Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Guest Blogger Eden Connor

Please welcome my friend and fellow author Eden Connor today! She's going to talk about her new release,

Breaking Glass, prequel to her Carmine Club chronicles. She's going to tell us a little bit about how it came to me. Eden, why don't  you start, while I make us something to drink?

Breaking Glass is the prequel to my upcoming series, Carmine Club. I wanted to blend baggage—the relationship wreckage we all drag through life—with an exploration of female sex fantasies. I’m a southern gal, born and raised in North Carolina and a resident of South Carolina since I showed up for my first day at Converse College. I’ve always felt southern women get an extra shot of shame about sex.
True story: After my husband died unexpectedly at the age of thirty-eight, my mother came to stay with me and my children for a few weeks. We’d taken my nine-year-old daughter to the movies. You know how kids delight in shaming you in front of your mother? Yeah, so mine crawls into the back seat, and while I’m trying to negotiate the mall traffic, she tells her nana a joke she heard at school… the punch line was “sixty-nine”. Yes, that sixty-nine. Before I could get my lips pried apart to dive into the damage control, my mother turns in her seat to pin my daughter with that look. Her tone had tines like October hoarfrost when she said, “Channing. I hope you know, men and women don’t actually kiss each other there.”
Here’s the real punch line. My mother believed this nonsense. To her, if a man needed that, he should pay a prostitute, no harm, no foul. (Actually, I suspect she’d have cried foul aplenty had my stepfather taken her up on this oft-repeated statement, but I digress.) Here she was, imprinting this garbage on my daughter. And I knew this was the moment I had to make a choice. Either I’d fall in line and start building that burden of shame on the head of the next generation, or let my daughter know, in age-appropriate terms, I believed oral sex between consenting adults is not only okay, but downright essential to a healthy relationship. What happened? Here’s a hint: My mother packed her bags and left for Charleston the next morning. I think it’s fair to say, no one can hold a candle to a southern mama when it comes to letting her offspring know they’ve stepped out of line. Doesn’t much matter if you’re four or forty.

Breaking Glass was my jumping-off point. The story begins after a young woman, Jillian Carmichael, confesses her desire for a threesome—to a husband raised by a woman you might suspect is my mother’s twin, if she’d had one. Jillian gets some divine assistance to put the pieces of her marriage back together.
I’ll admit, Eros is the character who speaks for me, because I wrestle with believing in the higher power who started the shame game with Eve, for daring to want to know all things.

The air in the narrow hall outside the deli's restrooms was stifling, making sweat pop out on Dylan's chest. The stage manager frowned, stroking his chin. "Can you unbutton the shirt? No, no, leave the tie knotted around your neck. Pull it out from under the collar."  The young guys out on the deli floor wore stiff collars and cuffs only, similar to ones worn by male strippers at a show Jillian dragged him to see a couple of nights before their wedding.
 Squeezing his eyes closed while fumbling to get his button-down collar loose, Dylan could almost feel her hair spilling over his thighs, recalling the way she dared him to pull down his pants, then leaned across the front seat to suck him off while he drove them home. The point here is not to shoot. Dismayed, he opened his eyes, looking down at the rising bulge in the front of the tacky red boxers they made him wear. All afternoon, he'd gotten hard for no reason. No, all afternoon, I've been thinking about Jill. He'd never met a woman who loved cock the way his wife did.
Ex-wife. Almost. Besides, wasn't that the problem?
Snatching the last piece of his costume from the show organizer's hand, Dylan raked his hair from his eyes before he yanked the perforated leather hood over his head. The mask limited his field of vision and made his face hot, but he could tell from his reflection in the mirror visible through the open door of the men's room, it obscured his identity. Turning to peer through the doorway again, he watched the younger performers strutting between the tables full of chattering females as casually as if they’d been delivering sub sandwiches instead of their personal salamis. Tugging at the waistband of the silk boxers, he wished the elastic was tighter. These things were made to come down.
He couldn't figure out what made him agree to this nonsense. The memory of the bastard's taunts were damn sure what kept him here. He didn't have trouble getting it up. Maybe he’d buy a new watch from Teague when he took Joe’s money, something he could rub in the man’s face several times a day.
"The bride’s the one in the red dress," the show manager whispered, tying the laces on the back of Dylan’s hood. "Be sure you pose for photographs with her and give her a lot of attention." He patted Dylan on the shoulder. "They’ve been drinking for about ninety minutes, so they should be ready drop their inhibitions along with your shorts."  His laughter tickled the back of Dylan’s neck. “If you’re lucky, maybe a few will have cold hands. My boy here’s undefeated.”
Dylan cast a look at the other half of the finale, a dark-haired guy about his age, wearing dark-rimmed glasses. He looked like an accountant. Pulling off the glasses, the guy folded them. The stage manager slipped them into his shirt pocket while the performer pulled the leather mask over his head.
"Good luck dude. Nice suit. Try not to get cum stains on it." The other man held out a fist while the stage manager scurried behind him to tie his mask.
"At least I can afford to get them cleaned if I do." Dylan gave the performer's cheap suit a scornful glance, bumping his outstretched fist harder than necessary.
Hard pressure at the base of his spine propelled him into the room. A smattering of applause and a few shrill whistles greeted him above the music crackling from cheap speakers. He'd made too many public presentations to suffer from stage fright, but he hadn't taken many steps before he froze, blinking in shock. More than one woman had bared her breasts. Moving resolutely toward the bride-to-be, he couldn't help staring. Soft hands stroked his thighs and chest. One woman grabbed his necktie, but Dylan didn't stop wading through the crowd, determined to get to the table where the bride sat.
Speaking of brides. Holy hell. Dylan blinked. And blinked again.
While the bleached blonde in the scarlet dress seemed to be trying to decide if she wanted to touch Dylan’s cock, he gaped at his wife. His wife. She lifted the Nikon he’d bought her, pointing it at him. There was no way Jill could know it was him underneath the hood, but his heart pounded furiously. His cock reared up, as if that part of him wanted its own look at her and his racing pulse thudded in his groin.
"C’mon, Steph, get these new soldiers standing at attention," Jillian urged, laughing. Her glossy hair swung round her shoulders when she tossed her head. "Make that cock sit up and beg, girl."
Dylan didn't have time to wonder whether or not the groom would mind if he knew his bride-to-be bride was sliding her hand under the leg of his shorts. He was too busy staring at the leather bustier Jillian wore. I damn well better not have paid for that. Three straps connected to a black leather collar with sturdy silver rings. The snug leather around her rib cage was impaled by bright silver studs. But when she shrugged out of the short sweater she wore over the mind-blowing garment, Dylan got hard in a hurry when he saw the corset had no cups.
Sometime since he’d last seen his wife’s breasts, Jillian had pierced her left nipple. Dylan was struck by the urge to suck the ring dangling from the sweet tip into his mouth. His fingers itched to slide under the trashy skirt.
He was positive she’d be wet.
Breaking Glass led to Carmine Club, not surprisingly, a story about a southern woman. In fact, there are stories about many southern women throughout the series, and when we leave each one, we’ll be assured the main characters are well on their way to falling in love. But running in the background is the story of Willa Davis Seachrist. Willa’s father is Judge Brockman Davis. Her mother was Brock’s scandalously younger second wife, Stella. Before she can walk, Willa already senses there’s a price to be paid for stepping out of line in society. Following your heart is a rocky road, particularly in a society where tradition is prized above all. It’s a theme I poke at a lot, being both sexual and southern. Willa takes a poke at tradition too. She becomes a pimp. Once a month, behind the locked gates of her antebellum home, she auctions her female friend’s sexual fantasies to her cadre of male members, satisfaction guaranteed.

Eden’s links: Blog |Twitter| Facebook
Breaking Glass: Amazon| Kobo

Thanks for stopping by, Eden, come back soon!

Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie

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