Sydney Tyler is renting a barn conversion in Northern France, planning to spend the fortnight getting some words down on her novel. Unfortunately, construction work in the other half of the building puts an end to her peace and quiet. Genuinely upset that the builders are going to disturb her, the property’s handsome English owner, Harry Bay, offers to make it up to her. He’s a little flirtatious, and after spotting his wedding ring, Sydney keeps him at arm’s length. Sexy as he is, she has no intention of getting involved with a married man. But when Sydney learns the truth about Harry, will their mutual attraction spur them on to work through their emotional baggage and make this more than just a French affair?
Available from: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-french-affair/
Sydney Tyler jumped so hard that her fingers slammed down onto the laptop’s keyboard and she typed a bunch of gobbledegook.
Kashfkjsdhlfknsdlfvn sdlkch awoeduioh ahdwklc
Gasping, she clutched at her chest as her heart thumped rapidly and painfully. “What the fucking hell was that?” she said to the empty room.
Pushing her chair back from the desk, she stepped over to the window. Peering out into the brilliant sunshine, she saw something on the lawn that she had absolutely not been expecting. Workmen.
She groaned. So much for her peaceful writer’s retreat. She’d planned to get a good chunk of her novel down in the fortnight she was away, and now it looked as though her peace was going to be monumentally shattered by banging, drilling and God knows what else.
Sighing, she gave the windowsill a pathetic thump in her frustration. She might have been pissed off, but she was no vandal. And besides, she didn’t want those noisy buggers in her part of the building fixing things—having them next door was bad enough.
Sydney really could not believe her shitty luck. When she’d booked the cottage in the French village of Monthiers over the phone a couple of months ago, she’d dealt with a fellow Brit called Harry Bay, who she’d suspected was the owner. On arrival, though, a timid French woman had met her and let her into the luxurious barn conversion before handing over the keys and explaining a little bit about the local area. Apparently, in the mornings, someone came along the village streets, selling fresh bread and pastries.
There wasn’t much else to tell, it seemed, as the village had nothing except a church—almost opposite her accommodation—and a tavern. It was also lacking—she’d quickly discovered—a mobile signal. Not even a single bar illuminated her screen. Her phone was now no more than a watch, alarm clock and calendar. If there was an emergency, she was screwed. But on a much lighter note, it was one less distraction. She could just get on with what she was here to do, blissfully undisturbed.
The arrival of workmen was incredibly irritating. Her temporary landlord hadn’t mentioned there’d be anyone working next door. If he had, she wouldn’t have booked the place—the quiet and idyllic location were the whole reason for choosing this property, this area. Even though there was no way he could have known she was there to work, common courtesy would dictate that he told her. Perhaps he was just interested in taking her money and didn’t give a damn about whether she had a satisfactory stay or not. There was nothing to be done about it now, unfortunately. She’d paid for the fortnight, and she was buggered if she was going to cut and run, pissing that money down the drain. She’d just have to find a way around the disturbance, and console herself that she could leave a snarky write up on a review site when she got home.
Finding out the builders’ working hours would be a good start—she could attempt to write around them then. Or perhaps she could make use of the headphones she’d stuffed into her case, without ever thinking they’d get used. Some loud rock music would drown out the din from next door and hopefully allow her to work. It was worth a try. She hoped they were only doing a small job that would only take a couple of days, but deep down she knew they weren’t. They were renovating the whole place so it was as beautiful as the half she was in.
She was just about to go in search of the aforementioned headphones when one of the men pottering around on the lush back garden stepped away from the others. Standing in a shaft of sunlight, he pulled his arms high above his head and stretched, dragging up his t-shirt to reveal a lean stomach with a fine line of dark hair leading enticingly into the waistband of his jeans.
Oh yum, she thought, perhaps having builders next door wouldn’t be so bad after all. Especially if they all looked like him. She continued to watch as the man dropped his arms to his sides and watched the others. His dark hair was overlong and stuck out at crazy angles, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes from this distance, but she could make out enough detail of his features to see that he was handsome. Gorgeous, actually. Close up he could be much less attractive, but from her upstairs window, the view was pretty fine.
Just then, he glanced across at her side of the long barn, which was divided into two holiday cottages. He caught sight of her standing there, and his face dropped. He looked back at the builders, then returned his gaze to her again. Pointing at the group of noisy men, he slapped his forehead with his other hand. Finally, he pointed at his chest, then up at her. He was indicating he wanted to come in. She paused, then nodded. Common sense told her she shouldn’t be letting a strange man into her temporary home, but then, there were several large, bulky men milling around, so if they were a dodgy sort, she and the locked door would have no chance against them, especially with no means of calling for assistance. She could scream, of course, but she doubted anyone would come. The walls of the building were extremely thick—though sadly, no match for banging and drilling—the nearest house was a little way down the road, and by day, the village was all but deserted. There was only one business that she knew of—the tavern—so the other inhabitants would have to go elsewhere to work. To nearby Chateau-Thierry, perhaps, or even further afield.
She’d just have to hope that the handsome man—probably the head honcho of their group—was also a decent one. Presumably they were a reputable company, as they’d been hired by the British owners, who were usually more wary of cowboy builders, and given the horror stories and dedicated TV programmes back home, it was understandable.
Before she got even halfway down the stairs, a knock came at the door. Okay, so he was polite enough to knock, that was good. She moved a little faster, careful not to trip in her flip flops and go hurtling downwards. Once she was safely on the ground floor, she twisted the key in the door and opened it.
Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and 2013, and Best Women’s Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at Lucy Felthouse Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9
I didn’t start out the day thinking of a Fats Domino song. I don’t start out most days thinking of a Fats Domino song. In fact, this day was going in the directing of shitty until I got word that my interview was up over at Erzabet’s blog, yep mentioned that already down below, and then checked my email and saw that I’ve received my author copy of Harper Collins Mischief’s newest release Thrill Seekers which includes my adventurous outdoor sex story Making It Work. The story was not only a ton of fun to write but includes some wonderful, really endearing characters. I’d really like to get my hands on a couple of those sometime soon.
But hey, some buy links:
It seemed more than coincidence to me that I wound up with Suzanne Portnoy’s The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker in my hands to review. Its original release was in 2006, a year that flew right by me because I was in the midst of a separation from my two children’s father, moving back in with my mother, losing my full-time job and entering a brand new relationship.
At that time, the world around me was reading about a 40-year old divorcee’s wildly erotic adventures. Now fast forward seven years, the book has been re-released, and my life has changed dramatically and fresh meat like me got the opportunity to climb into bed with it for the very first time.
I knew when researching the book what is was about and what I didn’t want to write about it. Yes there is sex and yes it is sexy…very, very sexy. And I only got that out of the way to allow me to say that that there’s some really good stuff here. And in this instance the stuff I’m referring to is Suzanne’s superb writing.
The sex inside the pages wooed me, but Suzanne’s way with words wowed me.
The scenarios presented in this memoir were so magically painted that it almost read like an erotic novel, and while I believe that fantasy is great, anyone who knows me knows I like my sex with a little reality. That makes it perfect that there is plenty of emotion tied in with this erotic memoir’s mistress, Suzanne’s couplings.
No way does she does she make the mistake of confusing sex with love, not even in the beginning after she has sewn what she thought were her wild oats and settled down and married. She doesn’t look for love in sex – not in dives, not in sex clubs or in saunas.
She also doesn’t present us with a faux representation of what it’s like to be a mother of two, over forty, and sexing again in happening cities like London and New York a la Sex and the City’s Samantha Jones.
Suzanne has her share of thrills and her share of disappointments, and what will keep her readers turning the pages and ultimately hesitating to close the book is that through it all she gets right back up and tries again.
The Butcher, The Baker tugged me every which way. It made me happy to be currently married and out of the dating scene, but also made me wish I and made more of the free time I had between marriages.
However, The Butcher, The Baker is not just for the mature, divorced woman, it’s for the adventurous couple, it’s for the curious single, it’s for the voyeuristic man which she so eloquently writes about… it’s for the woman who wants to wrap her hands around a firm glass of cabernet and swallow hard as she devours every delicious word.