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About the author:
Elizabeth Morgan is a multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror, f/f, and contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit of sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre, Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her stories.
Like her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre author. “I’m not greedy. I just like variety.”
And that she does, so look out for more information on her upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com
Away from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden trying hard not to kill her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the radio on while she cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr Who? Atlantis? The Musketeers? Poldark? American Horror Story? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats reading a book.
Where to find Elizabeth Online:
Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorElizabethMorgan/
Blood Series Page: https://www.facebook.com/TheBloodSeries/
What inspired you to write your book?
I love the paranormal and werewolves are my favourite supernatural creature. As a writer you should always write what you love.
Cranberry Blood (Blood Series: Book 1) was the start of this series and my inspiration for that came from a single random thought while I was waiting to go to work one morning. It was dark morning due to it being winter and there was a college across the road from me; i was waiting for the bus and I just remember looking at the roof of the college and thinking to myself, "what would I do if I looked up and saw a Werewolf staring at me?"
Crazy, i know; but that was the question that begged for an answer and the reason I sat and started planning this world etc
Here is a short sample from the book:
The music ended. The two women grabbed their clothes and headed backstage, hips swinging, as one and five pound notes hung out over the edge of their thongs.
“Give it up for Jenny and Jean, our tantalizing duo,” said an invisible male, his gruff voice echoing throughout the club.
“Christ, they’ve got a voice-over.”
“Oh aye, this is a real classy joint.” Luke knocked back his beer.
“Better than some places,” Karl said.
“And now, gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce you to the newest Lollypop.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” I stifled my amusement with another swig of beer.
“The feral goddess with the wildest moves…. The one, the only, She-Wolf.”
“This should be interesting.” Martin grinned, slinging his right arm over the back of his chair and
making himself comfortable.
A familiar guitar riff began leaking through the speakers as the stage lights turned from hot white to dusky blue. The guitar riff kicked in.
“Follow You Home” a song by my favourite band, Nickleback.
“At least she’s got good taste in music,” I murmured to no one in particular while rolling the neck of my beer bottle between my hands.
The red velvet curtains parted and the verse started. A black iron chair slid along the stage and then stopped, perfectly in the middle. The female strolled out of the shadows, one long leg in front of the other, smoking her cigarette. She wore a large black hoodie, dark denim hot pants, and black leather knee-high boots.
The prickling sensation sharpened along my spine, causing me to shiver.
“Weird fucking costume for a stripper,” Martin said.
Her long black hair hung back in a high ponytail. Black and silver eye shadow framed her eyes, the blended shades bold against her smooth, pale skin.
Smoke rolled along the stage as she stopped before the chair. At the sound of the singer’s voice, she flicked her cigarette to the side and stretched both her arms above her head. She then bent forward until she pressed her hands flat on the stage.
“What is this shit? Bloody keep fit?” Martin grunted.
“Take your fucking clothes off,” Karl shouted.
She pulled herself up slowly, and as the bass guitar kicked in, her body swayed to the right and she fell straight into a spin, which seemed to last forever.
“Looks like the stripper knows ballet,” Robert said.
“Fuck the stripper.” Luke laughed. “How d’ya know that’s ballet she’s doing?”
“My little sister has studied it for years,” Robert said, his focus glued to the stage.
The woman dropped into splits. After a moment, she brought around her right leg from behind to join her left, and then fell backward. She pushed herself off the floor, then jumped up and landed on her feet. A wicked grin curled the corners of her mouth as she rolled down the zip of her hoodie, exposing inch by inch of creamy, pale flesh.
The familiar sweet scent touched my nose once more, growing more potent with each second, battling against the other smells to stand apart. With a deep breath, I dragged the stuffy air of the club deep into my lungs, cancelling out each odour until all that remained was the aroma of . . . flowers? Not the sickly fragrance of floral perfume, but actual flowers.
Her hips began to sway as she shrugged off the hoodie and let it fall. The curve of her waist, and the sight of her supple breasts in her black lace bra, made my mouth dry. I knocked back the rest of my beer, hoping like hell it would help my sudden thirst.
The pale blue light caught the shimmer of her glitter-dusted skin as she brought up her right arm and then placed her hand behind her head.
Sizzling heat spread through my entire body as the distinct taste of wild flowers and sea salt exploded on my tongue. The bittersweet mixture filled me, conjuring images of the meadows bordering my father’s manor; of a young girl laughing as I chased her across the grounds, the scent of the sea wafting from her blonde hair.
My Wolf groaned. My blood heated.
“Great breasts,” Luke said.
“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Karl leaned forward and banged his fists on the table. He threw back his head and howled. Any other moment, I would have found such a reaction hilarious, but I couldn’t pull my focus from the woman on the stage; couldn’t move due to the heavy beat of my heart banging against my ribcage. I knew that scent, would know it anywhere.
She made a slow turn as she loosened her ponytail and shook her head. Her hair streamed down her back like a glossy black waterfall. She finished her spin, then her focus landed on me, and the air caught in my throat.
Her body went rigid. Her sultry gaze hardened as she stared at me.
Clare Walker. I’d know those moonlit eyes anywhere.
What in God’s name is she doing working in a fucking strip club?
Straightening, I tensed as my wolf skimmed the surface. My energy pulsed as his focus zoned in on her. A moment was all it took. My Wolf settled. Satisfaction hummed through me. Acceptance.
What the fuck?
Her jaw tensed, chin tilted up as she stared us both down for a single moment, before she ran and grabbed hold of the stage pole on the right. Her feet left the floor as she wrapped her legs around the brass and spun.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but the tension didn’t drain from my body.
Her feet hit the floor, the pole between her perfect thighs. She pulled herself upwards, rubbing herself against the warm metal.
Every drop of blood in my body headed south.
She swung round and pressed her back against the pole. Her hands travelled down her breasts, then her stomach, to stop at the waist of her hot pants.
My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and the sound of my heartbeat drowned out the loud music.
She slid her hot pants down her thighs and . . . .
The neck of the beer bottle broke in my hands.
“You okay?” Robert looked at the bottle.
I let my gaze slip down to the broken glass and grunted. “Oops.”
Throwing the shards on the table, my attention turned back to Clare. She crouched before a group of men pushed up against the stage. Fire licked through me at the sight of them slipping notes into her cleavage and the band of her knickers, their fingers skimming her milky flesh. The sight caused a strangled snarl to break from my throat.
Easy boy, this is Clare. It’s just Clare.
My Wolf began to pace, hackles rising, the urge to beat the shit out of them and protect her overwhelming me. No man had any right to touch her. I didn’t want any other man to touch her, let alone look at her, and the sudden realization scared the hell out of me.
She stood and danced away from them. Every move she made was graceful; each step seemed to have a meaning. Touched by the fake moonlight, her body shimmered with sweat and sparkling body dust. She looked exotic, feral. She was Loup-garou. She was mine.
No. Not mine. She’s not mine. It’s fucking Clare, for Christ’s sake!
That simple fact didn’t stop the images filling my mind—images of her writhing across the damp earth of the forest floor, the light of the moon bathing her pale flesh. I’d explore every curve and crevice with my fingers and tongue until she begged me to mark her. Claim her.
Those wants alone had me hard as a rock, and on the border of having a panic attack.
Fuck, this is bad. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain . . . .
Hiding my hands under the table, I pulled the small shard of glass from my right palm, ignoring the tingle of my flesh pulling together and closing the small wound.
Five years since I had last seen her. She’d been nineteen and preparing to go to London to live with her mother while she studied dance at university. By the look of her body, she had studied damn hard.
My fingers sank into my thighs as she curled around the left brass pole.
Last time I had seen her, she wore dungarees she could hardly fill. Now, her body looked athletic, but she had more curves than a damn racetrack.
She turned her back to the audience. My focus slipped to the four, tattooed paw prints climbing up her right hip. I couldn’t stop the smile forming on my lips, nor stop the thought of tracing those delicate designs with my tongue.
She stepped up on the chair and spun again.
“I think I’ve found my lap dancer.” Karl’s words came out slurred.
The urge to punch his head through the wall rushed through me.
Clare dropped onto the chair. Her knees spread wide, showing the audience the soft junction of her milky thighs.
I swallowed the groan lodged in my throat. The zip of my jeans was two seconds away from splitting.
Applause roared throughout the room as she struck her final pose and the music ended. Tension wound through my entire body, and I had to fight to stay in my chair as a string of crude comments left the mouths of the majority of men around me.
She grabbed her clothes and made her way off stage. The hypnotic sway of her hips, and the sight of her perky arse sitting in those lace panties, struck as painfully uncomfortable. The blood in my veins burned; the tension in my muscles pulsed.
She disappeared from view.
What was this insane, ecstatic joy that she hadn’t removed her underwear in front of these perverted bastards about? All I knew was that if she had, I would have had to kill everyone.
Not good, Owen.
The sweet smell of her sweat had mixed with her natural aroma which now seemed to cling to my nostrils, teasing me. I wanted to find her, rip those knickers off her with my teeth, and bury my head between her thighs until she came apart on my tongue.
Not fucking good at all.
Deep breath. What I needed to do was calm the fuck down and then talk to her. And I really needed to talk to her. This was Clare, for fuck’s sake. I had watched her grow up. This was wrong. So fucking wrong.
The metal frame of the chair dented under the pressure of my fingertips as the others continued to talk about her.
What the fuck was she doing here, anyway? Taking her clothes off and dancing in a shitty strip joint?
She was supposed to be performing on cruise ships. In clothing.
Her life is not my business. It’s not my business. At least it wasn’t, until now.
“So, Owen, you having a lap dance or-or not?” Karl burped, then knocked down the rest of his beer “Going to be a bit fuck-king boring sitting ’ere on your own. Maybe we can find you a nice blonde.”
Fuck it! I needed to speak to her.