In the aftermath of their resounding defeat, a survivor from the enemy camp plotted a return to Verdantia to exact retribution. His first objective is the recapture of Lady Sophillia DeLorion. She had been unreachable until she went to the Oshtesh. Now, only Eric DeStroia stands in his way.
Mentally scarred from her years as prisoner to the off-world invaders, Lady Sophillia Glorianna DeLorion, doubts she can be a fit sexual partner for any man – even one whose passionate green eyes make her remember what it is to desire.
Commander of the Queen’s Royal Guard, Eric DeStroia had grown up watching the corrosive, soul-killing effects of arranged, aristocratic marriage and vowed to remain alone. But under his hardened military exterior, Eric has a kind heart. When the second Tetriarch suggests he marry a noble woman rescued from the enemy, Eric reconsiders, consoling himself with visions of sheltering a wounded dove under his mighty arm. Instead, he discovers a fierce falcon that refuses to stoop to his lure.
Patricia A. Knight is the pen name for an eternal romantic who lives in Dallas, Texas with her horses, dogs and the best man on the face of the earth – oh yeah, and the most enormous bullfrogs you will ever see. Word to the wise: don’t swim in the pool after dark.
I love to hear from my readers and can be reached at http://www.trollriverpub.com/ or http://www.patriciaaknight.com. Or send me an email at email@example.com. Check out my “Hot Hunk of the Day” and latest releases, contests and other fun stuff on my face book page: https://www.facebook.com/patricia.knight.71619?ref=tn_tnmn
1. Are you a reader? What are your favorite books?
Oh my, yes, I am a prolific reader. Mom used to complain that she couldn’t punish me by sending me to my room. I would only get a book and nestle happily into my bed to read. Dad would regularly kick me out of the house with instructions to, “Go play!” (He was a salty sailor so I have cleaned up the language somewhat. It took me forever to realize my name wasn’t, “Come here, damn-it.”) <smile> To this day I regularly read to the point where it takes my eyes an hour or so to focus properly on things far off. LOL It’s not unusual to find me starting a book in the afternoon and reading through the night to finish it. I don’t recommend this as it leaves you rather weird from sleep deprivation the next day.
I could fill the page with my most favorite books but the ones that have had the most influence on my writing are by authors Emma Holly, Julia Ross, Loretta Chase, Georgette Heyer, Joey Hill, Frank Herbert, Samuel Shellabarger and Roger Zelazny. The last two may not be familiar to most readers. Samuel Shellabarger was the author of The Prince of Foxes and Captain from Castile, among others. I actually own a signed first edition of The Prince of Foxes. Shellabarger’s style of writing is compared to Alexander Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers—among others). Shellabarger wrote rip-roaring, swashbuckling espionage in an historical setting. Roger Zelazny wrote a series that I read in my early teens that began my love affair with sci/fi-fantasy. The first book was called The Nine Princes In Amber. My drift into erotic started with Emma Holly and Joey Hill made me realize that I had a kinky streak. LOL Of course there are lots of others and I could go on all day and not run out of names.
2. What is your path to publication?
Strange. Someone up there likes me. One of my critique partners began a publishing company. I had submitted my manuscript for Hers To Command to a well known publisher’s “slush” pile and had actually gotten a response (it went to their acquisitions editor). Before I heard back from them, Troll River Publications contacted me with an offer for my book. We have been together for the last three Verdantian books with another three on the way and a western that has been finished and is waiting for its turn. I know that it is popular to bad mouth your publishers but my situation has been just the opposite. I cannot say enough good words about Troll River Publications. I have been amazingly fortunate.
3. How much time do you spend writing each day/week?
I have a 1,500-word goal per day for my books. This does not take into consideration my blogging, promos, and interviews such as this. I write every day, for at least half the day.
4. How do you work? Are you an island unto yourself? Or part of a larger community?
I am very much part of a larger community. Of course, it is a digital and telephonic community. I have critique partners that I spend hours on the phone and internet with, an editor that I spend hours on the phone with, a social media guru that I spend hours on the internet with. So…yeah…very much part of a larger community.
5. What is my favorite/least favorite thing about writing?
My favorite, hands down, is interacting with the readers of my books. I love that they “get” the stories I labor to put down in comprehensible fashion. I love that people get excited about the books and are inspired by my characters. My least favorite is the self-promotion. I hate bragging about my books. I’d really rather just stay in my cozy little office and type away. Of course, if I did that I’d starve to death.
6. Are writers born, taught, or both?
Both. Storytellers are born with the imagination to spin fascinating tales out of ephemera. Writers/authors must hone the craft of expression in whatever language native to them. They must master the rules of grammar and punctuation and vocabulary so that when they spin their stories to their readers nothing interferes with its seamless absorption. The reader can simply glory in a tale well told.
7. What would you tell younger and less experience writers—if you could?
Master the rules of grammar and expand your vocabulary—whatever language you speak. These are your tools. No matter the inspiration and vision, a sculptor cannot create a “David” if he cannot master the chisel and hammer. The painter cannot paint a “Mona Lisa” if he cannot master the paintbrush and pallet. A carpenter cannot build a “Biltmore” unless he masters the saw and the hammer. Likewise, a writer cannot tell a story without mastering the basics of grammar, punctuation and vocabulary. It does not matter how wonderful your tale if your lack of fundamentals prevent you from presenting it to the reader in a form that does not detract from the telling. Of course, full disclosure forces me to tell you that I also edit. <smile> I see so many wonderful stories crippled by the author’s poor grasp of the basics. With independently published authors, it has become pandemic. Some readers won’t even read an indie author anymore—they are so tired of getting dross. Authors, competition is fierce these days. Don’t send your child forth into the world dressed in rags and then complain that no one invites them to the party.
Connect With Patricia Knight:
Genre – Fantasy Romance
Publisher – Troll River Publishing
Release Date – 7/15/2013
Commander of the Queen’s Guard Eric DeStroia tortured the raven–haired courtesan lying beneath him—a surging thrust in, a prolonged, exquisite slide out. With a husky laugh, he hung her on the edge of climax for endless minutes. Eric reveled in her helplessness as he reduced her to abject begging. He enjoyed their “games”. Who would break first?
Her control finally crashed, swept up by the tsunami of pleasure he created.
“Please, by all the Gods, Eric, please. Let me come. I can’t take any more.”
Smiling wickedly, he rolled them over, letting her ride. “Take your pleasure.”
He clasped her hips and thrust into her deeply. His strong fingers dented her generous buttocks where he held her spiked on his steel-hard cock.
Inhaling deeply with a low groan, she could not disguise her hunger, her impatience. “Shall I take you with me, lover?”
“Think you can?” He grunted in amusement and shook his head. “You are too greedy, wench. You can’t wait.”
Grinding her clit along his pubic bone, she managed several long rolls, the inner flesh of her slick vagina massaging his cock with each undulation. With a groan of effort, he slammed up and held her impaled as his hips circled. Her eyes flared as the surge of pressure against her most sensitive parts swept away her dubious control. Writhing, impaled on his rigid cock, she cried out at the spectacular gratification of a long withheld orgasm. Her inner core contracted violently around him. She came forever. He choked on a grunt and finished. She barely noticed.
“Arrogant, hateful man,” she muttered, her face buried against his chest. “You might at least pretend to let me win.”
“I never pretend.”
Limp, she sprawled across his muscled chest, tracing patterns with a manicured nail. “The rumor is you plan to take a squadron of the Queen’s Guard to bring back DeLorion’s sister from the Oshtesh.”
She rolled off his chest, slowly disentangling their sweaty, delicate parts and lay on her back, trying to regain her breath. She rolled to her side, petting his broad chest. “Perhaps your arranged bride will look the other way if you are discreet.”
“No. When—if—I marry, I will be faithful. I watched my father kill my mother’s soul with his philandering. I respect women too greatly to imitate his ways.” He struggled with his anger. “You are a favorite among the courtesans,” Eric said. “Your bed won’t be cold.”
With a small moue of disappointment, she reached out a forefinger and ran it gently up his semi-hard length glistening with their combined fluids. While his heart remained indifferent to her charms, she could definitely affect a lower organ. She caught her lip between her teeth, delighted when his cock twitched in response.
“But none like you.” She flashed him a coquettish look and arranged the sheets to cover her small breasts. “You are an outrageously beautiful man, Commander DeStroia, with an extraordinary talent for sex. My body will miss you.”
Eric grunted. “I note you don’t mention your heart. Come here to me, hussy.”
He shifted to gather her into his arms, nestling her head across his chest, moving her slender thigh to rest between his. His hands wandered down her body, stroking muscles that were tight and firm, skin that felt like satin. The flesh of her small breast filled his hand. He caught the hard bud of her nipple and rolled it between his thumb and middle finger. He laughed softly at her moan of appreciation and moved over her, kneeing her legs apart and entering her already wet pussy with a gentle glide.
“Please yourself, lover. I don’t think I can come again.”
“Hmmm, you can’t?” A wicked smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He kissed her lips, nipping gently. “You know ‘can’t’ is not permitted,” he whispered against her mouth. His eyes narrowed. “I give you my promise. You will.”