Archive for September, 2012

Cyd Peak does Friday Funny

I’d like to welcome up-and-comer Cyd Peak to the Friday Funny stage today. We go waaaaaay back. Unfortunately, (well, it might be fortunate for HER.) she doesn’t remember me. Her sister, Sara, and I used to hang out back in the day. You know, before the earth’s crust cooled. 😉

This excerpt tossed me back to the good old days of visits from my grandparents. My grandmother on my dad’s side was exceptionally frugal and would have recycled. Enjoy!


 “Your grandparents are coming to stay for a week,” declared Mom at the breakfast table.

Dahlia, who ate Cheerios in the morning, but not toast, made a face. “We can take care of ourselves, Mom.”

 “I would just feel better knowing that someone else is here keeping an eye on you girls, that’s all. Isn’t that right, Arty?”

 “Yes,” said Dad, not looking up from The Wall Street Journal.

The third day that Mom was in the hospital, in the late morning, the phone rang. I ran for it. Dad was out looking at the fields, Dahlia was building a sculpture in the sandbox in the backyard, Grampa was doing his crossword puzzles in the living room, and Gramma was in the kitchen.

“Flynn residence?” I responded officiously.

“Hello? Is this Carole?”

“No, this is Hadley,” I said, and in practicing my training from Daddy: “Who’s calling please?” “Oh, hi Hadley, this is Kathy across the street. How ya doin’?”

“Fine, thank you, Kathy.”

“Well, the reason I’m calling, Hadley, is that I saw an old lady come out of your house today and go to your mailbox.”

“Oh, that’s my gramma. She and Grampa are staying with us for a little while.”

“Oh, okay…Well, um, Sherry told me, see, I didn’t really see her myself. You see, Sherry was driving by…and well her pajamas were pretty thin, if you know what I mean…”

“Oh?” I said, and not knowing what else to say, said: “I’ll tell her you called.”

“I – I just thought you’d wanna know, dear. It’s just that we’re next to a county road, and even though we’re out in the country, honey, doesn’t mean we don’t get people driving by who can see…well, anything that’s outside.”

“Sure.” I said.

“Well, then? Have a nice day, Hadley.” Kathy finished with a click.

“You too,” I said to a dead phone. I hung it up and went into the kitchen. Gramma was sitting at the table and cleaning the flyswatter with a scouring pad.

“Who was that, honey?” asked Gramma.

“Oh, it was the lady across the street. She said her daughter saw you getting the mail this morning.”

“Well, what’s the big deal about that? Ted, we must be in a small town now, my going out to get the mail is news around here!”

“Um-hmmm,” rippled Grampa from the next room.

Just then, Dahlia came in the side door directly into the kitchen. She was covered in sand, head to toe, wet sand dripping off her fingertips.

“My goodness, Dahlia, aren’t you a sight!” exclaimed Gramma with a big smile.

“What are you doing with that scouring pad, Gramma?” asked Dahlia.

“Cleaning the flyswatter, honey. I have been after those pesky flies ever since we got here on Monday!”

The phone rang again.

“You, upstairs immediately!” directed Gramma to Dahlia.


“You’ve got some nerve, letting your gramma walk around practically naked outside, in the daytime when EVERYBODY can see! What kind of Christian are you? –”

“Who was that?” called out Gramma, still in the kitchen.

“Crank call,” I said, going back to the kitchen. This time Gramma had a shoe in hand and was cleaning the mud out of the treads with the same brillo pad that she’d used to clean the flyswatter.

It hit me that Gramma was using the same brillo pad to clean her shoes and the flyswatter that we used to scrub our stained and greasy pans. I sat and watched as she continued to chatter about how wet the spring had been, and that that was why we had so many flies this summer.

“Gramma, why don’t you go lay down?” I said as gently as I could, my eyes fixed on the brillo pad, worn out from the dishes and the flyswatter and now, the bottoms of her shoes. “You’ve been working pretty hard all morning, what with all the cleaning and going out to the mailbox.”

Gramma looked at me, took a deep breath, and smiled. “You’re right, honey, I have been working hard. I will take you up on that.” She put her shoe and the brillo pad down on the table, and came over to me, and lightly tapped my cheek with the hand that had wielded the brillo pad. I tried not to wince, and went to hug her hard.

“Awww, you’re sweet, honey,” Gramma hugged me back, then let go, tapped my cheek with the same hand again, and turned to go upstairs.

As soon as I heard the steps to the second floor finish, I picked up the offending brillo pad and threw it in the trash. One shoe was on the floor, not yet scrubbed by the brillo pad. The other shoe was half-done, with the heel yet to be cleaned. I took her shoes and placed them in the mudroom next to the kitchen.

The phone rang.

“Will you get it?” bellowed Dahlia from upstairs.

“YES!” I called back, irritated that she had to be so bossy, even from upstairs.

“Hello?” I answered the phone with some trepidation, not sure who was going to be at the other end, and what moral judgments they were calling to adjudicate.

“Hi, Hadley!” Thank god it was Tiffany. “What’cha doin’?”

“Hi Tiffany! Oh, just cleaning up around the kitchen,” I said carefully, as Grampa was within earshot, and I didn’t want to betray her faux pas to him. “What’s going on?”

“Wanna play outside? Ya know, Frisbee or something?”

“Sure,” I was relieved that I didn’t have any more dumb messages to pass on. “I’ll be right over.”

I came back at 12:30, when I heard Gramma bellowing “LUNCH!” across the street, as I was playing in Tiffany’s grandma’s yard. Everyone else was sitting at the kitchen table, already eating. I smelled the air, which smelled like a restaurant.

“What’dja make, Gramma? It smells good!” I said, sitting down at my place.

“Grilled cheese sandwiches!” Gramma boomed, grinning widely, “and tomato soup! Eat up!”

I was hungry from all my running after the frisbee, so I dove in voraciously.

When I was done, I picked up my plate and took it to the sink. The frying pan from breakfast was not there anymore, I started, and looked to the stove, where it sat, freshly used from grilling the cheese sandwiches.

“Gramma you didn’t have to wash the frying pan; there’s a griddle down here,” I said, pointing to the lower cabinets.

“Why get out another pan when I can re-use one that’s already out?” Gramma replied cheerily.

I started getting a not-so good, sinking feeling in my stomach. “But you’d have to wash it first.” “And we’re out of scrubbing pads.”

“No, we’re not!” Gramma said, still smiling.

I looked back at the sink lip. There it was, worse for the wear, but still in one piece:

the very same brillo pad that I had thrown away!

I definitely felt queasy now. “Um, excuse me,” I said, and ran upstairs to the bathroom.

I just barely made it to the toilet, wasn’t even able to lift the seat before I spewed my barely digested tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich. I heard footsteps coming, and Dahlia came into the bathroom.

“Gee whiz, what’s wrong?” she exclaimed.

“Gramma cleaned her shoes and the flyswatter with that brillo pad,” I sputtered. “And then she cleaned the frying pan with it, too!”

“Yeah, that’s what you do with frying pans once they’ve been used!” Dahlia spoke to me as if I was retarded.

“But there was only the brillo pad that she used on her shoes and flyswatter! Didn’t you notice earlier, when you came in from the sandbox?”

“Yeah, but Daddy came home while you were gone with some stuff from the store.”

I started to feel sick again, this time from stupidity. “You mean that Daddy brought back a new brillo pad?”

“Yep,” Dahlia smirked and folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb.

“But it looked so old! Didn’t you see how used it was??

Dahlia didn’t budge from her dominant position at the doorway and started laughing. “Oh, you think that Gramma fished the old one out of the garbage and used it again?’ She shook uncontrollably, her face turning red and she was doubling over.

I continued to feel stupid, sitting there on the floor next to the toilet.

“You moron!” Dahlia sputtered in between paroxysms of laughter.

“What, what?!” I raised my voice.

Dahlia finally got control of herself, took a deep breath, and straightened up. “Well,” she said, starting out slowly. “Gramma, being Gramma, after she decided to make grilled cheese, started looking through the cabinets for the griddle. Well she never found it, but in the mean time, she “claims” that she found lots of “dirty” dishes,” Dahlia kept making finger gestures in the air for her quotes. “So what does she do but re-scrub all the pans that she didn’t think were “clean enough.”’

I was silent for a moment. “So that was a new brillo pad?”

“Yep,” Dahlia replied, trying to control the urge to burst into giggles again.

“And it just looked old because she’s been scrubbing tons of pans all morning,” I finished.

“Yes!” Dahlia couldn’t contain herself anymore and descended full-force into giggles.

“Ohhhh! I gotta go lie down!” Dahlia left the doorway still gasping with laughter.

Still sitting on the floor next to the toilet, I felt so dumb.

Copyright 2012 Cyd Peak

Want more? Follow her progress on her blog!

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*Give-away alert* Cassandra has agreed to give a copy of her book to one lucky commenter! 

Please welcome Cassandra Curtis to the Random Ramblings Blog. She is a very close online friend and fellow Romance Diva moderator. I’m tickled that she agreed to share an excerpt with us. Be advised, this one is on the steamy side! But Ms. Curtis does steamy oh so well. 😉

Here’s the lead in:

Stacie Purcell has had a crush on Tyler Murchison since she was in junior high. She never thought she’d see Rusdale’s bad boy again when he left ten years ago. But now Tyler’s back and has started remaking his life—if the town gossips will let him. In this scene, Stacie (a part time beautician and aspiring romance writer) goes to Tyler’s auto repair shop to get her brakes fixed. She decides to work on her latest secret project, a vampire romance whose hero is based on her vivid fantasies of Tyler.

And scene:

Stacie slid a printed sheet out of the binder pocket long enough to study the line drawings she’d downloaded from her sister’s computer, and tried deciding which one she should write for the first love scene.

 Not like she could use her own experience. Her love life was non- existent, unless she counted her purple passion vibrator.

 The website she’d found had been very helpful, with descriptive diagrams and names for various sexual positions, like ‘backward facing bad dog,’ which didn’t sound very romantic or sexy. Hmm, squishy piston, face salami, oblong bend, and the love jackhammer weren’t much better.

 Ooh, one had possibilities—the slippery double slappy! At least it would be fun to write and she bet even more fun to try—if she had a boyfriend.

 Stacie pulled out her favorite black gel pen and scribbled notes in the margins. An idea popped into her head and she wrote down part of a scene…

 His rough hands slid down her hips and over her thighs, removing her panties. She felt naked and exposed, helpless under his watchful gaze. Her nipples hardened into tight points, aching for the touch of his lips, his tongue. She needed to undress him, touch him, but he’d made sure she couldn’t, not until he let her go.

 “Please. I need you.” Heat spiraled down her midriff to the center of her pleasure zone, making her damp and hungry for him.

 “Ms. Purcell, your car is ready.” Tyler’s voice startled her.

 “Oh!” Her sexy muse was standing right next to her! Stacie jumped up, papers flying in every direction. She grabbed and stuffed them in her binder, shoving it into her messenger bag on the floor, conscious of him waiting while she dug through her purse for her wallet.

 Her cell phone rang the precise moment she found it. Stacie answered, half-listening to her sister on the other end of the call, while she slipped her credit card from the faux leather sleeve.

 What sense she had left unscrambled when he turned and walked toward the cash register with her paperwork. Mercy! She’d heard of buns of steel, but his tight curved assets made her girly bits ache with pure lust.

 “I didn’t think it would be done so fast. No, not you, Pam. I’m talking to Tyler Murchison, and yes it’s ready. Look, can I call you back? Okay. Bye.” Stacie flung her purse straps over her shoulder, credit card in hand and met him at the front register.

 “I replaced the brake pads and shoes, and checked the brake oil pressure. It was low.” Tyler explained.

 “Thank you,” she mumbled and ducked her head, heat crawling up her neck and into her face. Even his voice was sexy, deep and soft in a way that made tingles run down her arms and settle between her thighs in a sweet ache.

 Stacie tried sliding her credit card through the card reader, but it wasn’t working.

 “No, it goes the other way. Here, let me help you.” Their hands touched for a brief moment and a giddy rush of bubbles zipped through her. If she were smart, she’d leave before she did or said something stupid and made a fool of herself.

 “It’s okay, you just had it turned backward.”  He smiled down at her, and their eyes met. It hit like a sucker punch, how much she wanted this man.

 “You’ve got beautiful green eyes.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper.

 “I do?” He thought her eyes were beautiful?

 An odd flicker of emotion crossed his face. “Sorry, that was too forward, huh?” Tyler rubbed his brow, smearing grease on his forehead.

 “No! I mean, no it was fine. I just don’t get many compliments.” Heat spread across her cheeks. Oh good one, Stace! Let him see exactly how clumsy and unsophisticated you really are! She was sure the big ole ‘L’ for loser was probably flashing on her forehead right about now.

 “I find that hard to believe. I’m sure you hear how pretty you are all the time from your husband or boyfriend.”

 “I, umm…I don’t have a boyfriend. Or a husband.” Was he serious? This couldn’t be real!

 “That’s good to know.” Tyler’s smile curved at the corners of his lips. He handed her the keys to her car.

 “Thank you.” Rooted to the spot, and unsure what to do next, Stacie wondered if Tyler was actually flirting with her. Don’t get too excited, or overeager. He’ll smell your desperation.

 When he stepped back and told her he hoped he’d see her around, she practically floated out of the garage and across the parking lot. Her hands trembled turning the ignition. Even a simple thing like their fingers touching made her weak in the knees. Tyler thought her eyes were beautiful.

 Hooked? Here’s the blurb: 

A guilty pleasure.
A wicked desire.
A lusty kink.
A hidden fetish.

Everyone has a few naughty little secrets. All of Stacie Purcell’s secrets are in the red story binder she keeps in her messenger bag. An aspiring writer, Stacie dreams of the day her sexy stories will get published. But when she misplaces her binder, she is frantic, worried she’ll never see it again. Desperate to get it back, she’s willing to do whatever it takes.

Tyler Murchison can’t help noticing the cute little blond in his car repair shop’s waiting room, her nose buried in her red binder. Closing up for the night, he discovers a not-so-innocent piece of paper and a mysterious bag in the waiting room.

Intrigued by the drawings of sexual positions and the erotic fantasies Stacie weaves in her stories, he returns the binder, and offers Stacie a chance to experience all the incredible sexual delights she writes about.

But can a single night of wild passion lead to something more?

Copyright 2012 Cassandra Curtis

One lucky reader will win a copy of Cassandra’s ebook Naughty Little Secrets. Just leave a comment to enter.



Author of the bestselling Shifting Tides series and finalist in 2007’s EPIC awards, Ms. Curtis is a former journalist and fine artist, who always loved reading tales of adventure, romance, mystery, and magic. Then one day decided to try her hand at fiction writing and never looked back. Although she writes erotic romance under the pen name Cassandra Curtis, and romantic comedy as Cass Curtis, the common thread in all her books is fun. View her website at: www.cassandracurtis.com.

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Pardon me while I have a brief fan-girl moment…

*sparkle* Yes, I sparkled.

Okay, I want to thank Gemma Halliday and Jennifer Fischetto for sharing a super-cute funny clip from their new collaboration, Unbreakable Bond. Gemma has TONS of books for y’all to read when you are done with this one, and Jennifer will have many more to come. These two make a great team, and I can’t wait for the rest of this series. I read this book in one sitting, so I’m ready for more Jamie. 🙂

Here’s the lead in:

Jamie Bond has a very tenuous relationship with her father, Derek.  Probably because, hoping she’d come out a male chip off the old block, he named her “James Bond”.  Yeah, how do you forgive a guy for something like that?  After Derek was forced into retirement, Jamie took over the family business, a P.I. firm specializing in catching cheating husbands.   This scene is a little peek into their lives as Derek checks up on Jamie and her latest mark.

And scene:

As soon as I got home I realized I had racked up two more voicemails from Derek. 

I dropped onto my sofa with a sigh.  I thought about ignoring them, but sadly, knowing Derek, that wouldn’t make him go away.  Instead, I reluctantly keyed my pin number into the voicemail system. 

“Hey, it’s me,” came the first one, dated last night.  “Just checking in.  How’d things go with the judge?  Call me.”

I hit delete.

Even though Derek had officially retired to his houseboat last year after being shot in the shoulder by a married father of three caught with a Russian hooker in North Hollywood, he still wanted a report on every mark.  I’d like to think it was because fishing in Marina Del Rey wasn’t enough to occupy the mind of a twenty-seven year veteran of the P.I. business and not because he thought I needed checking up on.

That’s what I’d like to think.

“Me again.”  Derek’s voice filled my apartment as the second message clicked on.  “Aren’t you back yet?  What the hell is taking so long?  This was an in-and-out case, James, don’t tell me you’re still working him?  It’s nine-fifteen for Christ’s sakes.  I’d have had him in twenty minutes.  Call me.”

I gave my phone the finger. 

The next few messages followed in similar fashion, growing increasingly pissed.    

I deleted them all and crossed to the kitchen, pulling out a white egg timer. 

When I was seventeen and doing a shoot for French Vogue in Cannes, I’d been stupid enough to try a line of coke an over-friendly photographer had offered.  I’d ended up in the emergency room, not because of the coke, but because my high alter ego had suddenly thought herself invincible and dove off the top tier of a yacht into the Mediterranean in the middle of the night.  I’d broken two ribs and smashed my face into the rotor, which left me bruised beyond the help of airbrushing for a month.  My agent had been furious.  He’d sent me to therapy to make sure this kind of “self destructive behavior” never dented his bank account again.   

The therapy, honestly, hadn’t been all that bad.  Having someone actually look at me for me and not as a clothes hanger was a novelty, and it had been nice to talk to someone who was required to at least pretend to listen to me.  Unlike Derek.   

The best advice I’d taken away from the therapy was to set limits when I talked to Derek.  Take him in small doses.  Hence, the egg timer. 

I wound the timer up for five minutes, took a deep breath, and dialed his number.

It rang six times, and I was just about to give up when a woman’s voice answered. 

“Yell-o?” she called.  Followed by a cigarette stained giggle.

“Is Derek in?”

“Who’s askin’?”  Her accent was part Valley Girl and part trailer park, and I could hear a muffled male voice in the background.   


“Well, Jamie, Derek is otherwise occ-u-pied,” she drew out the word.  Then there was more muffled noise, followed by a swatting sound and a high pitched, “Oh, you naughty boy.”   

I took another deep breath, inhaling patience.  As much as I wanted to hang up now, I knew it would only mean three more messages by tomorrow. 

“Would you please tell Derek that his daughter is on the line?”

The giggling stopped.  “He didn’t tell me about no daughter.”

“He never does,” I murmured more to myself than Derek’s shocked flavor of the month. 

I heard the phone being handed off, then Derek’s voice.  “James, is that you?”

“Unless you have another daughter.”

“Nothing’s been proven yet.”

“Ha ha.  Very funny.”

“Hey, cut the old man some slack, huh?”

“You left me six messages?” I prompted, hoping to get this over with.     

“Is that all it takes to get my daughter to call me back these days?  Just six.”

“I was feeling generous.”

“So, how did the judge thing go?”  I could hear him popping something in his mouth.  Probably Cap’n Crunch, knowing Derek.  “Got anything yet?  You know, James, you gotta move fast with these high profile clients.  They expect instant gratification, if you know what I mean.”

“Things went fine with the judge.  We nailed him last night.”

“Hey, good for you, pal.  So, which one of the Bond Girls did you end up taking with you?  That blonde one?  God, she’s hot.”

I tilted my head to the side, and checked my timer.  Three minutes left. 


Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad.  Honest.  In fact, I’d venture to say there wasn’t a woman in all of L.A. County that hadn’t at one time or another fallen in love with Derek Bond.  Think L.A.’s answer to Magnum P.I.  Laid back, charming, and a real man’s man.  Unfortunately I’m a girl’s girl, so you can see where we butted heads. 

Plus, there was the fact that, hoping I’d come out a bouncing baby boy, Derek had named me James.  James Bond.  Yeah, I know.  How do you forgive a guy for something like that?

“She has a name, Derek.  It’s Caleigh.  And, yes, I took both her and Sam.”

“Which one’s Sam?  The one with the legs?”

“They all have legs.”

“Yeah, but not like hers, honey.” 

I looked at the timer.  Two-thirty.  “Don’t you have company to entertain, Derek?”

“You wouldn’t be trying to get rid of your dear old dad, would you?”

“Heaven forbid.”

“All right, all right, I’ll let you go, James.  Just tell me who you’re working tomorrow?”

“Shankman.  Married seven years.  Doing the nanny.  We’re sitting on the place during his lunch break.”


“I’m taking Danny.”

Derek paused, silence overtaking the other end of the line.  “I don’t trust him, James.”

“His photos are excellent, and you know it.”

“I didn’t say his pictures were bad.  I said I didn’t trust the man.”

“Listen, Derek, I can handle Danny.  I’m a big girl.  I’m a trained professional, remember?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No!”  I jumped up from the sofa, banging my shin on the coffee table.  “Ow!  Shit.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled rubbing my leg.  I could feel an unattractive lump growing there already.  “Look, I’m doing Shankman at noon.  I’m taking Danny.  You are staying home with Miss Tricks there, and if you don’t, so help me God, I’ll call Dr. Pederson and remind him you haven’t had your annual rectal yet.”

Derek chomped down hard on a Cap’n Crunch nugget.  “Oh that was a low blow, James.”

“Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“Fine.  But call me when you nail him.  And I mean it this time!” he shouted, then hung up on me.

Just as the egg timer buzzed.

That’s it, I needed a drink.

Hooked? Here’s the blurb: 

Her name is Bond. Jamie Bond. And her life is about to be shaken and
stirred in a cocktail of sex, lies, scandal, and one very dead body.
Jamie Bond is a former cover model who switches gears to take over the
family business: The Bond Agency, a high-powered P.I. firm located in
Los Angeles that specializes in domestic espionage – catching cheating
husbands. Jamie’s assembled a team of other disenchanted former models
to help her take names and kick derrieres among L.A.’s wealthiest
philandering husbands. Her current client: Mrs. Veronica Waterston,
the young, distraught wife of superior court judge, Thomas Waterston,
known for his tough sentencing, right-wing leanings, and his fondness
for blondes with double D’s. Easy target. But Jamie’s simple case
takes an unexpected turn for the worse when the not-so-good judge
winds up on the ten o’clock news with a bullet through his head. It’s
clear that someone has set Jamie up, and suddenly she’s on the run,
under fire, and in serious jeopardy of losing it all. With a hot
A.D.A. on her trail, a killer on the loose, and her life on the line,
Jamie must prove once and for all that nobody messes with a Bond.

Copyright 2012 Gemma Halliday

Gemma Halliday is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, and
the Deadly Cool series of young adult books, as well as several other
works. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden
Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations.
She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at
work on several new projects.

Jennifer Fischetto, national bestselling author, writes dead bodies
for ages thirteen to six-feet-under. When not writing, she enjoys
reading, cooking, singing, and watching way too much TV. She lives in
Western Massachusetts with her two awesome children, who love to throw
new ideas her way, and two fuzzy cats, who love to get in the way.
Unbreakable Bond is her debut novel.

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I’d first like to thank the fabulous Inez Kelley (whatever you do, make sure you put both e’s in her last name!) for leading off the new and improved Friday Funny.

*pause for applause*

While I did state that every book featured on this blog will not be all funny, this book is guaranteed to make you laugh at least once each chapter. Okay, sometimes it’s twice in one and not in another, but it balances itself out. Without further adieu, I give you a rather steamy, but very funny excerpt from Turn It Up:

Lead in to excerpt: Dr. Bastian Talbot is exhausted after a grueling triple ER shift but dutifully reports to the radio station where he signs on with his best friend and partner Charlie, for LET’S TALK ABOUT SEX with Dr. Hot and the Honeypot. Charlie continues in her efforts to seduce him both on and off the air. 

 “You’re killing me.”

“Killing you is not my intention.” Wantonly, she let her legs part, the skirt hiding their connection but both of them very aware. His hand moved higher, liquid silk smoothing his butterfly-light path. His eyes closed as he traced the outer dampness of her sex.

The buzzing timer jerked his hand away. Charlie pulled her feet from his lap, silenced the buzzer and keyed up the theme music. Justine slid her headset back over her ears. Bastian tugged at his crotch. The look he gave her was pure agonized awe.

“Welcome back, lovers. Did you miss us? I missed you. Poor Doc was falling asleep during the break and I had to do something to wake him up. You okay, now, Doc? Was that little bit of sugar enough to get you up and moving?”

Bastian had to lick his lips before speaking. “Thanks, I’m wide awake now, Honey. Wide. Awake. And up.” The hurried sip of coffee seemed hard for him to swallow. Silently, he shook his finger at her like a naughty child though his eyes were sparkling. 

“Glad to hear it. There’s more chocolate in my bag if you need another lift, okay? Let’s go straight to the phone lines.”

While a woman told a rambling prelude, Bastian leaned in and pressed his lips to Charlie’s ear. “That’s one point.” He brushed her cheek with a soft kiss before pulling back, a glazed film to his look.

“…so is it possible?”

Charlie had to scramble to recall the question. Bastian’s hot breath had stuttered her brain and blanked her mind. “Uh, just to clarify, you’re asking if it’s possible to have an orgasm just from kissing? No intimate touches at all, just lips on lips?”

“Yeah, because I don’t believe her but she swears it’s true.”

“She’s right. It’s unusual but not unheard of. The largest sex organ is the brain. If you turn that on, things just kind of kick in naturally. So, yes, it is possible but between you and me, there’s a whole lot missing in that scenario. Kind of like Thanksgiving with a turkey but no pie, potatoes or cranberries, you know?”

“I hear you.” The caller laughed and Charlie disconnected the line before opening another.

“Hello, caller, you’re live on Let’s Talk about Sex with Doc and Honey. What can we do for you tonight, lover?”

“Can you answer something for me?” The rich masculine voice was softened in shyness, and Charlie cocked her head in curiosity.

“We can try. What’s your name?”

“Simon. I have never done oral sex. Not opposed to the idea, it just hasn’t happened. I’m not sure how. I mean, I’ve heard guys say write the alphabet with your tongue, others say it doesn’t work. Does it?”

Bastian chuckled and leaned forward. “Simon, if you’re concentrating on the alphabet, you’re thinking too hard. Forget what you hear in the locker rooms. Just listen to your partner, talk to her if you’re really unsure, find out what she prefers. There is no one technique. It’s what feels good to both of you.”

“Doc speaketh wisely, Simon, so listen closely. Think about it. What‟s interesting about the letter K? Not a thing. Although the letters O and T are pretty nice, B, Z and H are a waste of energy.”

“You’ve thought about this a bit, haven’t you, Honey?” Bastian laughed.

“Sure have, Doc. I learned my ABC’s in kindergarten; I don’t need a refresher course in the bedroom.”

“Okay, I got that,” Simon broke in. “But like I said, I’ve never done that, yet. I have a lady friend that…I want to do this for her but it’s a little… Oh, never mind. Why can’t there be an instruction manual for stuff like this?”

“Simon, relax.” Soothing and gentle, Bastian’s bedside manner flowed over the airwaves like melted chocolate. “A lot of it will come naturally if you care about your partner, a lot more when you listen to what she wants, what she likes. Don’t get stressed over it. It’s not a competition or a test. It’s pleasing your partner and, in turn, feeling good about that.”

“Hey, Simon.” Charlie straightened her spine and laid her hands flat on the console. “Go buy a can of halved peaches in heavy syrup. Trust me on this, okay? Similar size and shape, texture’s not too far off and the syrup is self-explanatory. Think of it as a visual training manual.”


“Really. And the best thing you can do is look for the little nub that holds the pit inside the fruit. That is the key to a successful…session. Remember, nubbin, good, alphabet, bad. Good luck, lover.”

“Peaches?” Bastian‟s tone was astonished as the phone line closed. Mouth open, he stared at her. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“Now, Doc, if I told you all my little hidden talents, it’d ruin a few surprises in your possible future. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I don’t know. At this minute, I have to say my brain is no longer functioning properly. You’ve totally floored me with that exercise. Never again will I look at canned fruit the same way. And I don’t know about any of the listeners, but I have a sudden intense craving for honeyed peaches.”

She swayed one leg back and forth. Like a magnet, his eyes fell to the skirt bunched around her hips, barely hiding what he knew didn’t lurk beneath. “Now, I can arrange for that treat any time you like, Doc. Just say the word.”

“The word is stop. Two points to Honey for driving me crazy,” he growled, yanking his head up and grabbing for a silvered kiss. “Take a call. Fast.”

Her laugh rang loud as she clicked the phone line.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-9196-0 Copyright © 2011 by Inez Kelley All rights reserved.

Want more? Of course you do! Here’s the blurb:


Dr. Bastian Talbot and self-proclaimed sex goddess Charlie Pierce heat up the air waves with their flirty banter as radio hosts Dr. Hot and the Honeypot. Off the air, they’re best friends…but Bastian wants to be so much more. He wants Charlie—in bed, and forever. 

Problem is, Charlie doesn’t do commitment. Sure, she’s had X-rated fantasies of Bastian, but he was always just a friend—until he impulsively proposes and unleashes the lust they’ve been denying for years. Charlie’s willing to explore where their wild chemistry leads, but she won’t marry him. And he won’t have sex with her until she accepts his proposal, despite her seductive schemes.

What are Dr. Hot and the Honeypot to do? Ask their listeners for advice on how to tame a sex kitten and turn a perfect gentleman into a shameless lover. The Race to Wed or Bed is on…who will turn up on top?

Get your copy at Carina Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, or your favorite e-tailer today!

About the author:

Inez Kelley lives in the Midwest in a house affectionately called The Brady Bunch place. She spends most of her time in a cramped little office (Alice’s room) surrounded by a multitude of books, a plastic gecko and her computer. The growing horde of dust bunnies, her children’s request for meals and a never-ending laundry pile vie for her attentions. Visit her on her website. Be sure to click on Fun Stuff and read her freebies, too!

Thanks for stopping by. 🙂

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