Monday, December 20, 2010
Destiny Blaine and her Cowboys for Christmas
For more on Cowboys for Christmas click here
Imaginarians, today we have author Destiny Blaine in the house. Whoo Hoo!! She is one of the hottest erotica writers out there and I am so happy she has included a stop here on her whirlwind blog tour. Take it away, Destiny...
Thank you for hosting a blog stop on Destiny Blaine’s 12 Days of Christmas Blog Tour. Today, our Twelve Days of Christmas Blog Tour comes to an end. After twelve days of blogging, we’ll have some winners to announce. To enter to win the grand prize, bloggers need to leave a comment at some or all of the blogs hosting the tour. They can enter up to three comments per blog spot. Late tonight, I’ll stop back by and award one lucky winner with a very special prize package valued at over $200. The package will be delivered to the winner’s home and contains various items—many of my favorite things. More details will follow later tonight. Contest ends at 11:01 PM EST so enter to win right here and at the other participating blogs.
In the meantime, I thought I’d end the blog tour with a final day of promoting Cowboys for Christmas. If you purchase Cowboys for Christmas and send your receipt to me before 11:01 PM EST tonight, I’ll have a special e-surprise for you. Send your receipt to firstname.lastname@example.org with BOUGHT ONE—GIVE ME THREE FREE in the subject line.
Some of you have read the short essay below, but for those of you who haven’t, I brought along a taste of why I’m often inspired to write about cowboys.
I grew up on a cattle ranch in East Tennessee. My father was considered a cattle trader rather than a farmer. The biggest difference in our working farm was that the animals there only wandered the fields for a very short time. They were simply passing through without the luxury of an extended visit. The cowboys who stopped by our farm, typically never stayed around very long either which is why I was never permitted to “date” a cowboy.
By the time I was a teenager, one such cowboy caught my attention and he held it longer than a country minute. He used to visit our place once a month, twice if I was lucky. After drooling from a distance—and daydreaming about this ‘nice’ young man for more days than I recall, I finally realized that I was in ‘love’ with a cowboy. I made a vow to myself--eventually, I’d make a play for him and with any luck, he’d notice me.
The day I gained his undivided attention just so happened to be a hot summer afternoon when boredom consumed me. I was bound and determined to ride a horse that had stubbornly refused all riders for a good number of months. My father was the only one who ever stayed on her back but I decided I was going to ride the unruly beast too.
This particular June day, I felt confident I’d go unnoticed because the farm was buzzing with activity. After my father returned to the barn and began sorting cattle, I decided it was time to make a lasting impression on the mare no one in their right mind wanted to ride.
I took Misty into a large open field and with the help of a dilapidated fence; I stepped into the stirrup, threw a leg over her croup and planted my then-tiny backside into the saddle. I was, in fact, barely there when Misty decided to bolt through the pastures… and she headed straight for the river-bottoms.
The route Misty chose placed me at a great disadvantage. We didn’t go unnoticed as we galloped by the first barn and that’s when I saw—him. The cowboy of my dreams was just stepping out of his truck when we raced right by him. Since I was more than a little occupied, I don’t think I waved hello but through the cloud of dust we managed to stir, the amusement danced across his face. There was no doubt about it. He thought the ridiculous show was all for him and I was in for quite an embarrassing ride.
If you’ve ever been a passenger on a runaway train, then you can probably relate to my predicament. My arms flapped out to the side and I lost my balance almost immediately but I still managed to hang on for dear life.
After riding for what seemed like forever, Misty reached an abrupt decision and without a moment to spare, she halted right before she reached a slight embankment. Since I didn’t have the reins of control I desperately wanted to have, I landed at the edge of Holston River. While Misty didn’t want to splash mud on her pretty dapple-grey legs, she didn’t hold the same consideration for her rider.
By the time the ‘search party’ arrived to retrieve me, there were only two men I didn’t want to see and they were there to fetch me. After my dad threw a slight fit for show (he was more bark than bite), he rode the horse back to the barn. I was swiftly helped into the front seat of an old truck and to my dismay, the one behind the wheel was one handsome cowboy.
While it’s been a long time ago, I still remember his polite mannerism. He seemed to ignore the fact that I was covered in mud. However, after a few minutes of small talk, he decided to put to rest any notions of something so ridiculous in the future.
His parting words stayed with me for several years. He said, “If you’re going to get a man’s attention, choose a horse you can ride and sweetheart, if you want a cowboy who will teach you all about it—let me know when you turn eighteen.” I later discovered he was twenty and after I made the mistake of telling my brother of the experience, he never came back to our farm again.
After writing about enough cowboys in romance, today I understand why the young man never returned. I also realize why so many women love to open up a spicy western when these sexy denim-clad men occupy the pages inside. Cowboys are the ultra-bad Alpha male and most I've met are sweet-talking gentlemen.
Cowboys say the right thing even when it’s the inappropriate one. They look at their women in a most suggestive way and they typically fill out a pair of Levis better than any man alive. With a devilish smile and a lingering gaze that tells a woman everything she needs to know, it’s no wonder so many authors find their inspiration in the spiciest of men.
I later ran into the hell-hot cowboy when I was seventeen. I was at a horse sale with some of my friends. When I spotted the handsome rogue with a body truly meant for sinning, his lips curled up with an instant smile. After he looked around the crowd, he must’ve decided it was safe to approach. Once he did, he asked the question that inevitably would either seal (or kill) any kind of future deal.
“Are you eighteen yet?” His raspy voice was laced with thick implications.
“No. Four more months.” I proudly announced.
His eyes drifted over me long enough to assure that the man in front of me was more cowboy than I could handle. “Have you learned how to ride a horse yet?”
“I always knew how to ride a horse, just not one with behavioral problems.”
“How do you feel about cowboys with the same issues?” He asked with a cocksure smile.
I swallowed hard a few times and realized I’d met my match. A player of players was staring back at me waiting for the most inviting of replies and…I didn’t have one.
With an easy grin and an unforgettable wink, he leaned over and whispered. “All right then. Look me up when you turn twenty-one.”
As an erotic romance author today, I think about that handsome rogue every now and then. He’s a voice inside my head when I’m looking for just the right lines and he’s also a gentle reminder of why so many women love a cowboy.
Most of the young men I met as a girl were exactly like the one I’ve just described. They were perfect gentlemen in public but when provoked, they knew how to quickly remind a woman interested in them that they knew all the right moves to keep her coming back for more. I hope my cowboys do the same for you. Introducing my latest Aspen Mountain Press title--Cowboys for Christmas:
Julie Kensworth opens her door to more than a blizzard and greets two wayward cowboys. She realizes right away she’s headed straight for the eye of the storm.
Brandon Blake and Quinn Stewart are a long way from home. They’re looking for a warm place to hang their hats while they try to wait out the snow and ice, which continues to gain momentum.
Julie is an author and she’s not just the average writer, she’s one of the most notorious writers in the world. When Quinn and Blake figure out Julie is an erotic romance author, well, needless to say, their minds churn with all sorts of ideas, most of them geared toward how they can heat up the cold winter nights ahead.
“I don’t know why you’re pouting,” Brandon spat a few minutes later, noticing Quinn’s frown. “She didn’t tell us to hit the road. She just told us to wait out here until she dressed.”
“I guess I was hoping for an explicit expression of gratitude.”
Brandon pointed toward the mantle. “Don’t forget. She probably has a boyfriend.”
“The boyfriend isn’t what I’ve been thinking about. What I’m wondering is why she has so many of those Carla Carrington books.”
Julie strolled into the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. She lit up the place with an easy smile and a refreshing stroke of confidence. “Carla Carrington is my pseudonym.”
“Do huh?” Brandon asked, chin dropping.
“Your pseudonym?” Quinn asked for clarification.
“Yeah,” Julie said. “I’m a writer.”
Brandon felt like something was stuck in his chest. She wasn’t just a writer. She was the best selling, award-winning author of scorching hot books often made into explicit after-dark television movies. He’d never admit the truth, but he’d watched a few of those movies. Carla Carrington’s name had been on the lips of quite a few talk show hosts who openly criticized the demise of morals in today’s world. Carla wrote the kind of books that Brandon wouldn’t have let his daughter read—assuming he had a daughter, which he didn’t. On the other hand, if he had a wife, Carla’s books would’ve been mandatory reading.
“You said you’re a writer.” Brandon cleared his throat. “But Carla Carrington is—”
“I’m Carla,” she interrupted. “I write under a couple of pseudonyms.”
Quinn looked around the small cottage. He was probably thinking the same thing Brandon was. Why did she live in such a small house? Wouldn’t Carla Carrington reside in an oceanfront mansion with a full crew doting on her, bringing her chocolate-covered mints and arranging social events?
The woman behind the world’s most scandalous writing should not have been dressed in hide-tight blue jeans with a low-cut fitted sweater and her hair tossed up in a clumsy ponytail. A woman writing explicit scenes like the one Brandon had read earlier should not have looked like an adorable barely legal girl!
Brandon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “How old are you?”
“Just curious. That’s all.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Quinn blurted out.
Way to fucking go! Brandon set his jaw. As he watched the color drain from Julie’s cheeks, he shot Quinn a cold stare. “You can quit foaming at the mouth any time now.”
Quinn didn’t say anything. Brandon braced for fighting words, maybe even a good swift kick in the ass.
What the hell! Quinn started this. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Brandon would die right there if she said she had a husband.
“No, I do not.” She marched across the kitchen, opened the pantry and retrieved two jars of her homemade soup, setting the large containers on the small island in the kitchen’s center. “Anyone hungry?”
Brandon grinned, staring at her ass. “Honey, I’m practically starving.”
Thanks again, Melissa! I enjoy visiting your blog!