Friday, July 4, 2014

Little-Known Quotes From the Founding Fathers

As a smut author, I'm always interested in exploring the less...public side of famous figures from history.  As such, I have assembled some absolutely totally real quotes from America's founders on this, the July 4th holiday.

George Washington:  Hey, lady, please help me with my wood...en teeth.

John Adams:  I'm in full favor of a revolution; I'll sit and you spin!

Benjamin Franklin:  I'll show ye what I learned in France.  Voulez-vous coucher avec America, la dame sexee.

Samuel Adams:  Have I told you about my massive brewery?

Benjamin Franklin:  Come upstairs, baby -- I have a huge invention collection.

Abigail Adams:  Yeah, instead of calling me sexy, might I have rights?

Everyone:  ...No.

Monday, June 23, 2014

Are You Ready for the Worst Day of
Samantha Lytton's Life?

The Wrath of Dimple, book three in the Samantha Lytton series, is almost upon us!  It drops from Totally Bound on July 4th, everywhere August 3rd.

Pre-order is happening RIGHT NOW my lovelies!

To whet your appetite, dear readers, I present...a sample from The Wrath of Dimple. It has everything -- hospitals, angst, Ghostbusters. Enjoy!


Chapter One

Wedded Blitz

You know those moments that are so surreal, so nightmarish, that it seems you're trapped in a Lady GaGa video being forced to communicate with a spider wearing a dress made of bees, except you don't speak spider or bee? Or GaGa for that matter. That's what it felt like the day soon after New Year's when I arrived at the hospital, my best friend Ellen clutching my cold, stiff fingers, to hear the terrifying news.

The tall doctor whipped off her no-nonsense glasses with one hand and held a chart with the other. "Ms Lytton, I'm Doctor Mehta," she began in the grave voice one delivers spider-strewn news with, "I'm afraid your husband-Mr Ballitch?-is-"

"Dead!" yelled Ellen.

"Oh my God!" My knees buckled, and I collapsed into the chasm of horror that had suddenly replaced the floor.

"What? No!" The doc knelt down to my pathetic level.

I whipped my head up, hope flaring in my fluttering heart.

"Don't worry-he's just in a coma!" she finished with a smile.

They helped me into a plastic waiting room chair, and the doctor said more words to me about Sam. My brand new husband. We were supposed to leave for a honeymoon tomorrow, but now he'd experienced a 'blow to the head', had been 'found in the street', and lay in a coma-Just a coma! No big whoop!-induced by the doctors to reduce swelling in his brain.

Damn it, I loved his brain. It was one of my favorite parts of him.

"His name is pronounced 'Ball-itch'," lied Ellen. The witness protection people had a wonderful sense of humor.

"So, it's not a natural coma," Ellen said to me in the faux-happy tone one might use with a deranged cat. She petted my hair. "It's better, because the professionals are controlling it. Right, Doc?"

Dr Mehta made noncommittal utterings designed to not get herself sued when things took a catastrophic turn for the worse. I'm pretty sure that doctors nowadays refuse to verify anything whatsoever, including their own existence on this plane.

What she'd said finally began to seep into my synapses. No. No, no, no. Sam and I had a good life together now. No more criminals chasing. No more doubts nagging. And we had a cat. A beautiful black cat named Captain Taco. "I don't want my Taco to be raised in a single-parent household." The sobs came now like a tsunami.

Dr Mehta pursed her lips and stepped away from me and my wailing. "Do you need a sedative, Ms Lytton?" Her voice became softer, simpler. "Are you confused?"

My bestie waved her away and held me in her arms while I cried. The world had become a black hole, and its vast emptiness loomed on every side. I clung to Ellen, and she let me get mascara all over her cashmere sweater-that's love. She cuddled me close for what seemed like hours, until my body was an empty, aching husk. It was like Jesus had punched me in the soul with a fist made of tanker trucks. I told Ellen that, and she said it sounded like a country song.

After the crying had trickled, and the dry heaves had stopped, Ellen rubbed my back. "The doc says you can see him in a little while. The neurologist is with him now."

I pushed against Ellen's shoulder and swiped at some of the snot on my face. "Why did you say it that way? 'Dead!' Like you just won the Sam-hating sweepstakes?"

Ellen had always disliked my ex-art thief, and not just because she didn't enjoy penises in general.

"I mean, sure, I dreamed of this day," Ellen began with a swish of her long, brown hair.

I fell over onto the bank of waiting room chairs.

"Don't put your face on those! Or your hands. Ugh, Lytton, come here."

She held me again and said, "I'm kidding, of course. I don't want Sam to-"

I stiffened, and she didn't repeat the horrible 'd' word.

"-be in a coma or anything else. I want him to continue screwing up your otherwise ideal life for decades to come."

My life had been ideal for the last two years. My film career was amazeballs. I'd become a superhero with my own spoofy franchise-The Ovarian Hellion: The Sword of Cockmore. It had debuted this past summer with record-setting box office and fabulous reviews. Sam-now on the straight and narrow-and I had lived a blissful life free of criminals, men with guns and stolen art. I brought home the bacon, and he'd rediscovered the painting he'd given up long ago. And he was good. Damn good! Kind of in the Kandinsky or Pollack school-all strong lines, splatters, wild colors and passion. He would come to me from an afternoon of painting, covered in smudged rainbows and sauntering all sexy, frustrated artist-like…

Fresh tears sprang to my burning eye sockets. "He was trying to get a gallery show for the spring." I slid back down, my muscles physically incapable of doing anything but twitch and regret.

Ellen let me lie there this time-she patted my hip and wondered aloud where the bar was.

After a couple of hours, during which I stared into space, and Ellen tried not to act bored by cracking dumb jokes at me, they finally let me see him. Hope and dread combined in my gut to form a confusing new emotion that felt like kittens bathed in sewer sludge.

I entered the white room full of whirring machines and nearly buckled again. Sam's head was bandaged like Boris Karloff, his eyes framed by purple circles. The neurologist said he'd taken a blow from a blunt object to the medial cranial area, then landed in the street on his face not ten blocks from our apartment on the Upper East Side. I asked Dr Brains what the prognosis was, and he danced a soft-shoe, complete with spins- "Well, it's difficult to say-we hope that there may be some, perhaps, improvement of a sort-but, of course, dying and/or death might occur. We'll try to bring him out of the coma tomorrow-the apocalypse could happen is all I'm saying-no guarantees!"

I leaned over Sam, his beautiful hazel gaze shut away, giant tube things snaking out of his arm, his hair-what they hadn't shaved-as pointy as my insides.

"I'm the only one who's supposed to hit you, baby," I said. I had a long history of accidentally assaulting Sam. Most of the time, he deserved it.

Dr Brains did not find the humor in my joke. He shot me a stare of alarm and took that moment to tell me the cops wanted to talk to me.

Cops. Hospitals. How many times had I performed this scene? I needed to start burning sage to chase away evil spirits. Wait, I lived in New York now-I needed some damn Ghostbusters to get rid of whatever demonic wraith prevented us from being great. I thought I'd left my Lifetime movie days behind me. I opened blockbusters now! But being a movie star didn't stop the bad shit, it just helped the bad shit occur in a cushy, private room.

An Italian-looking older man shuffled in wearing a brown suit that I'm pretty sure was prized off Lenny Briscoe.

Right behind him followed, "Nicolette!" I cried.

Ellen ran to the room's doorway but stopped in her tracks at a pointed eye-flick from her fiancée.

"Ellen, Samantha," Detective Nicolette Fitzgerald said smoothly. "I'm sorry this has happened," she said directly to me.

This, naturally, caused my tears to bubble up. Her brown gaze shone with sympathy, and I couldn't believe that I'd be receiving the help of my-practically once removed or something-sister-in-law, the cop. She said, "This is Detective Pirelli, my partner. Joe, this is Ellen, my fiancée, and her friend, Samantha Lytton."

"That cock and swords movie was hilarious," Joe told me. "Made me want to run around in pajamas all day."

The Ovarian Hellion wears a sensible outfit of pajamas and sneakers to fight injustice in, because she was written by a woman. I wished I had that outfit right now-it's the uniform of everyone in a depression medicine commercial. "Thanks," I said. "What the hell happened to him, Nicolette?"

Nicolette sighed. "Well, a passer-by found him around midnight, just lying in the street, bleeding from the head. The assailant left Sam's wallet in his pants and didn't appear to take anything. I have a feeling-"

She laid on feeling because she knew that Sam used to be an art thief. However, she couldn't tell her partner that because Sam was in witness protection.

"I mean, I think this was personal." She paused, almost didn't shake her head, and asked, "Does Sam have any enemies?"

I laughed. She raised her eyebrows. I raised mine higher. A recounting of Sam's enemies would take all day and require a chart.

What was I allowed to tell her in front of old Joe here? Before she'd arrived, I'd called Sam's handler with the US Feds, but nobody had responded to tell me what the hell to say. "None that I know of currently," was what I told Nicolette now. That was as safe an answer as any. I told them he'd gone out to an art opening last night, alone, as I'd had a date with Ellen for her final wedding dress fitting. We'd had a private appointment with one of Manhattan's more snooty dress shops. My ass still had lip prints on it. When I'd gotten home, Sam hadn't been back from the event yet. I'd begun worrying around one a.m. when he wouldn't respond to texts. The cops had called at two.

Joe asked, "Do you have any idea why he'd have been wearing a ski mask?"

"What?" I tried to keep the suspicious shriek out of my voice. I failed.

His eyes narrowed. "He was found in a full ski mask. Is that normal for him to wear in the cold?"

"Yes." I smiled and nodded. Then I did it again, because that's normal, right? A fucking ski mask? "Yes, yes. His face is…delicate."

Nicolette seemed unconvinced of my husband's chap-prone skin.

The detectives wrote stuff down-not that I had much to tell them. If Sam had gotten into new trouble, I possessed no knowledge of what it might be. He couldn't have, though. He'd promised to leave his life of crime behind him. For me.

But why the hell had he been wearing a ski mask? There was one possibility…

[more info at my website]

Friday, May 9, 2014

I Really Wanna Zig-A-Zig-Aahh. Is There a Cure for That?

I recently spent an entire 45-minute workout jamming to the Spice Girls.  Usually, I spend my workout time pretending I'm Beyoncé giving a concert, but this time I was five women, all in terrible 90s fashion, and it was glorious.

I fucking love the Spice Girls. The singing is passable, the lyrics are ridiculous, and the beats are infectious. Plus, they remind me of my youth! Sigh. My youth.

So, here, have some Spice Girls. Let's start with the one that wins the award for Most Sexy Sounding Song Until You Actually Listen to the Lyrics, and Then You Just Cringe at the Girl Huffing "Get It On, Get It On" Over and Over Again:  2 Become 1.

I dare you to not get pumped at the gym while listening to "Spice Up Your Life."

And no half-assed retrospective could be complete without "Wannabe."  Researchers have yet to discover what "zig-a-zig-aahh" means, but my studies tell me it translates to "Ha! You secretly love this song, sucka!"

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

My Writing Process Blog Hop

Howdy, loyal blog buddies!  I'm going to chat with you today about my writing process, in case you yourself wish to write nonsense that's full of sex and want to learn how this humble unicorn-lover does it.  Thanks to Nico Rosso for tagging me in this blog hop -- you can read about his process here.

What am I working on?

I'm working on secrit superheroine book.  (You should have read that to yourself in a very dramatic voice.)  It's probably going to end up being women's fiction in the vein of Sookie Stackhouse -- a series centered around one heroine with paranormal abilities.

My superheroine will not be sexily gadding about with her gravity-defying tits exposed while wearing leather short-shorts -- she's going to be a heroine that real ladies can actually relate to.  The book is shaping up to be one of my favorite things, which is me taking a standard story and spinning it on its head. Which brings me to...  

How does my work differ from others in this genre?

I'm actually now trying to acquire a romance agent (I have a separate agent for my non-romance humor work) for my paranormal Nerd at First Bite.  I've taken the trope of the ancient, sexy, rich, mopey, pasty vampire and created the opposite.  Frank, the hero of NaFB, is Black, his business is failing, he's only been a vamp for ten years, and he's an uber-nerd whose experience with women can be detailed thusly:

Yeah -- not good.  Personally, I think nerdy vamps will be the new, hot thing.  Er, I hope. I find that inverting tropes can make for some awesome humor, and I just love doing it.  Not that I don't love the tropes of my genre!  I adore romance (obvs), but I love being the class clown, too.  That's what makes me different.  I'm gonna bring the rom-com back, I tells ya!  

Why do I write what I do?

I'm a goofball.  I'm a weirdo.  And I love making people laugh, so I write romantic comedies.  I couldn't write some dark, stressy romance if I tried.  Sex and laughter -- is there a better combination than that?  My heroes and heroines tend to be losers who discover their best selves through love and adventure, and grow into their life's purpose without forgetting where they came from.  Samantha Lytton, the heroine of my Dimple book series, starts the first book in a very low place in her life.  Her job is dead-end, her bed is empty (save for cheeseburgers), and things seem grim.  I think we've all been there -- I sure as hell have.  I try to write real people who don't have their act together with a yacht on top, because I don't know anybody who has a yacht or the perfect life. BTW, if you have a yacht and the perfect life, can I be your friend?  I'll bring beer!  

How does my writing process work?

Butthole.  Yup, that's it.  

I think I'm in the minority of novel writers in that I do not plot.  Unless I have to.  I did have to write a synopsis for the second and third Dimple books for my publisher, but, in the end, the actual books differed from the original plans somewhat. 

I'm a pantser, in that I write by the seat of my pants.  I love sorta-knowing what's going to happen next, but maybe not how I'll get there.  My books are plot-based, fast-paced adventures with a hot romance thrown into the mix.  Generally, I get an idea for a character and start with her.  For my Ragnar and Juliet series, I saw a vision of a space bounty hunter heroine going after an innocent man, and then falling for him.  She proudly shops at Sluts-R-Us, and her hero is a gentle giant who works to convince her that love is the answer.  (I also adore reversing stereotypical gender roles.) 

Character, then situation, then adventure.  Then hott sexxoring aw yeaaaahhhhhhhhhh. 


So that's how I write my rom-coms.  It's not a pretty process, but it's a funny one, and that's all that matters. 

Tag, You're It 

Next up in the blog hop: The delightful Melissa Blue!  (Seriously, go check her stuff out!) 

Outside of writing contemporary romances, Melissa Blue works as a mail clerk for the federal government, has a paralegal certificate (that she has more use for as a dust pan) and is a mother of two rambunctious children. She lives in California where the wine is good and, despite popular belief, is not always sunny.  Her blog:

Monday, April 14, 2014

Romance, She Wrote

I’ve been visiting my parents in sunny Florida (sorry, everyone buried in a snow drift), and one of their favorite old shows to watch is Murder, She Wrote, a US TV series from the 80s/90s. It’s about a murder-mystery writer named Jessica Fletcher, portrayed by the inimitable Angela Lansbury. She solves mysteries that she happens to stumble upon in her real life, although personally I always thought she’d be a dangerous friend to have, as people were being whacked around her once a week.

For a fanciful moment, I imagined the TV character they’d make out of me and my romantic comedy writing. I’d travel from town to town jazzing up listless relationships, or giving a reason for a lonely heart to believe in love again. Or maybe I’d just have a collection of hot guys I’d give away to lonely gals (and boys).  Now that I write that, what a good business idea…  I’d bicycle around town like Jessica Fletcher spreading love and not murder, which I think is a good choice.

But that’s kind of what I do, right? I write about love, love that I believe in with my whole heart. Love that heals and bolsters and fulfills. Passion that wakes us up and gives us a reason to keep going, even in the tough times. And the greatest thing I can do is to make somebody laugh, for nothing revitalises the spirit like the joy that comes from laughter. When somebody writes a review and says I made them laugh, I feel like I’ve contributed something good to the world.

So maybe my story could be called Romance, She Wrote (which is admittedly loftier than Smut, She Wrote, although they are both accurate). Lots of folks say that romance as a genre is silly, vapid, poorly written. But I know that we lovers of romance inject delight into the world, and into the bedroom, rawr. And there’s not a damn thing wrong with that.

Now somebody give me a TV show!

Love, Lucy

PS:  I have a brand new newsletter!  Join the fun for excerpts, general nonsense, and that sexy, funny romance.

Friday, March 28, 2014

I Have a Newsletter Now, so Clicky and Whatnot

Yup, friends, I have finally joined 1998 and have gotten myself a newsletter.  I won't bug you too often, but I will send fun info and bad jokes, or bad info and fun jokes, all of which are awesome.  Basically, it'll be lies.  All lies.

Won't you join me?  McAvoy approves!

Thursday, March 13, 2014

THE WRATH OF DIMPLE, Sam and Samantha's Final Romp, Is Coming Your Way!

I have a cover! And now I shall reveal…THE WRATH OF DIMPLE, releasing on the Totally Bound site July 4th, everywhere August 4th!

THE WRATH OF DIMPLE, Book 3 in the Samantha Lytton Series.

Life is perfect for Samantha Lytton, big-screen superheroine. Her acting career flourishes, the bad guys from her past are in prison, and she’s married her true love, be-dimpled ex-thief Sam. Everything is so rosy and idyllic, it’s like a freaking princess movie. Well, an R-rated one. Nothing could mar Sam and Samantha’s fairy tale romance!

 Except the moment in the emergency room when Sam, his head cracked open, turns to his beloved wife and asks, “Who the hell are you?”

He’s suffering from…Samnesia! (At least he still laughs at Samantha’s stupid puns.) How on earth does that happen? If Samantha is going to live her very own soap opera, she’d choose an evil twin over amnesia any day.

With no idea who has attacked Sam or why, Samantha is left in the depths of despair with a hunk who doesn’t remember her, a creepy film director who’s getting more threatening by the minute, and, oh, the people who continue to try to murder Sam. How do you solve a mystery wrapped in a head bandage inside an empty skull? Nothing a little Norwegian fish porn and a lot of cleavage can’t fix. Hopefully.

Samantha needs every ounce of her courage to win her husband back before their enemies catch up to finish them both off. She thought their love was written in the stars, but it might be scribbled on an Etch-A-Sketch.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Ooooh, New Book Alert -- Rough Weather by Lisabet Sarai

Lisabet Sarai is a buddy author, so I'm sharing her new book, Rough Weather!  There's contest info at the bottom as well -- woot!  Below is the blurb, and you can read an excerpt here.

Destiny hides in the tempest’s heart...

Ondine has always felt at home in the sea. Orphaned at birth and raised by her grandmother on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, she has never really questioned her extraordinary affinity for the watery world. She concentrates on her work as a marine biologist, spends her weekends relaxing among the waves and worries about human threats to her beloved ocean environment. Fears of a deadly pregnancy like her mother’s make her cautious about sex.When she encounters an attractive but arrogant engineer on her private beach, surveying the site for a prospective off-shore wind farm, anger is her first reaction. A casual touch, however,transforms that emotion to incomprehensible, irresistible, terrifying lust.

Ebony-skinned Marut has his own talents—aside from his uncanny ability to swamp Ondine with desire. He can control the winds and summon storms. He informs Ondine that they share a supernatural heritage and claims she is his destined mate. She responds with scepticism and tries to resist the charismatic Haitian, but ultimately her scientist’s training won’t permit her to deny the evidence of her senses—and her heart. As a brutal northeaster batters the island and Marut’s life hangs in the balance, Ondine learns that true power lies in surrender to her elemental nature.

Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of light bondage.

Buy Links:

Totally Bound:

All Romance Ebooks:

Amazon US:

Amazon UK:

Contest!Win a copy of Rough Weather plus a copy of its sequel, Hot Spell, the book in which Ondine and Marut first made their appearance. To enter, send an email to contest [at] lisabetsarai[dot] com with the subject line “Rough Weather Giveaway”. Contest closes on March 31,2014.

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For more information about Lisabet and her writing, visit her website ( or her blog Beyond Romance ( She also hangs out at the group blog Oh Get a Grip (, writes monthly reviews for Erotica Revealed ( and contributes to the ERWA blog (

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Book Giveaway for ONE DAY ONLY
Celebrate GALENTINE'S DAY with a free book or 25% off!

Here here here click here to win shit!
To hell with Valentine’s Day — celebrate GALENTINE’S DAY with a feminist, funny rom-com by moi.  Mandi @ Smexy Books says, “This author can crack me up like no one else.”  See?  You can’t lose!

Contest on Galentine’s Day only, Feb. 13th!