LIPS LIKE ICE (Circlet Press, 2015)
It’s finally here! Huzzah! My first full length erotica SF novel has arrived. For the next few weeks, it is available exclusively in e-formats, with a paperback following up around Valentine’s Day.
From the Cover:
He calls himself the Prince. He is humanoid but not human—fascinating, sensual, at the cusp of maturity, and accustomed to getting what he wants. And Lydia has awoken in his world to find that she has been given to him—as a pet, a plaything, and, if he so desires, a lover.
But the Prince lives in a world where birth order dictates gender, and in declaring himself male he has thrown tradition back into the face of his father, the King, a very, very dangerous creature to cross.
As Lydia comes to realize that the Prince is as much a prisoner to his culture’s ways as she is, her resentment slowly unfurls into pity, understanding, curiosity, and a deep, unpredictable, consuming lust. She wants him too, on her own terms. But in a world fraught with hidden dangers, her terms are not open for discussion, not when their thirst for one another could doom them both. In a court where monarchs are obeyed and sexual hierarchies are strict, one wrong move could end the Prince for ever… and what would happen to Lydia then?
“They have given you over to my child,” are the ﬁrst words Lydia can parse out of the throbbing ache between her ears, the dull thud behind her eyes. “I believe it is to teach care for lesser creatures. To instill kindness.Tch.”
There is a huffing scoff of disbelief somewhere off to the left of her, and Lydia turns her head to follow the sound, but finds her eyes won’t open. All remains wrapped in nauseating darkness.
She tries to remember where she is, how she got here, but all that will come is her name, and the vague sense that this is not her home. The bed, even the smell of the air is wrong.
The woman (for she sounds like a woman; voice age-worn and woven with threadbare compassion) mops at Lydia’s brow with a tepid cloth. Perhaps once it had been cool, and that is what had woken her: the short, sharp shock of cold water on skin. But the fever that Lydia can feel crawling over her flesh has warmed the cloth. The water is uncomfortable. Her whole self feels uncomfortable, and itchy, and clammy.
“If it will work, I do not know. But I can hope. I do hope. My child is filled with such caprice. It burdens a mother’s heart. Ah, but why my husband thinks… well, many and mysterious are the ways of the King.” The woman scoffs again. “Tch.”
Lydia pries her dry lips apart and tries to un-stick her tongue from the tacky roof of her mouth in answer. She’s not successful. And even if she were, she has no idea what to say in response. Lydia closes her eyes again instead.
That is the first and last time she ever hears the Queen’s voice.