Welcome to the Secret Cravings 4th Anniversary Blog Hop!
My name is V.L. Locey and I write erotic hockey romances for SCP. It`s amazing how quickly the time rolls past. It was just last year, in January, that my first book with Secret Cravings, Pink Pucks & Power Plays, released on 1/22/14.
It has been a wonderful year, which has seen five Wildcat novels and a Weekend Getaway erotic short published by Secret Cravings. The latest addition to the Wildcat series, Language of Love, just came out on Monday. You'll find an exclusive peek at Margarite and Petro`s book at the bottom of this post, so don`t miss it! Final Shifts, the 6th and final Wildcat novel, will hit the ice in March. I recently signed a contract with Secret Cravings for a new erotic hockey series, this time centered on a woman`s professional team, the Venom, coming to Philadelphia. Check out this wicked cool Venom logo!
The Venom series of nine novels will launch in August of 2015 and I am thrilled to say the least! I am incredibly lucky and thankful to a part of this wonderful family of authors and staff, and am looking forward to many more years of bringing you the hot hockey romances that you love.
To help celebrate Secret Cravings` anniversary, I'm going to give away a digital copy of the book that started the Wildcats craze, Pink Pucks & Power Plays! Just tell me if you make resolutions or not. You don't have to share what that resolution is, unless you want to, of course. Leave your comments and contact information and I'll pick a winner on Monday morning.
Please make sure you leave your email address so I can get in touch with you. If you don`t leave your contact information, I'll be forced to omit your comment. I hate to skip anyone but I simply do not have the time to track down folks on the internet. So, tell me if you`re a resolution maker or not (I'm not by the way) with an email address, and good luck in the free book drawing! Make sure you go back to the SCP main blog and visit all the other great Secret Cravings authors who are taking part in this hop. There are lots of great books and prizes to be won!
May 2015 be a love-filled year for you and yours. Skate hard and love deeply,
Tapping gently on the door to the master suite, I was surprised to see it swing open. Mama was very tight about her room being private. Then the two youngest Moores raced past, nearly knocking me aside. I looked up to see Philip standing before me.
“Hey, slow down, “Coach Moore yelled at his grandsons. “Sorry, Margarite. Someone fed them candy and coffee before dropping them off by the looks.” Philip smiled then set off in pursuit of his grandies. No golf togs today on the baby daddy. Simple khaki shorts and a polo shirt. I watched the man trot down the steps. He sure was feeling springy. I rapped on the doorframe. Mama appeared in the open doorway, looking disreputable considering she was due to leave in fifteen minutes. Her hair was a mess, her makeup only half done, and her skirt was hanging lopsided on her round hips. I asked her where her blouse was.
“I have no idea.” She spun from the door. I stepped in. My eyes went round. The bedroom had been hit by two typhoons, both named Moore. I looked over at my mother. She was sitting on the edge of her unmade bed, one shoe in her hand staring at me with despondency. “I just threw up my dinner, I can’t find my other shoe, the newspapers are making an ass out of me, the commissioner is displeased, the League is pissed off, the other owners are tittering at me behind their backs, and my mother*#*#*#* skirt won’t zip.”
She started to cry. Mama hardly ever cried. I ran over to sit beside her. My arms went around her. I made sounds to try to soothe her as I rubbed her slim back. She gathered herself remarkably quickly. A weak smile tugged at her lips as she wiped her cheeks with one of Philip’s socks.
“I’m too old to have a baby. Those boys have only been here for thirty minutes and I’m a weeping, wiped-out mess. Dear God, what kind of stupid am I?”
I held onto her until she was done berating herself. Granted, I thought having a baby at fifty was insane, but what was done was done. I kissed her cheek.
“Do you think that your hormones might be a little crazy?”
She laughed then dropped her ratty head to my shoulder, signing back that I always made her laugh. Then she sucked in a huge breath, sat up straight, threw the man-sock aside then turned all her attention to me. Maybe I should have encouraged her to dwell on her own problems for a bit longer?
“Are you coming back home?” she asked directly. My reply stalled on my tongue. I had planned to. It was part of the agenda. Last night I had been all about getting the hell away from Petro as quickly as possible. Then we did what we did on the sofa of sin. Heat raced to my cheeks. I reached up to cover my flaming face with my hands. My mother stood up then walked into her closet. Out she came a minute later with several skirts draped over her arm. “Help me find one that will fit,” she said. I lowered my hands. After four tries, I handed her a dark green skirt that had a delicate bit of embroidery at the hem. When she took it from me our eyes locked.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
I nodded. My face was searing hot but I was not going to lie to her.
“Are you still on the pill?”
“Has he been tested?”
“I think he has been, but the language barrier is making it hard to make sure.”
“Margarite, for the love of God, why would you sleep with a man without taking precautions?” she snapped. I pointed at her gently rounding stomach. She threw the green skirt to the bed. I stood my ground. “Do not seek to use my mistake to make yours look any less stupid. That man is a walking venereal disease, Margarite. He is not good enough for you.”
I let her have it. My hands were moving so fast she finally grabbed them to still them.
“I know I gave him the contract. And yes, I wanted him for the team. I was blinded by his stats, okay. If I had known that he would be bedding my daughter, I would have left his ass back in that miserable whorehouse he and Olaf called home. That damned trip has turned out to be the worst mistake that I have ever made!”
Mama dropped my hands then spun around. There in the doorway stood Coach Moore. He looked like someone had reached into his chest then yanked out his heart.
“That’s a lovely way to think of our child, Isabelle,” he said then stormed off. Mama went after him. I stood amid the skirts and blouses, my hands shaking I was so mad, hurt, and scared. Life had become a whirlwind of confusion.