic differences in a manner that is not stereotypical, but in a way that adds complexity to the characters.

Why do I write what I do?

I write what feels good, and right now, that is unequivocally romance—specifically interracial romance. The looks, the sighs, the touches, and all the subtleties of falling in love fascinate me.  I love happy endings, though I throw in a few bumps and bruises getting there. The majority of the conflict my characters face is internal in nature, so there’s a lot of pressure to make it believable. Very rarely will I incorporate suspense or mystery into my books. My goal is to open windows or doors that gives readers a view of the intimate side of adult relationships.

 

How does my writing process work?

There is no rhyme to my reason. I am constantly writing, though not every idea lands on paper. I am the most creative when I’m driving and listening to my favorite playlists. I’ve been known to complete a scene on the back of an envelope after I’ve left the post office! I can pen as much as 10K words a day or zero, depending on whether my muse graces me with her presence. I get frustrated because I cannot write a short story to save my life; I cut almost 30K words from my first novel, Taste of lacey. Also, I cannot write out of sequence, which makes my process tedious and slow at times. I’m most productive when I work on several projects at once—probably not the best method, but it works for me.

Now that you know the method to my madness, please check out my picks for the blog tour:

Leila Lacey, author of the dynamic ‘Dr. Black’s Patient’ and new releases, ‘Southern Charm’ and 'Love on the Islands'.

Blake Haugen, author of the bestselling ‘Full Circle Trilogy’.

I’ve read and enjoyed both these authors’ works, and I’m sure you will, too! Happy Reading!

Linden

From the Cutting Room Floor 4

Proceed With Caution, For Mature Readers Only!

“God, I must look a hot mess,” Lacey croaked, reaching up to smooth her wild mane of  hair. If they kept this up, Rye would have to get better acquainted with her wrapping scarf that she could not do without.

“You look beautiful,” Rye mumbled, nipping softly at the curve of her shoulder as he worked his hand between her thighs.

“Umm, you do this every time. You know I have to go,” she protested even as she wiggled her bottom against his growing erection. “Since you kidnapped me last night you’ve got to take me to my house so I can change clothes and get my car.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Rye rasped as he lightly pulled her taut nipple. “Your overnight bag is in the bathroom closet along with your magic little hair iron and a change of clothes, so we don't have to go by your house. I can take you straight to the reception hall and that means more time for…this.”

“You packed a bag for me? How? When?" she asked, shocked by his thoughtfulness. And his sneakiness.

"Yesterday when I was running errands.”

"That’s so sweet, but did you get a uniform? I’ll never hear the end of it if the boss isn’t dressed properly.”

Rye quickly shifted their positions until he lay on top of her, balancing himself between thighs. Her legs automatically bent at the knees to cradle his lean hips. With one hand, he reached for her phone and sent a quick text to Monica requesting that she bring Lacey's ‘uniform’, which consisted of her standard wheat slacks and white blouse. Within seconds Monica replied that she would.

“Problem solved,” he said, grinning. Lacey just smiled and shook her head at Rye’s tenacity. The man was crafty when he wanted his way, or when he wanted her. Already wet, she looped her arms around his neck, wrapped her legs around his waist and crossed them at the ankles, entrapping him. He gave a wolfish grin before grabbing a condom. The laughter stopped when he caught and held her gaze, and without further warning plunged his hard shaft into her moist tunnel, causing her breath to exhale rapidly from her softly parted lips.

Never taking his eyes from her Rye worked his hardness inside her pausing when he could go no further. It was so good that Lacey closed her eyes to absorb the erotic sensations working through her entire being.

“No. Open your eyes,” Rye commanded, his breath coming in fast, raspy huffs. “Look at me taking you, you taking me.”

Instead of plunging hard and fast, Rye twisted his hips in rigidly controlled thrusts, barely moving at all. Slow and deep.

“God Lacey you are melting me. You’re making me feel so good that I want to come right this second.” He continued his shallow strokes. They became quicker and deeper, but he never pulled completely out of her sheath. Over and again he moved, angling himself so that he hit her sensitive spot and sent shards of pleasure down her spine. "Yes, just like that, baby. You feel so good."

“Rye,” Lacey groaned, almost coming to pieces right then. She hadn’t known it was possible, but Rye was owning her as much with his words as with his hard length buried to the hilt inside of her. And the ever increasing look of agony on his face wasn't helping her situation. He held her eyes so she could see everything he was feeling, multiplying her own pleasure.

“That’s it baby. Look at me, feel me about to explode. Know it’s you making me feel so damn good,” Rye whispered in the same choked rhythm that he swiveled his hips inside of her.

Lacey couldn’t help it. The prickly sensation that started at her oversensitive clit branched to her every nerve ending. Her nose flared with the effort to get enough air and her lids refused to stay apart. Immediately Rye grasped her chin and directed her eyes back to him. "I know you're feeling it too. You're so wet. So hot."

Her eyes moved to close again after his sensual words.

“No. Look at me and we will come together. Right now. Come hard Lacey,” he demanded, his voice deep and gravelly.

She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. She could only feel. Feel the tremendous physical ecstasy of an earth-shattering climax. Feel the overwhelming sensation of him seeping into her soul, taking her over. The feeling was so intense that tears ran from her troubled brown eyes as she lost herself in the deep blue sea of his. Sinking.

Thank you!

One month ago, I put my babies on stage, and you welcomed Rye & Lacey with open arms. I cannot thank you enough! Much love ~ Linden

Meet Jax...

I Do...Unless I Don't Coming Soon...

Jax strode down the hallway to find his fiancée. He didn’t give a good damn if the three Vincent intruders were offended by his rudeness or by his near nudity. This was his house.

           
           Propped against the doorway of the bathroom, arms folded, he watched as Mila dropped several toiletry items into an overnight bag.
         
           “So you’re leaving?”

Her face was an unyielding mask as she picked up a small bag and placed it beside a larger one on the granite countertop.

“I need some time with my family to think things over. You need to do the same.”

For a long moment he examined every inch of the woman he loved. Fresh from her shower, with no makeup and her hair slicked back, she was so beautiful it made his breath burn in his lungs. He freely admitted her physical attributes had been the initial hook for him; hell, his addiction to her brown skin and lithe body started on day one. Beyond the combination of high cheekbones, angular chin and plump lips instrumental in making her an international beauty icon, he was drawn to her strength, her unshakeable convictions. Her loyalty. Her caring nature.

Just being in her presence was like receiving repeated oxygen boosts after having the wind knocked out of him. He wanted to give her everything he owned, but she had to be willing to accept it. And forget about trivial nonsense.  Thick disappointment lodged in his throat at the thought of her running away but he refused to beg her to stay.

“Okay.”

She hesitated for a moment, but then continued pulling from the few clothes in the closet.

“I didn’t ask your permission Jaxon.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Miss Vincent,” he said, sighing as he entered the spacious enclosure. Pulling a folded black sweater from the shelf, he worked it over his head and then stepped into a pair of slate grey slacks before slipping on socks, shoes and a belt. When he went to his bureau and slapped on a hint of the sweet-spicy cologne she’d given him, her eyes grew round and her packing halted.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yep.”

“Where are you going this late at night?”

“Out,” he replied, draping a black wool sports coat over his arm.

Grooves of a scowl lined her forehead. “But…I thought you were tired?”

“Yep. And don’t forget hungry and horny.” He patted his pockets, satisfied when he felt the prickle of his keys. Then he checked his wallet for the essentials. He deliberately left the mobile phone on the valet stand.

“What did you just put in your wallet? And why aren’t you taking your phone?” Mila almost shrilled as she followed him to the hallway between the closet and bathroom. “Are you’re still hungry? And horny?”

He turned and made sure to give her a cordial smile, much like one he’d give a stranger on the street.

“My needs were the least of your concern just a little while ago. Don’t start worrying about me now.”

From the Cutting Room Floor 3

Rye and Lacey, after a concert, at Rye's condo:

Lacey left Rye to sort his mail and listen to his messages, making her way through the tastefully decorated corporate residence to the master bathroom. Of course she’d been there many times before, but since she and Rye were intimate now she looked at everything in a new light. She smiled as she surveyed his closet, knowing he liked things neat but wasn’t compulsive about it like she was. He wasn’t a clotheshorse, but had plenty of quality, items, and they were organized for the most part. She was also glad to know that the apartment, especially the bedroom, wasn’t strictly a utilitarian bachelor spot. Thanks to either Emily Ann’s or Jensen’s influence--and she hoped no other woman’s--the place had a homey feel. The modern furniture pieces were of neutral tones, but colorful accents were strategically placed for cohesion. She liked it. Before, she wouldn’t have given the dynamics of his living conditions a second thought, now she couldn’t help think how well their tastes and styles would merge.

            She had no business thinking about such things.

            Muttering a self-reprimand, she opened the sink doors and found a bottle of body scrub and prayed it was Jensen’s and not some hoochie’s. She sighed in relief when she discovered the seal on the fruity blend hadn’t been broken yet, a virgin bottle. Surely a shower would help wash away her angst and doubts about Rye’s ability to be in a committed relationship. Earlier, at the concert, it had been tortuous to watch the desire and longing on Dana's face as the woman gazed at Rye. Lacey had seen that look a dozen times before, but this time was different because Rye was hers. It made her sick to know that Dana knew Rye intimately, had felt his touch, could describe what he looked like when he came.

            “Oh, God,” Lacey groaned, cupping her hands over her face. How was she going to get past this insane jealousy? It was so not becoming of a progressive woman and business owner. Rye had told her he belonged to her; why was it so hard to believe it?

           She’d never been bold and outspoken like Monica or assured to the point of cockiness like Lisa, but she’d always held her own. No, she hadn’t dated in a while before Rye, but not from lack of opportunity. Men desired her; she’d just chosen to be alone because as Mark had proclaimed, she preferred The Thymes as her bedmate. That was then. Now she was with a man she couldn’t get enough of, who was desired by lots of women. Thicker skin on her part was definitely in order.

            She toweled dry after stepping out of the shower, noticing that at some point Rye had taken her clothes away. He must have put them in the washer. Determined not to parade around his home buck-naked, she rummaged through his dresser until she found a plain white t-shirt neatly folded in the fourth drawer she opened. Donning the smallest one she could find, she smiled when she saw it fit rather snuggly around her breasts and backside to stop midway her thighs. Rye would like that; he loved anything that drew attention to his favorite parts of her anatomy. On second thought, her sweet stuff was giving her boobs and butt hell in competition for Rye's favor.

          Making her way to the living room, she found him sitting on the sofa wearing only a pair of boxers. His skin was a bit flushed and his hair stood on end. He must have showered in the second bathroom.

            “Better?” he asked in a low husk, his eyes burning a trail from her damp hair to her bare feet. He’d opened the curtains, revealing floor to ceiling windows and giving them a perfect thirtieth floor view of the city. Then he just stared.

            

            She nodded, her voice forgotten, so entranced was she by the heat in his eyes. Had she bothered with panties, they would be worthless right now; she was already wet from his visual attention alone.

            “Take the shirt off,” he ordered softly.

            Without hesitation, she crossed her arms and caught the fabric at the hem, then lifted it over her head. The the material fluttered soundlessly to the floor and she stood naked in front of him, awaiting his next command.

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From the Cutting Room Floor 2

At the McKay's home during the rainstorm:

While Jackson lit pillar candles, Rye shocked Lacey by scooping her onto his lap before leaning back against the sofa. At first she felt uncomfortable in such an intimate position in front of his family, but when no one else seemed to think much of it, she eventually relaxed and enjoyed being close to him. As they listened to Emily Ann and Jackson share stories about their courtship, Rye commenced to putting Lacey in a tortuous state of arousal. As his parents talked, he ran his knuckles up and down her arm with one hand and worked his thumb in the center of her back with the other. Periodically, he nipped at her neck or shoulder, sending shivers of pleasure down her spine. To make matters worse, he arched his heavy, throbbing manhood against her behind and let her feel what touching her did to him. Finally when panties were so damp she felt in need of an underwear change, she grabbed his muscled thigh and with pleading eyes, begged him to stop .

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From the Cutting Room Floor 1...

A conversation between Rye's parents after the rainstorm:

On the other side of the house, Emily Ann waited anxiously for her husband to come back with a report.

“Where’d they end up?”

“In the den, on the sofa.”

“I knew it!” Emily Ann exclaimed. “I knew he couldn’t make it through the whole night without her. I’m so excited,” she said, clapping her hands together.

Jackson crawled into the bed and gathered his wife in his arms. “I’m a little disappointed, though,” he said with a sigh.

“Why?” she frowned.

“At least I made it half the night when I was in the same situation at your parent’s house.  The fruit of my loins couldn’t even hold out for two measly hours. He’s in more trouble than I thought.”

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