Pucker up for Sommer
Social media means we get to see a lot more of people’s day to day lives than we used to. And many of us in the erotica writing community have watched on as fellow writer, Sommer Marsden, deals with her husband’s cancer battle, displaying candour, determination, frustration and even her trademark humour. Today, writers are rallying round with a Snog for Sommer to raise money and show our support.
Please visit the Smut for Good page to find out more, to donate if you can, and to check out some of the other authors who are contributing a kiss for the cause.
Below is an excerpt from my newly released book, Undone. Sol and Lana are in the woodland on the morning after the night before. A man they had a threesome with is dead. During the threesome, Sol had avoided kisses since his lip was bust from a tennis injury. Here, Lana is craving the taboo intimacy of Sol’s broken lip.
I’m giving away a paperback copy so comment below (‘Me please!’ is enough!) or RT with the hashtag #undonelips to be in with a chance of winning.
I sniffed and nodded, easing back as Sol released his grip. I dusted the tear splashes on his T-shirt. ‘Sorry,’ I croaked.
‘No need.’ He smoothed my hair from my face and gazed down. Under his jutting brow, his once-twinkly eyes were now smudged with concern. The split on his lip sagged, a taut polished bead of bruises and blood. The injury seemed so decadent, a flagrant display of sensuality and excess bordering on the sordid. I wanted to kiss him there but doing so was forbidden. I might hurt him or open up the wound. And foolish to kiss where blood could spill into my mouth.
That his lips were off-limits made me desire to touch him there all the more. I raised my face higher, seeking and offering, my breath quivering with suppressed sobs. But I bottled out. Instead, I grated my lips over the rough, harsh stubble of his jaw, trying to inhale him. That was safer. I tasted my tears on my lips and I brushed harder, nibbling, kissing, smearing my saltiness against him, murmuring half-words of sadness. I couldn’t stop. The scouring on my lips was addictive.
I liked to think I was shredding tender skin on the burn of his bristles; that he was ripping me at the molecular level so the kissing, murmuring wreckage of me would lodge with him unseen.
I edged closer to his lips. Wasn’t it even more foolish not to kiss him there? A man was stone-cold dead. In the scheme of things, what did minor transgressions matter? Who cared about taking a chance on civility and health? So what if I tried and he was repulsed? Because wasn’t this, right now, what mattered most; this seizing of messy moments undaunted by a wagging finger?
I gazed up at him, and I wanted to vanish into his eyes. The hand cupping my head coiled my hair into a gentle fist and, oh, sweet, dirty joy, his cock nudged against my hip. A thick, slow beat throbbed between my thighs, three distinct pulses that wetted and widened me. I opened my mouth as if I were about to eat thin air. With great care, I reached up to take his injury in a soft, moist hold. As tenderly as I could, I ran my tongue tip over the taut, cracked plumpness.
A noise snagged in his throat.
I pulled back, concerned. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Everywhere.’ His voice was a throaty whisper. ‘But I can’t feel it.’
When Lana Greenwood attends a glamorous house party she finds herself tempted into a ménage à trois. But the morning after brings more than just regrets over fulfilling a fantasy one night stand. One of the men she’s spent the night with is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Accident, suicide or murder, no one is sure and Lana doesn’t know where to turn. Can she trust Sol, the other man, an ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and a deep desire to continue their kinky game?