New Release!
Rendezvous
By Lisabet Sarai
BDSM Paranormal Romance
KINKY LITERATURE
AMAZON US - AMAZON UK
SMASHWORDS - B&N - APPLE BOOKS
ADD ON GOODREADS
ADD ON BOOKBUB
A word from Lisabet:
Embracing the Darkness
What makes paranormal romance so popular? I've been pondering this question for a while. Readers, it seems, are happy to consume as many tales about vampires, shape shifters, ghosts and psychics as we authors can produce. You'd think that they'd get bored, but that doesn't seem to happen. Why not?
I've got a theory. We're all tempted by the dark side.
The realms of paranormal romance are vast, but most books offer characters with dual natures, torn between normal humanity and―otherness. The “other” aspect conveys special powers―unnatural strength, heightened sensation, hidden knowledge―but always at a price. The characters suffer because of their power. Blood-drinkers and half-beasts are ravaged by conscience because they maim or kill. Immortals bear the weight of lonely, isolated centuries and the pain of watching mortal companions wither and die. My prescient hero Kyle in At the Margins of Madness can see the future but the fury of his visions drives him insane. Jorge in Serpent's Kiss is the incarnation of an ancient god but each time he makes love to his human mate he comes close to killing her. Tony, the dominant ghost in Rendezvous, has a single night in which to search for the connection he never found when he was alive.
In the paranormal genre, power and darkness go hand in hand. Yet somehow, we are attracted to the darkness. We brush the suffering aside; we want to feel the power. A vampires isn't sexy when he's fighting against his blood craving. Only when he sweeps his victim into his arms and buries his fangs in her flesh does he make us breathless and moist.
How many books have you read where the human hero or heroine willingly submits to “the change”, the transformation that will make them “other” as well? How many characters, in contrast, manage to resist the pull of the dark side? Not many. Normal mortal life seems absurd, bland and empty after you've tasted power. This is especially true because sex on the dark side in erotic romance is always more intense, more extreme, transcending the limits that bind ordinary humans.
Even a villain with supernatural powers tempts us. A well-written antagonist should invite enough identification that the reader can understand what moves him to do evil. The best bad guys are ambiguous, able to justify their deeds so well that they draw our sympathy. They dazzle us with their logic and their beauty, until we can't see their wickedness. Lucifer still looks like an angel as he bargains for your soul.
We're drawn to the dark side, I think, because it's an escape. Sometimes the real world leaves us feeling so powerless―we can't help wanting the ability to take control, to bend the world to our will the way our paranormal characters do. Who wouldn't want to leave the dirty dishes and the unpaid bills behind and slip away into the night, to slink through the shadowy streets scenting for blood or to howl, unfettered, at the moon?
The dark side calls to us in paranormal romance. Every time we open a new book, we flirt with the possibility of ecstatic surrender.
Blurb:
I am who I am, and I know what you want.
Rebecca
believes in magic. She has never lost her childhood love of Halloween, when she
can don a costume and step away from her boring, ordinary self. For one night,
she transforms into someone else – someone mysterious, daring, sensual and
seductive.
When All
Hallow’s Eve finds her stranded at a seedy motel a hundred miles from her
friend's annual party, she is desperately disappointed. Then she discovers that
her room is haunted by the invisible but unquestionably virile ghost of a rake
who seduced local women nearly half a century earlier.
Excerpt:
The costume worked its magic. I was astonished at how regal I looked, and how desirable. The bodice pinched my waist to tiny dimensions, and forced my breasts upwards. The square-cut neckline drew attention to my swelling flesh, barely hiding my nipples. In fact, they were not hidden at all. Though I'd lined the top with muslin as the pattern specified, the tight nubs were clearly visible through several layers of fabric.
I cradled my breasts and used my thumbs to trace circles around those sensitive buds. With each cycle, the spring of tension in my pelvis wound tighter. A light flick of my thumbnail sent electricity down my spine and triggered spasms of pleasure. I worried briefly that the juices trickling out of my pussy would spoil the satin. But after all, what did it matter? There was no one to see me tonight, no one to please but myself.
“You certainly do look sexy. Like something right out of de Sade.”
“What? Who...?” I whirled around in confusion, my heart slamming against my ribs. The voice had been close, right next to my ear. Yet the room was empty, unchanged. The same warped walls, the same thread-bare carpet, the same rusty stains on the ceiling. The rumpled bed where I'd had my tantrum. The almost-empty glass on the dresser.
Ah, the liquor. I must be more drunk than I thought. I turned back to the mirror, searching my face for signs of intoxication, and yelped as something, someone, pinched my nipples.
“Hey! That hurts.” Indignation overwhelmed fear.
“It does, at first. But afterwards, it changes, doesn't it? Afterwards, it feels quite delicious.” I stared at my image, mouth hanging stupidly open, as invisible hands caressed my breasts. Strong hands, gentle hands, hands that seemed to know exactly how to make me shiver with delight. “That's what most people don't understand about pain. It's the gateway to the most exquisite pleasure.”
The voice was a melodious baritone, rich, deep, almost hypnotic. “You fear the pain, but that's foolish. You must surrender to the pain. Let it move through you. Let it wash away your doubts and your inhibitions. Let it open you to ecstasy.”
Firm, unseen lips nibbled at my neck. A warm, wet tongue traced the curve from below my ear to my exposed shoulder, then down to the hollow at my throat. With each touch, extravagant new species of pleasure bloomed in my sex. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savoring the delicate caresses and the amazing sensations that they triggered.
Suddenly something sharp pierced the rounded flesh of my shoulder. I screamed, surprise heightening the agony that gripped me, and tore myself away from the grasp of the unseen intruder.
My reflection made me gasp in horror and wonder. Droplets of blood oozed from several wounds on my shoulder, wounds arranged in the distinctive semi-circular shape of a bite.
About
Lisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance –
over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html),
along
with
more
than
fifty
free
stories
and
lots
more.
At
her
blog
Beyond
Romance
(http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com),
she
shares
her
philosophy
and
her
news
and
hosts
lots
of
other
great
authors.
She’s also on Goodreads,
BookBub and Twitter.
Join her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh
