New Release ~ Quincy's Woman by Gem Sivad

Today, Wednesday, April 27th, is the release date for Quincy’s Woman, a western erotic romance.
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Thanks for having me on your blog, today! I’m very excited about my new Ellora’s Cave release, Quincy’s Woman, the latest title in my Eclipse Heat series. It’s a about the first year of marriage between Texas rancher, Ambrose Quince and Boston debutante, Lucille McKenna, a bride of eighteen who knows nothing about ranching, cooking, or bedsports.

When I wrote Intimate Strangers, I had no idea I was beginning an erotic western series. Five titles later, Eclipse, Texas is still calling to me. Quincy’s Woman is chronologically, Book One because I travelled back in time to 1866 to explore the year the unlikely couple met and married.

For those who are already familiar with my 19th century town, Eclipse, Texas, and the many characters you’ve met there, I hope you’ll read the beginning story, Quincy’s Woman and watch for the expanded versions of those you’ve already enjoyed.

As of May 26th, three titles, Intimate Strangers, Wolf’s Tender and Breed True will become unavailable in both print and ebook format as I add new scenes, brighten them up with new covers, and prepare them for re-release. For readers who haven’t sampled any of the series yet—here’s the blurb and excerpt for Quincy’s Woman:
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Blurb:

Quincy’s Woman
Gem Sivad

Fresh from the post-Civil War salons and drawing rooms of Boston, Lucy McKenna considers herself a sophisticated young woman. But when she meets Texas rancher, Ambrose Quince, she turns into a flustered girl. He’s too old, war roughened and unrefined—and she has no idea how to deal with the sensual hunger he arouses within her.

Ambrose falls fast and hard for the innocent debutante visiting Eclipse, Texas. Persuading Lucy to accept his pursuit becomes a duel of wits and passion as he awakens her desire.

Lucy leaves Boston and childhood behind when she becomes Mrs. Ambrose Quince. Her lonely days on the Double-Q ranch are filled with work and frustration. But the nights are spent in her husband’s arms learning carnal awareness one molten caress at a time.
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Excerpt:

An Excerpt From: QUINCY’S WOMAN
ISBN: 9781419933424
Copyright © GEM SIVAD, 2011
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

One day, as father looked through his spyglass at the herd of mustangs, I stood apart, watching the wild horses from the crest of the bluff above where they grazed. From a distance, they seemed a motley group. Nothing distinguished them but the red stallion leading the herd. He arched his neck and trumpeted a challenge as though he knew we watched. Then he snorted and circled his mares, urging them into a gallop as they fled.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Mr. Quince stood behind me, close enough so that I could feel the heat of his body.

I moved away, putting space between us and he said, “Hot out here for a woman with such delicate skin. I imagine you’d like to shuck some of those fancy clothes right now.” He made statements like that often, not seeming to understand the inappropriateness of his personal observations.

As for my fancy clothes, I’d worn my Boston riding livery, certainly not as elegant as my hunt dress. Mr. Quince’s remarks irritated me almost as much as the hot sun beating down on the heavy dark material. I was perspiring beneath it and miserably aware of the damp material clinging to my body. I ached to return to the shade of the hotel.

But I refused to admit my state of discomfort to the rancher. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Quince, but thank you for your concern.”

He shrugged and walked to where Papa stood, still following the progress of the horses. “There’s a cave hidden in the rock formation behind us. Would it be all right if I show it to Lucy? It’s a lot cooler inside than out here.” He asked permission from Papa without even suggesting it to me. I would have declined immediately had I been given the choice.

Papa waved vaguely in my direction and said, “Go along, Daughter. I suspect you’re bored and I expect Ambrose is right. The shade will be a pleasant respite for you.”

Mr. Quince looked smug and took my arm before I could make excuses. The cave was dark until Ambrose lit a torch by the entrance. I immediately experienced the drop in temperature, shivering in delight at the balm of cool air. Once inside, we stood in a pool of flickering light. I gazed around the massive cavern, pretending interest in the rocks rather than look at him.

He stepped closer and turned me to face him. Later when I recalled the event, I experienced the same trembling ache his next actions wrought. Ambrose Quince kissed me. Without my consent, he brushed his lips across mine. When I didn’t respond, not really knowing how, he draped my arms around his neck and pulled me closer.

A different kind of heat seized me. My internal temperature soared as my body brushed against his. My womb tightened, clenching as a shudder rippled across my flesh and I looked up breathlessly.

Mr. Quince’s stature being much greater than my own, he seemed to engulf me in the embrace as he molded my body against his. I later assured myself that had he not kept claim to my mouth and held me secured against his frame, I would have fled his intimate conduct.

But he held me fast, and I didn’t struggle for release when he continued the kiss. He savored my lips and murmured sounds that vibrated across my nerve endings. At first, I felt the barest stroke of his tongue—a not unpleasant sensation of wet heat touching my bottom lip. Nudging against the seam of my closed mouth, he muttered, “Open for me.”

Heat pulsed through me and I leaned into his kiss, obeying his order. It was as if I had no will of my own and must comply. He slid his tongue with shocking smoothness through the narrow space I allowed. My whimpered distress didn’t deter his intent. He tasted me, stroking my tongue with his in the most startling fashion.

“Kiss me back, Lucy,” he said against my lips.

It frightened me how easily he invaded my person, mastering my will. I melted against him, enjoying the feel of his tongue tangling with mine. It was intoxicating, making me heady and weak. Clutching the back of his shirt in my hand, I clung to him, needing to anchor myself lest I swoon.

When he tipped my head even farther back and arched my body over his arm, my breasts pressed against my dress, creating friction. I had the terrible urge to move against his chest and purr like a tabby cat, stretching and rubbing on him.

At last releasing my mouth, he stepped away from me and I almost fell. I had been so enthralled by his attentions my limbs seemed turned to liquid.

He drew me back in his arms but refrained from a second kiss. “You taste so sweet,” he growled in a voice even deeper than usual.

“You take liberties you shouldn’t,” I whispered, stepping away and putting distance between us. My breath was constricted and I almost panted the words.
Ambrose closed the distance I’d gained and covered my mouth with his again. This time, the kiss was a feathery stroke that ended up a nibble as he pressed his lips along my chin and up to my ear.

He nuzzled the sensitive lobe and murmured, “Shouldn’t I?” Brushing his mouth across mine again, he sought to make me recant my words. He delivered soft caresses to my face and neck, all the time emitting a low rumbling sound.

I swayed on my feet, completely undone and speechless until he growled, “Your skin is as soft as a kitten’s belly.”

The image of Ambrose Quince caressing my stomach popped into my head and finally I wrenched free, backing toward the cave entrance as though the devil stood before me. His image, outlined by the flickering torch, strengthened the comparison and I whispered desperately, “I do not favor your attentions, Mr. Quince. Please desist from further pursuit.”

When we left the cavern, my lips were numb, swollen from his kisses and my own excessive response. I prayed Father wouldn’t notice. I need not have worried. Papa was so elated by the stallion he’d marked for his possession he spoke only to Ambrose.
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AVAILABLE at at Ellora’s Cave.
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Gem’s Place

Gem Sivad at Ellora’s Cave

Gem Sivad on Twitter

Along with yours truly, Gem is a contributing author at the ROMANCE WRITER’S BEHAVING BADLY blog.

Cowboys for Christmas Released December 17th from Aspen Mountain Press

Cowboys for Christmas is now available from Aspen Mountain Press. Following one of my all-time western ménage best sellers, Domination Plantation, Cowboys for Christmas made its debut just in time for the holidays. I hope you'll stop by www.aspenmountainpress.com and read more about this novella.

Julie Kensworth opens her door to more than a blizzard and greets two wayward cowboys. She realizes right away she’s headed straight for the eye of the storm.

Brandon Blake and Quinn Stewart are a long way from home. They’re looking for a warm place to hang their hats while they try to wait out the snow and ice, which continues to gain momentum.

Julie is an author and she’s not just the average writer, she’s one of the most notorious writers in the world. When Quinn and Blake figure out Julie is an erotic romance author, well, needless to say, their minds churn with all sorts of ideas, most of them geared toward how they can heat up the cold winter nights ahead.

"I don’t know why you’re pouting," Brandon spat a few minutes later. "She didn’t tell us to hit the road, she just told us to wait out here until she dressed in private."

"I guess I was hoping for an explicit expression of gratitude."

Brandon pointed toward the mantle. "Don’t forget. She probably has a boyfriend."

Quinn ignored him and eyed the bookcase. "The boyfriend isn’t what I’ve been thinking about. What I’m wondering is why she has so many of those Carla Carrington books."

Julie strolled in the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. She lit up the place with an easy smile and a refreshing stroke of confidence. "Carla Carrington is my pseudonym."

"Do huh?" Brandon asked, chin dropping.

"Your pseudonym?" Quinn asked for clarification.

"Yeah," Julie said. "I’m a writer."

Brandon felt like something was stuck in his chest. She wasn’t just a writer. She was the best selling, award-winning author of scorching hot books often made into explicit after-dark television movies. She’d been on the lips of quite a few talk show hosts who openly covered the demise of morals in today’s world. Carla Carrington wrote the kind of books that Brandon wouldn’t have let his daughter read—assuming he had a daughter, which he didn’t. On the other hand, if he had a wife, Carla’s books would’ve been mandatory reading.

"You said you’re a writer," Brandon began, clearing his throat. "But Carla Carrington is..."

"I’m Carla," she interrupted. "I write under a couple of pseudonyms."

Quinn looked around the small cottage. He was probably thinking the same thing Brandon was. Why did she live in such a small house if she was really Carla Carrington? Carla should’ve been living in an oceanfront mansion with a full crew doting on her, bringing her chocolate covered mints and arranging social events.

The woman behind the world’s most scandalous writing should not have been dressed in hide-tight blue jeans, a low-cut fitted sweater, and have her hair tossed up in a clumsy ponytail. A woman writing explicit scenes like the one Brandon had read earlier should not have looked like an adorable barely legal girl!

Brandon was suddenly uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six, why?"

"Just curious. That’s all." He was also amazed he could speak.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Quinn blurted out.

Way to fucking go! Brandon set his jaw and watched the color drain from Julie’s cheeks. Brandon shot Quinn a cold stare. "You can quit foaming at the mouth anytime now."

Quinn didn’t say anything. Brandon braced for fighting words. The cold glare he received raked over him about as deliberately as a verbal retaliation.

Brandon decided what the hell. Quinn started this. "Do you have a boyfriend?" He’d die right there if she said she had a husband.

"No, I do not." She marched across the kitchen, opened the pantry, and retrieved two jars of her homemade soup, setting them on the small island in the kitchen’s center. "Anyone hungry?"

Brandon grinned, staring at her ass. "Honey, I’m practically starving."


Join us today as Destiny Blaine's 12 Days of Christmas Blog Tour Continues

http://loveromancesandmore.blogspot.com/2010/12/12-days-of-christmas-blog-tour-with.html

Destiny Blaine
www.destinyblaine.com

THE HELP YOU GET ALONG THE WAY

I’m blogging today about becoming a finalist in the EPIC Awards. Now wait, don’t go yet. This is not “all about me”—I promise.

Most people that I’ve met in the last half of my adulthood would never describe me as “shy,” but as a youngster, I was—horribly. That’s one reason I turned to writing. It was a great way for me to get my feelings out without actually having to say them. I could have someone else say it all for me.

I imagine that’s how many of my fellow writers started, too. I sometimes wonder what might have happened had we all known each other when we were younger. Would we have developed into the writers we are today, or would we have found our “niche” with one another and NOT turned so much to writing?

If you can relate to the “shy” part, then maybe you felt this way, too: I was never competitive. Not like so many sports contenders might be. The things I enjoyed, writing and music, were open to everyone, I felt. I am not a “joiner” and I am not one to enter a lot of contests. I entered Fire Eyes in the EPIC Awards, and something odd happened when I did.

From the moment I entered, my attitude about myself changed. BEFORE I entered, I thought, “I probably don’t have a chance.” But my mom always used to say, “If you don’t enter, you certainly are NOT going to win!” I remembered those words, and sent in my entry that very day. Once it was sent, I began to feel some confidence growing. As I analyzed WHY, here’s what I came up with.

Fire Eyes was a joint project. I wrote it, but I couldn’t have if I hadn’t had the cooperation and support of my family—my kids and my husband. While I was writing it, my oldest sister, Annette, was constantly asking about “how it’s coming” and she was the one I could bounce ideas off of. Once written, my business partner read it for glaring mistakes, and my best friend of 45 years read it for moral support. The Wild Rose Press accepted it, and my editor, Helen Andrew, was so phenomenal in helping me mold it and shape it into the story that was released last May. My cover artist, Nicola Martinez, did a superb job on the beautiful cover. With all these people behind me and my story, my confidence rose. Whatever would be, would be—and entering the competition was a win/win situation. Even if I didn’t make it to the finals, I would still have taken the chance and had the experience.

When I received the news Sunday evening that my book was, indeed, a finalist, I thought immediately of all the people who had helped me get to this point; people in my life who had faith in me, and in my ability, and in the story itself. I thought of that saying, “It takes a village to raise a child.” It’s true, even in the broader sense of our lives as writers. The experiences we had growing up, people who encouraged us even then, our spouses, our children, mentors and teachers we’ve had along the way, and peers that have helped and encouraged us. Editors, artists, publishers and organizations such as EPIC that give us a chance to compete and strive to be better and better.

Does anyone have a “special person” that helped them along the way? What about a “collection” of special people? With Thanksgiving drawing near, I’d like to say that my “collection” of special people in my life is the thing that I am most thankful for above all else. Without them, my dreams could have never happened. I could never have done it alone.