Posted by Lexxie Couper on Thursday, July 22nd, 2010
Anyways, guess what? Copping A Feel, my first ever ever ever erotic romantic comedy is now AVAILABLE TO BUY at Ellora’s Cave. I can’t believe I actually wrote this book. It is unlike anything I’ve ever written (for starters, no one dies, is torn apart, tormented by malicious villains or needs to save the world) and, according to my Ellora’s Cave editor (the most wonderful Kelli Collins) is bloody hilarious as well as damn hot.
I’ve written a special dedication in this book, but there is one person I simply need to say a HUGE thank you to, and that’s Mari Carr. It was Mari who invited me to write a Tempt the Cougar book. If she hadn’t I never would have told the tale of Darci-Rae and Detective Jarrod St James. If she hadn’t I never would have got the taste for writing a genre which I’d never even considered writing before. Thanks to Mari, I had the courage to write another erotic rom-com and that book (Triple Dare) has been selected by Samhain Publishing to be included in their Red Hot Winter Antho.
So, Mari…if you were here right now I would hug you to bits. Thank you. A million times, thank you.
Now, here’s a little snippet from Copping A Feel. If you enjoy it, feel free to head on over to EC and pick up a copy 😉
Darci Whitlam stared at the handset of her phone as if it had grown a set of arms and was trying to feel her up. Well, not feel her up as such, but grab her nipples through her t-shirt and bra and twist them until she cried uncle. What the hell had she just heard?
Her frown pulling hard at her eyebrows, she returned the handset to her ear and said, “Excuse me?”
“I want to bend you over the sofa and pump your sweet, tight cunt full of my hot cum.”
Darci blinked. “Umm, yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”
Face igniting in red heat, she clunked the handset of her phone back in its cradle and chewed on her bottom lip. Bloody hell, that was the third dirty phone call she’d had this morning! Each from a different man, each describing in great detail what the caller wanted to do to her. What the hell was going on?
Turning back to the phone, she picked up the handset again and stared at it.
It’s not going to give you the answer, Darci.
That was true, but she had to do something. For starters, find out why three men thought she, Darci-Rae Whitlam, an unassuming high-school English teacher in a small city on the East Coast of Australia, was, in fact, a telephone sex worker. How the hell did they get her private number? Not even the smartest student at school had unearthed that number, and Terry Cahill had been trying since year nine.
Shouldn’t you be more worried about how everything that last caller said made you feel?
She pulled a face, dropping the handset back into the cradle once more and blowing at the fringe of her bangs. Probably yes, but two things kept the worry at bay.
A) She was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and could, if needed, kick some serious ass.
And B) The explicit nature of the phone calls made her, well…kinda horny.
Okay, that’s it. You’re officially insane. This is why Vivian calls you oversexed. You get, let’s face it, a mildly disturbing call and instead of being scared, you’re bloody well excited.
Darci blew into her fringe again, a frustrated exhalation that did nothing except contribute to the unruly mess of curls falling over her forehead. She shouldn’t have thought of her older sister. Whenever she thought of Viv, she got antsy. Viv was the achiever in the family—the famous literary novelist who followed in their father’s famous shoes. Viv had the doting doctor husband, the two med-school-grad children, the well-trained, pedigreed King Cavalier Spaniel and the three-story mansion overlooking Sydney Harbor.
Darci, as Viv often pointed out, was a forty-year-old, unmarried high-school teacher who still went out to bars on the weekend, wrestled on the beach with her totally untrained mutt, Jay Jay Jones, ate carbohydrates until they came out her ears, drank beer straight from the bottle and often forgot where she’d left her one tube of lipstick.
Darci also, much to Viv’s dismay and shame, had no qualms about her relationship with Mr. Tibbs, her rabbit (the vibrating variety, not the furry kind), and still enjoyed flirting when given the chance—especially with sexy young men.
Which is why she calls you oversexed. God, if she knew you were getting excited over an obvious case of mistaken identity, she’d throw a pink fit.
With one more huff into her fringe, Darci walked away from the phone. She probably should do something about the calls, but not now. Now she wanted to connect with someone who didn’t care if she flirted with strange—but always handsome—men in bars.
Dropping into the worn, comfortable leather recliner tucked under a low reading lamp in the far corner of her living room, Darci woke her laptop and opened iChat. If she was lucky, Rachel would be online. The American knew how to make her laugh and didn’t care one iota if she owned a rabbit. In fact, Darci was pretty damn certain the physical therapist owned one herself.
Rachel, however, wasn’t online, her little Bugs Bunny avatar just a ghosty-gray image in the buddies list, which probably meant Rach was still in bed. Darci grimaced. “Bum.” She dragged her hands through her hair, which disturbed the curls even more than her earlier melodramatic hyperventilating. She should close her laptop and get to marking assignments. She had a pile the size of Ayres Rock waiting for her, itching at her subconscious, but she just wasn’t in the mood. For starters, the three phone calls this morning were still affecting her and she just felt…unsettled.
Don’t you mean horny?
Rolling her eyes at her own ridiculousness—oh yeah, that’s an elegant word for an English teacher should use, Darc—she shut down iChat and opened her email instead. She’d check her inbox, answer what needed to be answered and then give Jay Jay a bath. The pair of them had spent yesterday afternoon surfing and the dog still smelled like a seaweed farm.
“Ah,” she murmured, spying Rachel’s name in the From column. “Talk about freaky.” Wriggling her butt deeper into the recliner, Darci toed off her flip-flops and opened Rachel’s email, the mysterious subject header making her grin—Go here now!
The email opened and Darci’s eyebrows lifted. Unlike Rachel’s normal emails, which provided lovingly detailed descriptions of what Rach had been up to, what book she was currently reading as well as what hero she was currently in lust with, all info Darci loved to read, this email contained just two things.
A web address.
And the words, You’re invited to become a Cougar, Darci. Join us.
Darci frowned. “What the hell?”
Moving her finger over the laptop’s trackpad, she clicked on the link.
And double blinked when a website unlike any she’d been to opened.
“Bloody hell, Rach,” she muttered, her gaze flicking over the various images of very hunky, very naked men filling her screen. “Where have you sent me?”
She studied the men before her, her pulse quickening. There was text to go with the images, but for the moment it may as well have been ancient Mandarin for all it meant to Darci. What held her attention were the men.
The young men.
She shook her head, unable to drag her stare from her screen. “Oh my…” Sculpted muscles Michelangelo would have been proud to create defined bodies devoid of any middle-age spread. Artfully messy hair tumbled over foreheads free of wrinkles, not a gray strand to be seen in the thick, glossy locks. Clear, direct eyes gazed out at her—blue, black, green, hazel. Eyes smoldering with open desire and seduction.
Darci sucked in a sharp breath. “Twenties. Can’t be any older than mid-twenties.”
And so yummy your knickers are growing damper by the second.
The unexpected thought took her by surprise and she sucked in another breath, this one a little less sharp and a little more…ragged. Pulling at her bottom lip with her teeth, Darci read the blog’s header—Tempt The Cougar—and then the first post. She half-frowned, half-grinned at a section of the first paragraph.
“…women who dare to take the challenge and experience the delights of sex with a younger man. Women who cast off their cloaks of conventionality and indulge their inner wild woman.
“Stay tuned for updates!”
“Oh, Rachel Bridges,” she chuckled, returning her attention to the gorgeous men clearly a decade younger than her. “You bloody naughty girl.”
Sooo? Did you like it?