Girl’s Night Out

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By Kelli Scott

I don’t have as many Girl’s Nights Out as I should. I think it’s therapeutic to ditch the guys and let your hair down with your gal pals.

I’m normally a bit of a homebody. Case in point—three co-workers of mine quit around the same time. I attended two out of three of the going away parties, much to everyone’s surprise. They probably placed bets that I wouldn’t attend any festivities because I’m the woman who skipped the Christmas party two years in a row and the annual company picnic. I’ve declined church invites and Mary Kay parties. My interactions with co-workers are usually limited to work hours, Facebook and Words With Friends.

So when the disclaimer on my latest short story for The Edge claims to be a work of fiction—it is. I don’t get together with my girlfriends and have pillow fights in my sheer teddy like every guy’s fantasy. Nor do we sit around sipping cocktails and watching porn (well there was that one time, but I was young and it wasn’t my idea and nothing happened). I’ve also never tried out an assortment of sex toys with my besties. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Or you can simply read about it.

How about you? Do you enjoy a night out with the girls?

Pajama Party blurb: 

When longtime friends, Tracy, Ashlin and Dara head to Las Vegas for a mini vacation and a little female bonding, the plan is simple: cut loose, drink a little, dance a lot, gamble and take in a male strip show. Once they’ve checked those activities off their itinerary, the three gals improvise and make a new plan. A pajama party that takes a turn—not for the worse—for the wild. With the help of a bag of sex toys, they put themselves on each other’s to-do list with some unexpected results that might test the bonds of their friendship, changing the dynamics forever.

Pajama Party excerpt: 

“Tell us about your new business venture.”

“Me!” Ash’s heart pounded. She shook her head. I wish I’d never mentioned it. Why did Dara, who, by the way, never worked an honest day in her life, have to make a big production out of everything? When Juli’s birthday bash got the ax, the only things left to celebrate were Tracy’s divorce, which struck her as more of a tragedy than a triumph, and Ash’s new job. “It’s…it’s a little…um…a little naughty.”

“I’ll take a dozen,” Dara said. “Whatever it is. Make that two dozen.”

Ash and Tracy both laughed. Dara had a way of setting everyone at ease with her blanket acceptance of…well…everything. Tracy, the queen of suburbia on the other hand, would not be so tolerant.

Ash had no idea how she’d gotten roped into Sexy Siren Solutions after losing her last dull job as a technical writer for procedural manuals. Yes, she had a degree in marketing, minoring in education. And no one, especially her, could argue that she spent much too much spare time masturbating. As a matter of fact, she’d discovered the job opening while perusing the SSS website for a new and more reliable vibrator after the old one bit the dust. Old being a relative term.

“Out with it.” Tracy giggled. “We won’t judge—much.”

Ash squared her shoulders. “I’m the new Marketing Liaison for Sexy Siren Solutions.”

“Whoo hoo!” Dara exclaimed. “Can you get me a friends and family discount on a butt plug?”

“Wait now.” Tracy held her hands up as if Ash were a hungry lioness needing to be reasoned with. “What have you gotten yourself into? What exactly is Sexy Siren Solutions?”

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she knew Tracy wouldn’t be as open-minded as Dara. And her opinion meant the world to Ash. She spent too much time wishing she was single and independent like Juli, married and independent like Dara, or divorced and starting out fresh like Tracy. Being anyone other than her boring self struck her as improvement.

“It’s one of those home dildo parties, right?” Dara high-fived her. “Nice work if you can get it, girl.”

Tracy scowled. “Like Tupperware for nymphomaniacs?”

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Good Girls Gone Wild

Buy Birthday Bash HERE

By Kelli Scott

I love me some bad girls. Strippers. Hookers. Criminals. Spunky, snarky kick-ass chicks who take no guff from anyone. Their tongues are sharp like a surgical instrument, cutting the villain (or hero) to shreds. They drag the straight-as-an-arrow hero off to the dark side, or at the very least to a dark corner with a crook of her finger and a come hither look. Okay, those are my non-erotic heroines.

Erotically speaking, I usually write good girls who take a walk on the wild side. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe to shake up their world and tilt it a little—just enough to throw her off balance or into the arms of a bad boy who knows his way around the female anatomy.

Meet Juli. It’s her thirtieth birthday. Is she drunk? No. Is she partying? No. She’s a sensible single gal. Works hard every day. Balances her checkbook once a month. Wears sunscreen in winter. So how did she end up on the TSA’s no fly list and why are there two cops on her porch? You’ll have to read Birthday Bash to find out.

How about you? Are you on team good girl or firmly in the bad girl camp? Leave me a comment (please include a contact email) and I’ll put your name in a random drawing for an ecopy of Birthday Bash.

Blurb: When TSA puts Juli Falzone on the no fly list, she is stuck at home for her thirtieth birthday. Until her doorbell rings. On her porch are two hot cops swearing out a warrant for her arrest. Are they a practical joke from her well-meaning friends, the best birthday gift ever or has her identity been stolen? Wanting answers and vindication, she lets them in. Can she talk her way out of the situation or will they make her come along peacefully?

Excerpt:

“No, sweetie. I’ve got to go. But I did send you a little gift. Enjoy.” Dara hung up.

Juli held the phone out, staring at it, bewildered by the abrupt brush-off. A phone call from Dara normally morphed into an entirely different version of The Never Ending Story.

Another knock brought her to her senses.

When she opened the door, phone still in hand, a summer breeze blew along her skin. Two police officers, completely opposite in appearance, stood on her stoop, stone-faced serious. The taller, darker cop had a white-knuckled grip on his nightstick. The other, shorter and fairer of hair and complexion, wore a pair of intimidating, mirrored sunglasses despite the darkness.

The taller officer cleared his throat. “Ms. Falzone?”

“Y-yes.”

“May we come in?” the shorter—just shy of six feet—blond man asked.

Her instincts said, no, don’t let them in. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, and they were peace officers. Maybe a crazed killer ran loose in the area, and they wanted to search her backyard, secure her locks and ensure her safety. But after the harrowing day she’d spent at the airport that morning, she was a quart low on trust, dubious of authority figures, and testy in general. 

Oh, what the hell.

She opened the door wider, looking past them to the curb. “Sure.” A streetlight shone bright on a sedan. No other cops appeared to be canvassing the neighborhood. The uniformed duo filed in, but she wasn’t in the mood to make a pot of coffee or answer a bunch of inane questions. She’d filled her quota for the day.

“What’s this about?” She closed the door.

“We have a warrant.” The tall man whipped out a tri-folded piece of paper like he meant business.

She scoffed. “A warrant. For what?” She put on her tough girl act, but had visions of spending life in prison. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” Ever. Someone must have stolen her identity. First the no-fly list, now this.

The blond whipped off his shades, treating her to sky blue eyes. “Haven’t you?”

Dara always encouraged her to take a walk on the wild side. But every potential one-night stand date had struck her as a prospective serial killer or would-be stalker. She didn’t want to have regrets for living a boring life, but she’d seen too many friends, family members and co-workers make tragic mistakes in judgment. Unplanned pregnancies. Bad marriages. Worse divorces. Bankruptcies. She avoided all of the above.

“What’s the charge?” 

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Things That Go Bump and Grind in the Night

Buy Eternally Yours HERE

By Kelli Scott

Show of hands. Who’s afraid of the dark? Who’s afraid to raise their hand?

Monsters lurk in the dark and in our nightmares (and under my childhood bed). Some monsters snatch at your ankles and pull you over to the dark underworld where the air is thick and hot and burns your lungs. The foul breath of the nocturnal beasts stings your nose and stimulates your gag reflex. They chase mere mortals down to feast on their flesh while they drink our fears and swallow our screams.

What else waits for us in the dark? Things that go bump and grind in the night. Lustful lost souls who feed off the living. Zombies. Ghosts. Vampires. Some creatures of the night are beautiful, powerful and dead sexy. They are drawn to what we have and they do not. A heartbeat. Breath. Warmth.

I’m not sure what makes the undead so damn spicy hot. They are the ultimate brooding hero or melancholy heroine, since nothing makes a guy or gal crankier than death. And they are unattainable, what with death being so permanent and incurable. Seems like a recipe for a tragedy. But some couples make it work. Hey, relationships are complicated.

Meet Luke and Meri. He’s quite mortal and she’s immortal. Talk about opposite’s attracting. No relationship is perfect, but for a few hours a year they make it work. They make it sizzle.

Eternally Yours blurb:

Years after Luke’s sweetheart was ripped from his arms on prom night, Meri’s loss still haunts him. Searching for her everywhere, he finds her only in his dreams and on the pages of a dark comic book he created in her image. But on the anniversary of her disappearance, she shows up on his doorstep without having aged a day. What can he do but invite her in?

Meri’s nights are all about surviving alone on the dark, seedy side of life. Once a year she treats herself to a night of tasty passion with her one true love. Is this the year to seal the deal and make their love eternal, or will she walk away to become just another fantasy?

Check out an excerpt:

A chill ran the length of his spine in spite of the warm air swirling around him. The dark, grainy picture looked overexposed where other areas seemed underexposed. But the resemblance to Meri appeared unmistakable. Her translucent skin against the dark background leapt off the screen. Her eerie red eyes, caused by a flash photo at night, haunted him, preying on what little hope remained after year upon year of heartache and disappointment. Touching the screen, he traced her features with his index finger.

Gooseflesh rose on his arms seconds before the doorbell sounded. The buzz jolted him to his senses. Anyone who knew him—really knew him—would leave him alone tonight.

Crossing the room, he opened the door, preparing to give someone a piece of his mind. Freezing instead, his extremities tingled but everything else numbed. Including his brain. Especially his mouth.

“Invite me in before you faint.”

“Meri?” Her whispered name on his lips barely registered due to his pounding heart.

“Luke.” Her tone mocked him. She peeked around the door and held out a bouquet of blood red roses like the ones he’d given her for Valentine’s Day way back in the day. “I guess we know who we both are.” Her eyebrows arched up. “Invite. Me. In.”

“I….” Teetering on wobbly legs, he staggered backward a few steps. Spots danced in his peripheral vision and a flash of heat swept through his trembling body.

“Don’t you dare pass out, Luke.” Her blurry finger waved as blackness closed in. “Invite me in, damn it! Can I come in, please?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll have to do.”

What’s your undead of choice? Vampires? Zombies? Ghosts? Or something else entirely?

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Quick and Dirty

Buy Rub Me the Right Way HERE!

by Kelli Scott

You probably don’t know me, but I’m a hopeless romantic. On paper anyhow.

I don’t remember exactly when or where—it was on Facebook or Twitter—I saw a submissions call for Decadent Publishing’s Edge series. I was intrigued enough by the concept of short erotic stories (that do not require a romantic element) that I saved the web page on my favorites. Reading the guidelines often, I let my imagination go to places I’d never gone before, to situations I’d never considered. Dirty places. Naughty situations. I knew a storyline would eventually come to me—or not. That happens sometimes.

Here’s the thing. I don’t require my heroes and heroines to get married, engaged or even move in together at the end of my stories, especially my shorter reads. I usually expect some sort of promise for more though. A commitment. A declaration of (gulp) love. A date. Something. The prospect of not demanding that happily-ever-after or happily-for-now scenario of my characters was one part liberating and one part terrifying.

What if readers thought my heroine was a filthy whore who wants a mysterious stranger to jack her up against a wall in a dark alley and give it to her quick and dirty? Would that be so bad? Women have needs that must be met and itches that demand a long, hard scratch that leave her sore and raw the next day.

Despite my romantic inclinations in my writing (not so much in my personal life), I imagined a story, wrote it and submitted it. Rub Me the Right Way is a thrill ride on the wild side with a twist I hope you don’t see coming. Check out the blurb and excerpt and let me know what you think. Do you need a HEA ending in order to be satisfied?

Leave a comment with your thoughts and one lucky commenter will receive an e-copy of Rub Me the Right Way! 

Blurb:

Heather Bowen is an uptight, stressed out insomniac in desperate need of a massage or a shrink or an orgasm to cure what ails her. 

On doctor’s orders, she starts with a massage to work out her knotty/naughty kinks. At the hands of a talented massage therapist, Heather gets a full body rub down. And more. Next stop—a psychiatrist to get at the root of her anxiety and sleeplessness. But is she ready for Dr. Simon’s controversial treatment?

What begins as prescribed therapy becomes a wild fantasy ride of erotic discovery that makes Heather question her sexual orientation along with everything she believed about her carnal desires.