Raw and risky, a new rural romance that explores the dark side of small towns, and the people who put everything on the line to protect them…
On top of our amazing Valentine’s Day promo (check them out here!) , we are so pleased to share that Google Play Books is also running a hot, hot, hot erotica sale…and do we have some hot titles at hot promotional prices for you!
An erotic new adult romance about old insecurities, new beginnings, and the things you can get up to in a tent…
“the attraction … is palpable and the sexual tension sizzling” (Jeannie Zelos, Goodreads)
She’s a small town caterer, he’s a big city chef, but they don’t need a kitchen to make things sizzle…
“Grab it, gobble it up, and it will leave you feeling satisfied.” (Ms RomanticReads, Goodreads)
If there’s one thing Zoe Chandler, Historical Restorations expert, knows, it’s that naked bankers aren’t supposed to look like Greek gods.
“Humor, a hot hero, a feisty heroine, some super steamy love scenes (did I mention the love scenes were hot, like really hot, like melt the clothes off of you hot), and of course a happily ever after.” (Constance, Goodreads)
Four stories of eroticism, strength, experimentation, and ultimate salvation.
“If you are looking for a fun, entertaining, and spicy read, Release should be in your to–be-read pile.” (Lori, Goodreads)
From Cathleen Ross comes a naughty-but-nice story about the fun one can have playing dress-up.
“The chemistry between Ruby and Jake is explosive and practically melted my kindle.” (Lea, Goodreads)
Natasha Raven is unqualified for her job – but a sexy customer service staffer is about to offer her some professional development…
“If you’re in the mood for a quick sexy read, give Room Service a try!” (Tracy, Goodreads)
A dark, violent, and devastatingly sensual erotic fantasy about the binding force of love.
“The Sexy Time was SUPER hot!!” (Liz, Goodreads)
An Australian-set paranormal drawing on the Aboriginal Dreamtime in a hot, suspenseful series debut.
“great for a beach or bath tub read” (Stefanie, Goodreads)
A guarded recluse, some dirty pictures and a spark of curiosity that leads to a dangerous attraction.
“This is one of the funniest, smartest and sexiest erotic romances I’ve read.” (Love Reading Romance, Goodreads)
Traditionally, leather is an anniversary gift. One couple is about to take that in a very non-traditional way…
“an enjoyable, short erotic romance” (Erinne, Goodreads)
From Cate Ellink comes a sun-soaked erotic novel about a tropical paradise, two athletes used to getting physical, and a sex-filled, no-strings holiday fling.
“Just make sure you grab yourself a fan, because things do get steamy!”(My Written Romance, Goodreads)
By Rhyll Biest
The title I’ll be buying for working women friends and colleagues this year is Feminist Fight Club, so they can enjoy a laugh while learning how to tackle the Manterrupter, (who talks over female colleagues in meetings) or the Bropropriator (who appropriates their ideas) in addition to a bunch more practical hacks for dealing with other external (sexist) and internal (self-sabotaging) behaviours that plague women in the workplace. And the Canberra Centre Dymocks definitely deserves some love during the holiday season for their friendly and knowledgeable staff!
Also recommended for BFFs is Rhyll’s latest novel, Hell on Wheels. What BFF doesn’t want a paranormal marriage-of-convenience story about a roller-derby playing demon princess?
by Rhyll Biest
Hometown Throwdown, Skater Smackdown, Seasons Beatings, Wild Things Unleashed, Shove Me Tender. Just the match names give my heart a little booty-bump of excitement.
I first learnt more about roller derby when a fellow romance writer helped me to interview a player, and was hooked as soon as I read her earthy account of the sport.
As a tame public service house cat, I’ve always admired the wild, rough-and-tumble broads of the derby track who skate and play hard, cuss with hearty enthusiasm, and express dissatisfaction with a tit punch rather than passive aggression or pouting.
As a writer I felt compelled to dig deeper into the sport. Not just because of the saucy uniforms or the sassy names, but because of the story potential when a character’s hips and booty are their weapon of choice.
As a woman I applaud the athleticism of derby players, envy their thighs honed to steel from several million hours of skating (mine have been shaped by several million hours of sitting). Plus I’m in awe of their fearless approach to bangs, bruises and breaks, though I’m yet to hold an exhibition devoted to butt bruises.
Then there’s their style. They wear little more than sharkish smiles and lycra, their socks often longer than their shorts, and yet they’re not dolly-birds. Rather, their vibe is fierce and feminist, more Tank Girl than Sports Illustrated what with all the argy-bargy, smelliness and sweat. Derby ain’t no beauty pageant and these broads give zero fucks about ladylike or what guys think of their bodies.
All these things make me long to be a terror on the track, and yet I have zero balance and even less time for training.
So instead I wrote roller derby into my October release, Hell on Wheels, where the heroine skates and booty-bumps her way right into the hero’s heart. But first she has to learn to appreciate the sport and what it can offer her.
For starters, the sport models solidarity and fighting spirit—the she-demon players always have their sisters’ backs and always play to win. Also, rough as the game is, it’s also surprisingly clean, pointing to the derby code of honour. The players might fight and brawl in their own time, but during the game there’s no tit punches, no king-hits, no eye-gouging, no kicking, no chokeholds, no locks, no fish-hooking, no bush pushes, no twat shots, no boob blocks, no cooter stomps, no beaver cleavers or titty take-outs allowed.
An honest win is preferred.
In writing about the sport, I learnt as much from the wisdom of derby as the heroine did. For example, the exhortations to small fall (a metaphor for life if ever I’ve heard one) tells players that they can expect a tumble, that it’s okay to fall—so long as you protect yourself by tucking your limbs in. Plus, there’s strategy to the game, and a good coach knows to treat each player like a chess piece—some girls are built to block, others are born to be jammers. Each player knows how to counter certain moves and knows their part in the team.
The writer in me is also greedy for the sport’s showmanship, the sort that sees events named Bruise Cruise and team players named everything from Fannie Tastic to Flustercluck. Some of my favourite registered derby names include Ova Bearing, Katniss EverMean, “A” Cup Annihilator, 5 Scar Jeneral, A Fist Called Wanda, A’Maiming Grace, Baron von Punchausen, Charm School Reject, Hammer Montana, Vivi Section, Punani Tsunami, Clitty Clitty Bang Bang, and Lady Shatterly.
So, what are you waiting for? Get your skates on and grab a copy of Hell on Wheels. You’ll discover how to high-five with the hips and perhaps even learn about ‘goating’ and ‘poodling’.
An imperious princess, an arrogant mercenary, a marriage of convenience, and one hell of a roller derby bout.
Princess Valeda fled Hell to hide from her mad brother, but a war on her realm sees her dragged straight back to seal a military alliance through marriage. Her betrothed? The Captain of Bloodshed and Slaughter, a royal bastard with blood black as night whose passion for her might prove as dangerous as the war with her brother. Valeda is going to need all of her wits, treachery and cunning—and some lessons learned through demon roller derby—to overcome her past, defeat the enemy, and survive her marriage.
by Rhyll Biest
My gateway books to romance reading were novels about animals and, in particular, horses (I was horse mad as a kid) or even just novels with horses on the cover. At around twelve years of age I read Mary Stewart’s Airs Above the Ground because of the white Lippizaner on the cover, loved the very prim and proper romantic suspense and went on to read Madame Will You Talk and then all of her books. Similarly, I was a huge fan of Anne McCaffrey and K.M. Peyton around the same age. (It’s pretty clear I spent most of my tweens reading. Time well spent!) K.M. Peyton is a prize-winning British young adult writer and since most of her novels involved horses I gobbled them up as a school brat. A number also included (very sweet) romantic elements, including her series The Flambards (now televised).
It was the dragons on Anne McCaffrey’s books lured me in, and (as most romance and fantasy readers would know) most of McCaffrey’s books had romantic elements to them, whether it was between a spaceship and her brawn, between dragon riders, or (gasp!) aliens and humans.
So, there you have it, novels that feature animals lure innocent young minds into that literary den of iniquity (guaranteed to ruin a young lady’s future) that calls itself the romance genre.
NSFW content: please note that our ‘hot toddies’ series contains explicit language and (very) adult situations.
Here in Australia, the weather is getting colder. We’re dragging out the blankets and brewing up the cocoa, but it’s not doing the job. We need something hot.
Luckily, Escape artists have come to the rescue. They’ve provided some of the most scorching scenes from their books for us to enjoy. As the cold winds blow outside, we’ll be heating up with some ‘hot toddies’.
Winter is coming. And so our are heroes and heroines.
From Unrestrained by Rhyll Biest
Halfway downstairs he stopped to stare at her, a look wrapped in murderous intensity. “Found you.”
He’d taken his shirt off. Rowr. His jean pocket bulged with prophylactics and what she hoped was a tube of lube.
Tramping down another step, he shot her a surly look. “You know what happens to spies.”
“Spy?” She tossed her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just another big-breasted professional cage fighter.”
He grinned and Holly felt rewarded. Her nonsense did make him feel better.
“Honey, your cover is blown.”
She gave him a snooty look. “You’re telling me you’re a German spy? Who ever heard of a stonemason spy?”
“Ah, but you get nice hard hands as a stonemason, perfect for interrogating prisoners.”
“I’ll never talk. I’ll never tell you where the memory card is hidden.” She raised her chin and assumed what she hoped was a noble expression.
“Oh, Schatz, that’s what they all say. For the first few hours of interrogation.”
Hours. She hid a grin. “You haven’t caught me yet.”
“That’s true, and I’m glad you didn’t make it too easy for me because I enjoy a good chase. To give you extra incentive not to give up, how about we discuss what’s going to happen when I interrogate you?”
She gave him her most insolent stare. “If you manage to take me alive. I doubt you can.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s really any doubt about that. First I’m going to tear those pretty jeans from your pretty behind.”
Her mouth went dry.
“And then I’m going to rip off your panties.” His voice was cruel and he looked her over coldly. “That’s if a secret spy slut like you wears any. I heard you fucked every German officer between Frankfurt and Hamburg collecting intelligence.”
Oooh. An ache set up between her legs. He had a talent for talking filthy, and the deep rumble his nasty talk came wrapped in amped it up another notch.
“And then I’m going to tie you to a bench, with your legs spread nice and wide, and fuck you until you give up not just that memory card but all your other secrets, including the names of your fellow agents.”
A tremor ran through her. “Why don’t you come downstairs and we’ll see who gets fucked.”
Silence as he stared her down. “You’re a plucky one, aren’t you? Let’s see how plucky you are with my cock in your mouth.”
Her nipples swelled under her T-shirt. Goddamn.
A huge hand grabbed her wrist. “Well, that was a bit too easy, you’re not a very good—”
She head-butted his belly and felt as well as heard his grunt of surprise.
While he was still bent over and wheezing, she delivered a machine-gun flurry of karate chops to his back. Not too hard, she didn’t want to hurt him, but rough enough to underscore her point—he underestimated her. Before he could regain his breath, she ducked around him and ran, giggling, to put a workbench between them.
He straightened up, shaking his head, and the full splendor and strength of his enormous frame sent a nervous buzz through her veins. She’d seen a bullfight once, on television, and while she hadn’t watched for long, appalled by the cruelty of the so-called sport, the image of the bull had stayed with her. The giant, black, stamping, pawing monster, stained in blood, bellowing its rage, nostrils flared as it lowered its head, looked just like Stein, who, equally large and monstrous, was lowering his head, his bullish neck disappearing as he prepared to charge her.
For a moment she expected to hear him snuff and paw the ground, to see him shake his horns like a bull.
His gaze alighted on her, full of the awful promise of retribution. He stretched his head to one side and she heard the pop of cartilage. “Oh, you think that’s funny?” He pointed at her. “You are so fucked.”
While she wished she had a matador’s cape to twirl, apparently her grin was enough of a red flag. “So you say.” And, oops, she grinned at him again.
He vaulted the workbench, and for a second the sight of it froze her to the spot, so that when she finally danced away she felt her hair move where one of his fingertips brushed it.
She bounced from foot to foot, ready to dart in either direction as he faced her over the storage rack, the furnace of his glare adding to the sweat beading her forehead.
With his long reach he was able to lean over and seize her, but she was ready for the move and twisted the joint of his thumb, not enough to dislocate it but enough so that his enraged snort of pain broke the silence of the studio and he dropped her shoulder in a hurry. Again she danced away as he shook his hand, staring at it. “What the fuck was that?”
Her smile was smug. “Small joint manipulation. It’s illegal in cage fighting, but I’m protecting national secrets here.”
“So you’re prepared to fight dirty? What a surprise.” He rushed at her again and this time she let him catch her and press her up against the wall so he didn’t feel too discouraged. “Got you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll show you the meaning of dirty.” He ground his cock against her in the most deliberately, deliciously filthy way.
Heartened that he was enjoying himself, she threw him a defiant look. “There isn’t a man alive who can break me.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll have plenty of fun trying.” He idly played with a strand of her hair, lifted it to kiss and bite her neck, and her insides quivered.
A second later he grabbed her by the scruff and stuffed a hand up the back of her T-shirt. Before she could protest, he’d unhooked her bra and his rough hands were jerking her arms out through the loose straps to remove it. A shiver of apprehension slid up her spine. He wouldn’t get carried away and remove her T-shirt, would he?
“Don’t!” She bucked against him, filled with panic.
He subdued her with his weight. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t take off my T-shirt.” She hated herself for showing such weakness.
A reassuring hand rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, spy, I know the memory card isn’t hidden there. You can keep your T-shirt. But your ass is all mine.”
Three steps and he was looming over her. “I don’t need rope to restrain you, Holly.” He pulled the belt to his dressing gown tight between his hands.
She checked her mind and body for anxiety but found none, just curiosity. And lust. Her hand curled over his shoulder. “Hang on, we need a safe word, in my novels they always have a safe word.”
He brushed her nipple with the back of one finger and smiled at her small gasp. “You can just say ‘stop’.”
“Are you denying me,” she slapped his hand away, “a proper safe word? The first chance I’ve ever had to make up a safe word, and you want me to use boring old ‘stop’?”
His other hand went to her breast and again she went to slap his hand away. Before she knew it, he’d somehow trapped both her hands inside his and was raising them above her head to pin them against the wall. He bound the belt around them and held them there with one hand, kissed the inside of her upraised elbow. Her toes curled in the carpet. Oh. She wriggled and he gave her a wolfish grin. Pretending to be at his sexual mercy was so much hotter than she imagined.
“Okay, what safe word do you want?” His silver gaze rested on her, good-humored, as she wriggled, a little breathless, at her oh-so delicious capture.
As his free hand moved to her collarbone, her skin felt too tight. She was going to burst with anticipation waiting for those fingertips to reach somewhere better. “I want a German word. Give me some options. Something sexy. Nothing to do with bananas or tomatoes.”
“Okay, how about Leberknödel?”
“Oh.” A knuckle grazed the outline of her breast and her knees sagged without her permission. How was she going to be able to stay on her feet? “What does that mean? Something really dirty?”
“Stein!” Her complaint was cut short by a searching mouth finding hers, a playful drag of lips as he evaded her attempt to deepen the kiss, and then a hot, hard, heavy body crushing hers as he tried to press her through the wall, his hand pinning hers helpless above her the whole time.
“Mmmm.” She’d never had sex standing up before, had never even made out standing up before, and it was fiiiine. Especially with her hands bound above her head, like she was defenseless and he was making her. Because, why, yes, she really disliked the way he was grinding himself into her, his hard chest rubbing her breasts, his cock an insistent demand against her belly as he kissed her until she thought she’d pass out. She hated it so much he was going to have to take her by force. And she would fight like hell.
He pulled his lips from hers and scraped his stubbly chin across her cheek. “Remember, Leberknödel.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, trying to make it sound like she meant it.
“Belly to the wall, babe.”
He laughed and flipped her around with ease, and as she stood, cheek pressed to the cool wall, hands above her head, wondering what the hell came next, a platter-like hand explored the curves of her bottom. She squeaked and pressed her thighs together.
“That’s right,” he whispered in her ear, “I can put my—dick mittens, I think you called them—wherever I want. On your books, on your ass, on your breasts, all over you, and you can’t do a thing about it.”
Squirming against the wall as his large fingers glided down her rear and towards her moist core, she struggled to hold up her end of the game. “You animal. I’ll never forgive you for this.”
Two fingers slid inside her. “Sure you will. And then we’ll do it again.”
Oh. Oh, yes. Those fingers, they were just-in-time fingers, the saviors of the finger world, rescuing her from her own monstrous need.
“Mein Gott. Did a damn burst down here? You’re so wet I’m going to need a life jacket.”
She smothered a laugh which turned into cry as his thumb found her clit and pressed.
“Schatz, I had no idea how bad you wanted it,” he whispered.
Oh, god, now she was just a throbbing mess humping the wall like it might help her bury those fingers deeper inside her. A warm tongue licked her nape and she shivered as she realized it was just like being licked by a big cat before it ate you, except this big cat was going to torture her with sex. Really filthy sex. A moment of terror, her chest tightening even as she dripped lust all over his fingers, as she realized he intended to find out just how much she was willing to suffer for him, to moan for him, to beg. Her fear was just as quickly canceled out by mindless need. “Fuck me,” she hissed, “fuck me.”
“Jetzt bekommst Du aber Ärger.” Now you’re gonna get it.
His fingers disappeared, replaced by the thick head of his cock, and she only had a moment to marvel at how different it felt without a condom, not to mention with her hands forced above her head, before he pushed inside her, filling her up, his cock a heavy intrusion quelling her need. Until she needed more. And needed it with a violence that shook her. Not even the firm hand at her hip holding her in place as he fucked into her was enough. “More,” she gasped, and nearly wept at his throaty growl of appreciation, the prickle of his stubble across her shoulders as he rubbed his cheek over her, the way he widened his stance and tilted her hips to get at her more deeply.
“You want this, don’t you?” he panted in her ear, his breath impossibly hot on her skin. “You want it like this.”
And god help her, she did. She’d never felt so base, so free, so alive. So animal. Stein was pure heat behind her, pinning her down and fucking her into submission and beyond, his hips hammering out his feelings for her. And this, his sweat and heat fusing with hers, the heady brew of nasty sex funking up the air, was a whole lot better than flowers or poetry. He was stealing her mind. All thought disappeared, and her feelings became a jumbled mash of white noise as Stein canceled everything out, and there was just his hips, and cock, and mouth, and hands on her, everything sliding into one enormous slam of pulsing need.
Fierce was the only word to describe her orgasm. It grabbed and held her, left her mindless and twisting and shouting Stein’s name against the wall as he kept working her from behind. Until he stopped. Stilled. Froze as his harsh pants broke the silence, his hand tightening on her hip until it hurt. Then a long, wounded sound escaped him and he broke with a shudder, his release tearing free from him, a vicious thing that rose from the base of his spine, ripped through him and reluctantly freed him one claw at a time.
He quickly loosened the belt around her wrists, allowing her hands to drop so the blood could rush back into them before bracing his own hands against the wall to support himself, ribcage heaving, to rest his sweat-slicked forehead against hers. “Bet you the Earl of Exeter doesn’t fuck like that.”
Her breathy laugh caught in her throat. “I bet you’re right.”
A small happy sound escaped him and he raised his fist in triumph. “Yesss.”
She gave him a wry smile and clapped him on the thigh. “Okay, get off me, you’ve proven your point and my legs are about to give.”
Strong arms scooped her up and deposited her on the bed where she lay like a dead fish, unable to move.
A guarded recluse, some dirty pictures and a spark of curiosity that leads to a dangerous attraction.
This week Escape authors are looking at the perennial ‘friends to lovers’ trope in romance literature. Today Rhyll Biest breaks down the genre for us.
Ah, ‘friends to lovers’. The trope where one minute those two young crazy kids, our hero and heroine (or whatever combo appeals to you), are making sand castles and tree forts together, and the next they’re more curious about what’s in one another’s pants than a Tasmanian quarantine beagle scenting a banana in a jock strap.
How does it happen? What sees friendship bracelets traded in for fur-lined handcuffs?
I like to think there are five sub-tropes to the main ‘friends to lovers’. Well, maybe there are more than five, but RSI is a thing and I have televisions series to keep abreast of and umpteen packets of chocolate biscuits in my cupboard that need to be shown who’s boss. (Note that frenemies to lovers is an entirely different trope, and one outside my area of expertise.) These were my choices when writing Bret and Skye’s story.
1) The ugly duckling sub-trope. I wanted to call this one the ‘ugly duckling and the big, bad boner’ trope but then I realised that poultry and boners should never be used in the same sentence. Essentially, this trope is where one friend (male or female) gets a makeover of sorts (whether that’s a new haircut or seven years in the French Foreign Legion), which allows the other friend to see them in a new light. A new, horny, I-want-to-hold-your-hand-and-other-body-parts type of light.
2) So legal it’s hot. Underage sex is so squicky and illegal. That’s why real friends wait until the age of legal consent to jump one another’s bones.
3) Jealousy is a curse. Sometimes you don’t realise how much you love someone until someone else turns up wanting to nail them. Then you have to make sure that you nail them first.
4) Lost. Often, it’s not until you nearly lose or actually do lose something—whether that’s a watch, a ring or a friend—that you realise how hot they are and that you should have shagged them senseless while you had the chance. Wait, perhaps that doesn’t apply to the watch. Or the ring. Whatever. The point is that if a friend moves away, is injured or ill, or is angry with you, that’s when you’ll realise how much they mean to you. (Skye’s story falls into this category.)
5) In Sync. When our hero was ready settle down, our heroine was still partying with a different football team each night. Then she tires of slipped discs and mysterious rashes and is ready to settle when, wham, he ups and joins a bonobo nudist colony. But when he tires of the fickle bonobo ways, she’s still waiting at home (one rash has been quite persistent), and over a shared pot-luck they look at one another and think ‘Nude Twister. Hell, yeah’.
What’s your favourite ‘friends to lovers’ sub-trope?
They were friends, but now her girlhood infatuation has evolved into something much stronger and much more dangerous—an adult woman’s desire.
Book 6 in Secret Confessions: Down & Dusty…
After five years in the city earning her veterinary degree, Skye Malone is happy to be heading back to Milpinyani Springs, and her best friend Bret. Sure, her crush on him is still at epic proportions, but she managed to ignore it this long, and a good friend is a valuable commodity in a small community like theirs. But Bret spent the last five years growing up, and suddenly Skye’s girlhood infatuation evolves into something much stronger and much more dangerous—an adult woman’s desire.
Secret Confessions: Down & Dusty
by Rhyll Biest
Rhyll’s Festive Sphincter-blast Muffins
Stay regular this Christmas
- 1 1/2 cups oat
- 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
- 2 teaspoons baking powder
- 2 teaspoons baking soda
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 2 eggs
- 1 cup chilled applesauce
- 4 tablespoons vegetable oil
- 1/2 cup dark brown sugar
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (205 degrees C). Line or grease 12 muffin cups. Blend together brown sugar, oat bran, flour, baking powder, soda, and salt. Add eggs, chilled applesauce, and vegetable oil. Mix until well-blended. Spoon batter into muffin cups. Let stand 10 minutes.
Bake at 400 degrees F (205 degrees C) for 15 minutes or until golden brown.
Select a suitably festive topping. I like using icing, pretzels, Jaffas and lollies to make a reindeer face.
Eat. Stay close to the bathroom while basking in the knowledge that you have just ensured excellent bowel health for the next thousand years.
A guarded recluse, some dirty pictures and a spark of curiosity that leads to a dangerous attraction. (Available in print and digital!)