Today we welcome Paisley Smith and Delilah Devlin to the Writers Gone Wild blog. They've got some sizzling reads on the docket and are here to tell us more!
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Gilded Cage by Delilah Devlin
Here’s a snippet from my story, Butterfly:
Flipping open her cell phone, Narcissa shot her sister a text. Am here. Where r u?
She looked around the bar once more, just to make certain Elena wasn’t already here scoping out prey. Two guys, obviously tourists, sat under a television, watching a baseball game. Another man removed a business card from among the thousands thumb-tacked to the wall. Blandly curious, Narcissa focused until the words on the card converged into clear view. Madame LaVeux’s Escort Service. “Everybody’s looking for something,” she muttered aloud as her gaze paused on a café au lait-skinned beauty sitting alone at a table.
Immediately, Narcissa’s attention riveted to the woman’s luscious pair of tits straining to be contained in a tight tank, with cleavage up to her chin and dark, suckable nipples visible through the mass of corkscrew curls meandering around the swollen mounds. Curvy and succulent, the woman stared back, her eyes glimmering gold in the spotlight coming from the area where the band played.
Narcissa gave her a smile and lifted her glass in silent salute. The unsmiling woman gave her one knowing nod. But she wouldn’t be Narcissa’s dessert. The Creole babe was exactly Elena’s type. Narcissa couldn’t help but shimmer with smug pleasure. Wouldn’t her sister be thrilled that she’d saved one for her—for once?
But there was something about the woman that—
“Our bass player’s gonna sing the last one,” a voice rang out over the crowd. “Give it up for Butterfly Baudelaire!”
Narcissa’s attention flicked to where a four-member band moved about on a small raised platform. The group’s bass player, a black-haired hottie, changed places with the lead singer, sidling up to the microphone then checking the knobs on her instrument. Wearing a black tank that showed off her squared shoulders and muscular, half-sleeve-tattooed arms, and a pair of shiny tight pants that fit her long, lean legs like a snake’s skin, everything about this little Butterfly called to Narcissa.
Now, this one is my type.
Wide belts draped around the girl’s boyishly narrow hips. A super-short haircut and black combat boots completed the butch beauty’s ensemble.
“Two, three, four!” She counted the band off with authority as her fingers plucked the bass strings, kicking off the first measures of a heart-thumping, bluesy song. Butterfly practically caressed the mic with her lips, leaning her head to one side so that her black bangs fell across her eyes, before opening her mouth to sing. Her voice rang out, raw and sexy, as gritty as Bourbon Street itself.
Intrigued, Narcissa watched, propping one elbow on the bar and crossing her legs so that her knees aimed at the sultry singer. And then Butterfly’s stare lifted and pinned Narcissa, unfurling through the vampire like the intoxicating warmth of the absinthe flowing into her body. Like blood.
Just the thought of disappearing into a darkened corner with this lip-smackingly Sapphic songbird made Narcissa’s barely there panties dampen. And not just that. Now she had a raging fang-on.
A trickle of perspiration trailed down the side of Butterfly’s face and Narcissa licked her lips at the thought of letting her tongue follow that salty trace right down to—
Narcissa peered, drawing the wounds into focus. The mark was days old, the purplish indentations where teeth had pressed into Butterfly’s ivory skin barely visible, but there nonetheless. Instinctively, Narcissa’s tongue touched the point of one of her fangs.
She ought to retract them, to look away from the provocative spectacle on the stage. But she didn’t want to. Besides, this new New Orleans belonged to Anne Rice and Charlaine Harris and their multitudes of vampire aficionado fans. A high percentage of the people traipsing up and down Bourbon Street sported fangs, albeit fake ones.
No. If the little Butterfly liked to be nibbled on, then Narcissa was not about to be shy about the fact that she possessed the proper equipment with which to do it.
Novice witch MeLeah McKinney is on a mission to retrieve a talisman from the grave of Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau. The relic must be energized via a sex-magick ritual—a tall order since MeLeah has no partner. She decides to gather energy at a live sex show on Bourbon Street. She doesn’t count on help from Celestine Laveau’s ghost, who’s crossed the rainbow bridge to bring ecstasy to the young witch—and serve her own agenda.
The Mambo’s Door by Delilah Devlin
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Ingrid gave up fighting the attraction she’d felt since the first moment she’d spied the woman sitting on the porch. Marie’s skin was a pretty café au lait, her hair was long and a lustrous, inky black. Her eyes were brown, but with golden lights that reflected the lantern’s glow. Naked, her body was a tomboy’s dream—lush, full curves above and below a trim waist. Marie’s scent ratcheted up Ingrid’s arousal—a pungent mix of herbs and patchouli that drifted over to her with the mambo’s every movement.
The invitation was there. In the half-lidded stare, the pout of her lips, the ruching of her lovely areolas.
Even the slight sway of the cabin on its stilts, the sound of water flooding slowly beneath it, as though the house were a boat drifting on a lazy sea, added an extra layer to the lush invitation. One she wasn’t going to refuse. She had nowhere to go for a few hours anyway. Why not taste the mambo’s passion?
Urgent heat raced through her body, spiking her nipples, swelling her folds. Ingrid slid off her ball cap, released her hair from its clip and shook her head to let it tumble around her shoulders. She scraped her tee from her waistband and pulled it over her head. Then there were hands helping her, pulling down the cups of her bra to bare her breasts.
Ingrid laughed and tossed away her shirt, then unsnapped the bra and let it fall away. She unbuckled her belt, toed off her sneakers and stood while Marie dipped to shove her jeans down her legs.
When she was nude, the two women walked hand in hand to the bed and lay down facing each other.
Marie rubbed Ingrid’s nipple. “It’s been so long. C’est bien.”
“I thought time had no meaning here.”
“Even before. I took male lovers with deep pockets. So much easier to manipulate. My mouth on their cocks enslaved them.”
“I’ll bet.” Ingrid bit her lower lip.
“I’ll bet you’d like my mouth here, wouldn’t you, gal?” Marie asked, thumbing a turgid tip.
Ingrid smoothed a hand over the deep curve of Marie’s waist. “Maybe a kiss of introduction first?”
Marie’s mouth stretched. “Come closer, li’l witch.”
Ingrid inched over until their breasts mashed together, warm skin to warm skin, jutting points scraping. In the glow of the oil lamp their skin was burnished a lovely pale gold and deeper amber.
Marie’s eyes glittered, then she closed them, leaning closer to press her lips against Ingrid’s. Ingrid opened, sighing as the other woman’s tongue stroked her bottom lip then slid inside.
A niggling thought slipped into her mind, that she was making love with a dead woman. One she’d just met and whose kiss set her nerve endings tingling and her belly cramping with desire. How much of it was this place? How much the vampire blood that gave her this desperate hunger?
None of that mattered, not the deeper the kiss went.
About Delilah Devlin
Delilah Devlin dated a Samoan, a Venezuelan, a Turk, a Cuban, and was engaged to a Greek before marrying her Irishman. She's lived in Saudi Arabia, Germany, and Ireland, but calls Texas home for now. Ever a risk taker, she lived in the Saudi Peninsula during the Gulf War, thwarted an attempted abduction by white slave traders, and survived her children's juvenile delinquency.
In addition to writing erotica, she enjoys creating romantic comedies and suspense novels.