It was the wet muscles that did it for me! Paula is our winner. Please contact me so I can get the prizes to you!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Favorite Warrior Pictures
Gotta love Gerard Butler!
Ah...Aragorn!
Love to run your hands over the ROCK?
Saturday, April 22, 2006
JACQ'S WARLORD FAVORITE KNIGHT CONTEST!
Your Favorite Warlord!
To celebrate the release of Jacq's Warlord, which will be released by Ellora's Cave on April 26, Delilah Devlin and Myla Jackson are sponsoring a special contest. The prize package will include:
* a free download of Jacq's Warlord
* an autographed 8x10 picture of the cover of Jacq's Warlord
* a prize package with votive candles, Bath & Bodyworks hand lotions, love dice, and a champagne glass note pad
To enter, you must send us a picture of your favorite warlord. Delilah and Myla will post their favorites on their blogs daily until Wednesday!
Entries must be received before 6PM CST on April 26th for consideration!
Excerpt for JACQ'S WARLORD
JACQ's WARLORD releases on April 26th at www.ellorascave.com
Meet the heroine from Jacq's Warlord, which will be released this Wednesday by Ellora's Cave!
Jacq puffed at a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail and stuck to her sweaty forehead. Then she narrowed her eyes to glare at her opponent. “Prepare to die, Roman!” she bellowed.
“How ‘bout it, Jacq?” George said under his breath as he dodged her blow. His short leather skirt flared just high enough for a glimpse of his dirt-striped white Hanes. “One beer. Let me buy you one at the Hostler’s Inn when we’re through.”
Jacqueline Frazier aka Hargred the Warrior Woman, at least for the rest of the tourney, stomped her feet, grinding her heels into the mud. “Sorry, George,” she said, raising her broadsword over her shoulder like a baseball bat. “You’re not my type. I’m gonna kick your ass, so stop trying to distract me.”
George darted to the left and then lunged, his sword jabbing toward her midsection.
Jacq swung, intercepting his move with a bone-jarring clang of metal. “I could see that coming a mile, George.” She grinned. She’d never tell, but she enjoyed the banter they shared on the field. If only he offered more of a physical challenge. “You gotta do better than that.”
George grinned back, his smile a slash of white in his mud-splattered face. “What, are Centurions too tame for you?” he drawled, his voice pitched low enough for her to hear, but not reach the spectators in the stand. “I think you’re just playing hard to get.”
She quirked one eyebrow and waved him closer. “Then come and get me, George.”
He growled and flexed his massive chest and arm muscles—every bit as imposing as Rowdy Roddy Piper in a Wrestlemania face-off. The impressive display of manly vigor was spoiled when he leaned toward her and whispered, “How ‘bout letting me win just once? I’m tired of eating Georgia clay.” For the benefit of the crowd, he beat his breastplate with his sword.
Jacq snickered. “What would be the fun in that?” She drew a deep breath, puffing out her chest and scowling, and then trumped his performance with an ululating battle cry. She swung her sword in a wide arc, her body turning to follow the blade while her own pleated leather skirt slapped her thighs.
As she closed the distance between them, George’s eyes widened. “Shit!” When she was a sword’s length away, he feinted to the right, surprising Jacq with a sideways slice.
She jerked aside too late. His blunt sword slammed against the metal cones covering her breasts. Unable to pull her feet from the muck, she lost her balance and landed on her backside, splashing mud like Shamu at poolside.
George’s forward momentum carried him past her until he skidded to a halt.
The crowd roared, but Jacq ignored the hecklers’ calls for Hargred’s beheading. She pushed herself off the arena floor and reached to shove back the horned helmet from her forehead.
George whipped around to face her and grinned. “Ah Jacq, is it any wonder I’m half in love with you? You’ve got mud under your nose. It looks like a big brown booger.”
Jacq wiped her nose with the backside of a grimy hand. “And you can’t figure out why I’m not dying to go out with you?”
“That’s all right, sweetheart. There’s always next year. But right now—” He pointed at the arena floor. “I’m gonna take you down.”
Jacq cocked her head from left to right, cracking vertebrae before resuming her stance, sword poised over her shoulder. “You talk big, George, but remember who taught you your moves.”
“Oh, I’d be worried if I was facing your daddy.” George swung his sword like a mace and gave an admirable roar that the crowd joined.
Jacq caught the blow with her blade, grunting with pain. Though the metal of their swords was a lighter cast than the real McCoy, and blunted to prevent serious injury, they’d both have the bruises and aching muscles to show for their day’s work.
George slid in the mud, but righted himself quickly.
Jacq waited for him to face her. “Just remember. You train with him twice a year. He kicks my ass every day.”
When Jacq was sure she had his and the crowd’s full attention, she flipped her sword high into the air in a graceful arc, its metal surface reflecting glints of the early afternoon sun. On its downward arc she twirled away to deftly catch the sword behind her back.
“You fight like a girl. Quit twirling your baton and fight me, dammit,” George said, his bravado unconvincing because it was accompanied by a groan.
The sounds of the other warriors fighting in the mêlée waned. Jacq decided it was time to end George’s dream of an upset victory. She raised her sword in front of her in a double-fisted grip. “Enough talk. Let’s dance.”
Thrusting, dodging and slicing, Jacq and George moved through their crudely choreographed sequences like WWF wrestlers. While their moves were practiced to prevent serious harm, the outcome wasn’t predetermined—whoever put their skills to the best use would win.
George altered the “script” and aimed another wicked slice toward Jacq’s shoulder.
This time she was ready, ducking below the stroke of his sword and coming up as momentum turned him sideways. She swung her own sword, whacking him in the ass with the flat of the blade. When he faltered, she kicked her leg against the back of his knees, sweeping him off his feet to land in an ignominious heap.
While he made mud angels trying to find a handhold in the muck, Jacq raised her sword high above her head, tip pointing down. She lifted her gaze to the spectators in the stadium seats and received a decisive number of thumbs-down votes.
“No wonder you don’t date.” George glared in disgust. “You’d never let the man be on top.”
“Maybe next year, sweetheart. Meantime, give them a good death.” With that said, she plunged her sword down into the space between his arm and ribs.
George played his part to the hilt, flopping like a dying fish until he gasped his last breath and lay still.
The audience whistled and pounded their feet on the wooden bleachers. Jacq raised her sword above her head in victory.
Noting the mêlée had ended, she stepped on George’s belly and walked toward the spectators’ stands to enjoy the applause for another job well done.
“Looks like the Fraziers cleaned up, again,” her dad said, as he joined her to bow to the crowd.
Jacq cast a glance at Thomas Frazier’s brown-spattered chain mail. “Cleaned up isn’t exactly the term I’d have used.” She noted the ruddy color of his cheeks. “No bad moments?”
He shook his head. “I’m healthy as a horse. Quit worrying.” He pushed up the faceguard of his Norman helm and grinned. “The mêlée was a good addition to the program.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Despite a little cross-century genre-busting?”
“I’ll admit I had my doubts. But what the hell!” His grin stretched wide. “Purism is boring. I think I’ll do this again next year.”
Jacq shoved aside her worry. He did look back to his old self. “Yeah. There’s nothing quite like facing off with a dozen knights and Vikings.”
Her father cocked his head toward George. “Your Centurion seemed to give you a moment or two back there.”
She snorted. “In his dreams.”
“George is a good cub. Give you ten, he goes a whole five minutes with you next year.”
She slapped her palm against his. “You’re on!”
A crack of thunder overhead heralded the renewal of the rain that had reduced the Renaissance Faire’s arena to a morass earlier.
“Looks like that’s all the fun we’ll have today,” her father said, peering at the sky. “I’m heading home to the shower.”
Jacq fell in beside him as he walked toward the gates of the arena. “I won’t be far behind you. I just need to check with the events manager to see whether Maryann’s feeling any better.”
“It’ll be too bad if you have to miss the matches in the morning.”
“Yeah, it sucks. But if she can’t make it, I’ll probably be taking her place as the bard tomorrow. In a dress!” She shuddered. “Why me?”
He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Because they don’t want to see me in a dress?”
Jacq stared at his legs and pursed her lips.
“Not a word about the damn tights!”
“’Course not, Sir Tom,” she said with a slight bow. “Besides, I thought you told me they were chausses! Quite the thing a manly knight would wear.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her and drawled, “Still, it’s better than a dress.”
As she stomped toward the exit to the stadium, her father’s laughter followed. “I’ll have a pot of chili on the stove, so don’t bother picking up anything on your way home.”
Then her father left her, as was his custom, without a goodbye.
Meet the heroine from Jacq's Warlord, which will be released this Wednesday by Ellora's Cave!
Jacq puffed at a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail and stuck to her sweaty forehead. Then she narrowed her eyes to glare at her opponent. “Prepare to die, Roman!” she bellowed.
“How ‘bout it, Jacq?” George said under his breath as he dodged her blow. His short leather skirt flared just high enough for a glimpse of his dirt-striped white Hanes. “One beer. Let me buy you one at the Hostler’s Inn when we’re through.”
Jacqueline Frazier aka Hargred the Warrior Woman, at least for the rest of the tourney, stomped her feet, grinding her heels into the mud. “Sorry, George,” she said, raising her broadsword over her shoulder like a baseball bat. “You’re not my type. I’m gonna kick your ass, so stop trying to distract me.”
George darted to the left and then lunged, his sword jabbing toward her midsection.
Jacq swung, intercepting his move with a bone-jarring clang of metal. “I could see that coming a mile, George.” She grinned. She’d never tell, but she enjoyed the banter they shared on the field. If only he offered more of a physical challenge. “You gotta do better than that.”
George grinned back, his smile a slash of white in his mud-splattered face. “What, are Centurions too tame for you?” he drawled, his voice pitched low enough for her to hear, but not reach the spectators in the stand. “I think you’re just playing hard to get.”
She quirked one eyebrow and waved him closer. “Then come and get me, George.”
He growled and flexed his massive chest and arm muscles—every bit as imposing as Rowdy Roddy Piper in a Wrestlemania face-off. The impressive display of manly vigor was spoiled when he leaned toward her and whispered, “How ‘bout letting me win just once? I’m tired of eating Georgia clay.” For the benefit of the crowd, he beat his breastplate with his sword.
Jacq snickered. “What would be the fun in that?” She drew a deep breath, puffing out her chest and scowling, and then trumped his performance with an ululating battle cry. She swung her sword in a wide arc, her body turning to follow the blade while her own pleated leather skirt slapped her thighs.
As she closed the distance between them, George’s eyes widened. “Shit!” When she was a sword’s length away, he feinted to the right, surprising Jacq with a sideways slice.
She jerked aside too late. His blunt sword slammed against the metal cones covering her breasts. Unable to pull her feet from the muck, she lost her balance and landed on her backside, splashing mud like Shamu at poolside.
George’s forward momentum carried him past her until he skidded to a halt.
The crowd roared, but Jacq ignored the hecklers’ calls for Hargred’s beheading. She pushed herself off the arena floor and reached to shove back the horned helmet from her forehead.
George whipped around to face her and grinned. “Ah Jacq, is it any wonder I’m half in love with you? You’ve got mud under your nose. It looks like a big brown booger.”
Jacq wiped her nose with the backside of a grimy hand. “And you can’t figure out why I’m not dying to go out with you?”
“That’s all right, sweetheart. There’s always next year. But right now—” He pointed at the arena floor. “I’m gonna take you down.”
Jacq cocked her head from left to right, cracking vertebrae before resuming her stance, sword poised over her shoulder. “You talk big, George, but remember who taught you your moves.”
“Oh, I’d be worried if I was facing your daddy.” George swung his sword like a mace and gave an admirable roar that the crowd joined.
Jacq caught the blow with her blade, grunting with pain. Though the metal of their swords was a lighter cast than the real McCoy, and blunted to prevent serious injury, they’d both have the bruises and aching muscles to show for their day’s work.
George slid in the mud, but righted himself quickly.
Jacq waited for him to face her. “Just remember. You train with him twice a year. He kicks my ass every day.”
When Jacq was sure she had his and the crowd’s full attention, she flipped her sword high into the air in a graceful arc, its metal surface reflecting glints of the early afternoon sun. On its downward arc she twirled away to deftly catch the sword behind her back.
“You fight like a girl. Quit twirling your baton and fight me, dammit,” George said, his bravado unconvincing because it was accompanied by a groan.
The sounds of the other warriors fighting in the mêlée waned. Jacq decided it was time to end George’s dream of an upset victory. She raised her sword in front of her in a double-fisted grip. “Enough talk. Let’s dance.”
Thrusting, dodging and slicing, Jacq and George moved through their crudely choreographed sequences like WWF wrestlers. While their moves were practiced to prevent serious harm, the outcome wasn’t predetermined—whoever put their skills to the best use would win.
George altered the “script” and aimed another wicked slice toward Jacq’s shoulder.
This time she was ready, ducking below the stroke of his sword and coming up as momentum turned him sideways. She swung her own sword, whacking him in the ass with the flat of the blade. When he faltered, she kicked her leg against the back of his knees, sweeping him off his feet to land in an ignominious heap.
While he made mud angels trying to find a handhold in the muck, Jacq raised her sword high above her head, tip pointing down. She lifted her gaze to the spectators in the stadium seats and received a decisive number of thumbs-down votes.
“No wonder you don’t date.” George glared in disgust. “You’d never let the man be on top.”
“Maybe next year, sweetheart. Meantime, give them a good death.” With that said, she plunged her sword down into the space between his arm and ribs.
George played his part to the hilt, flopping like a dying fish until he gasped his last breath and lay still.
The audience whistled and pounded their feet on the wooden bleachers. Jacq raised her sword above her head in victory.
Noting the mêlée had ended, she stepped on George’s belly and walked toward the spectators’ stands to enjoy the applause for another job well done.
“Looks like the Fraziers cleaned up, again,” her dad said, as he joined her to bow to the crowd.
Jacq cast a glance at Thomas Frazier’s brown-spattered chain mail. “Cleaned up isn’t exactly the term I’d have used.” She noted the ruddy color of his cheeks. “No bad moments?”
He shook his head. “I’m healthy as a horse. Quit worrying.” He pushed up the faceguard of his Norman helm and grinned. “The mêlée was a good addition to the program.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Despite a little cross-century genre-busting?”
“I’ll admit I had my doubts. But what the hell!” His grin stretched wide. “Purism is boring. I think I’ll do this again next year.”
Jacq shoved aside her worry. He did look back to his old self. “Yeah. There’s nothing quite like facing off with a dozen knights and Vikings.”
Her father cocked his head toward George. “Your Centurion seemed to give you a moment or two back there.”
She snorted. “In his dreams.”
“George is a good cub. Give you ten, he goes a whole five minutes with you next year.”
She slapped her palm against his. “You’re on!”
A crack of thunder overhead heralded the renewal of the rain that had reduced the Renaissance Faire’s arena to a morass earlier.
“Looks like that’s all the fun we’ll have today,” her father said, peering at the sky. “I’m heading home to the shower.”
Jacq fell in beside him as he walked toward the gates of the arena. “I won’t be far behind you. I just need to check with the events manager to see whether Maryann’s feeling any better.”
“It’ll be too bad if you have to miss the matches in the morning.”
“Yeah, it sucks. But if she can’t make it, I’ll probably be taking her place as the bard tomorrow. In a dress!” She shuddered. “Why me?”
He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Because they don’t want to see me in a dress?”
Jacq stared at his legs and pursed her lips.
“Not a word about the damn tights!”
“’Course not, Sir Tom,” she said with a slight bow. “Besides, I thought you told me they were chausses! Quite the thing a manly knight would wear.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her and drawled, “Still, it’s better than a dress.”
As she stomped toward the exit to the stadium, her father’s laughter followed. “I’ll have a pot of chili on the stove, so don’t bother picking up anything on your way home.”
Then her father left her, as was his custom, without a goodbye.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Dreamin' in Dallas Conference
Met up with Delilah Devlin and friends in Dallas for the Dreamin' in Dallas Conference. It was fun and informative. Delilah and I pitched some co-authored ideas to Hillary Sares from Kensington. We need to work through our agent, our other publisher, and pull those proposals together to get them out there! Aphrodisia has some great covers and exciting stories coming out. We had a lot of fun and brainstormed new ideas!
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
TEMPTING
If you like kickass women and sexy vampires, look for TEMPTING. This book came out March 10th with www.whispershome.com Look for it in print in the fall of this year with Delilah Devlin's Sanctuary!
Dreams of the Oasis I - Ambassador's Widow
It's out in print and in downloadable format! And I have the very first story in the book! Look for the Ambassador's Widow.
www.ellorascave.com
Jacq's Warlord!
Isn't this the sexiest cover you've seen? Delilah and I are thrilled!
Jacq's Warlord is available
April 26th www.ellorascave.com
Thursday, February 02, 2006
TROUBLE WITH HARRY EXCERPT!
Here's an excerpt from TROUBLE WITH HARRY. Enjoy!
TROUBLE WITH HARRY by Myla Jackson available now!
http://www.ellorascave.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0326-8
“Step aside. Move yer bloody arses!” A dirty man with blackened teeth, a scraggly beard and breath that could make a camel wretch, pushed a line of equally repulsive men out of the way. Then he leaned into Edie’s face and breathed a putrid stench against her lips. “As the first mate, I have the right to go first.”
The fog and darkness immediately left Edie’s mind. Just like in her dream, she was stripped of her clothing and tied to the main mast of an ancient pirate ship. Around her a hundred bloodthirsty pirates leered, their tongues hanging out of their mouths as if drooling over that twenty-ounce steak Edie thought she’d have to tie around her neck to attract a man. So, she’d been wrong. She could attract a man, or men, just by standing in front of them naked.
Tugging at the ropes chafing her skin, her arms strained against the bindings. “What do you want with me?” Duh, dumb question.
“We be wantin’ to give ye that experience ye was wishin’ for, missy.” The first mate grabbed both her breasts in his meaty hands, squeezing as if they were office stress balls.
A cheer went up through the mass of males.
“I’ll be next!”
“Then me!”
“You’ll have ta wait yer turn!”
One man punched another in the eye.
Edie winced and jerked to the side in an attempt to dislodge the pirate’s grip. “Keep your hands off me, or I’ll—”
“Or ye’ll what? Call out the British navy to save yer pretty arse?”
The first mate grabbed her thighs and shoved her legs open. Then he cupped her ass in his hands and rammed his trouser-clad cock up against her pussy.
As he struggled to untie his britches, Edie got a foot between them, braced her back against the hard wood of the mast and shoved with all her might.
“What the—” The pirate sailed backward into the throng of men knocking six over before he came to a resounding crash on his backside, his head connecting to the hard, wooden deck with a dull thunk.
Edie, breathing hard, had no time to spare. Other pirates moved in as the first mate stumbled to his feet.
While more hands pawed at her breasts, Edie squeezed her eyes shut and said, “I wish Harry were here to save me.”
At the first familiar rumble of thunder in the distance, Edie opened her eyes. Just then, the ship lurched to the side. Pirates tumbled across the deck, a few falling overboard. If not for the ropes holding her to the mast, Edie would have been thrown to the deck, as well.
When the ship leveled in the water, only rocking with the gentle swell of the ocean, some of the pirates fished their mates out of the water while the others circled around her once again.
This time, the first mate wasn’t leering. He rubbed at the back of his head. “You’ll pay fer the lump on me head, wench.” He struggled to open his britches.
Edie forced herself to laugh out loud, even while her stomach flip-flopped and she fought her gag reflex. Maybe if she humiliated him, he wouldn’t be able to perform. “You aren’t serious are you? Why you’re probably so inconsequential the rest of the men will laugh.”
The first mate scowled down at the strings he fought to open and paused. He looked as if he had some doubts.
Edie almost crowed with her minor victory.
Then the pirate’s jaw hardened and he moved closer. “You’ll suck me cock until it grows as big as me fist, do ye hear?”
A sword swished by Edie’s face to halt with its point lodged near the first mate’s groin. “Touch her again, and I’ll slice off yer bullocks and tie them to the crow’s nest for the gulls to feast on.” The warning was delivered in a low, even, blessedly familiar tone.
Edie’s pulse jumped.
Harry stood beside her bare-chested, his gleaming muscles tanned and rippling in the warm salty air. Long dark hair hung down to his shoulders, capped by a flamboyant black hat turned up on one side with a long white ostrich plume dipping over the top. Black, skintight pants hugged his crotch, emphasizing the swell of his magnificent cock. The spitting image of her imaginary lover, Black Bart, Harry was glorious.
The filthy pirate gulped, his hands dropping to his sides. “I wasn’t gonna do nothin’ to hurt the wee lass. Honest, Capt’n.”
With a deep scowl, Harry flicked the tip of the sword, piercing the man’s skin enough to draw blood. “Next time you touch my woman, I’ll not threaten. Now get out of my sight.”
“Aye, aye, Capt’n.” The first mate and all the rest of the ship’s hands scurried off to the far corners of the vessel.
Which left Harry and Edie alone together at the center of the craft.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Edie said. “The wish just slipped out.”
Harry turned his brown-black gaze onto her, skimming her from the tip of her flyaway red hair to her red polished toenails. “I’ve a mind to teach ye a lesson.” His voice washed over her in the singsong pattern of a pirate. The tip of his sword pointed between her breasts and drew a faint line down her belly, over her naval to the edge of the rust-colored curls covering her womanhood.
A thrill of anticipation ran the length of her spine, settling in her lower belly. The cold steel didn’t cut her skin, but the promise it implied lay open her desire. She wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her entire life, more even, than her father’s approval.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)