Obsessed postcard beauty=happy editor!

My Obsessed: Erotic Romance for Women (click to read my introduction) postcards I ordered from the fabulous My Postcard Printing arrived just before I left so the British authors and Saturday's Sh! attendees are getting first crack at them. Gorgeous, right? I love postcards, which my postcard-strewn apartment can attest to. You can get one free by either emailing obsessedantho at gmail.com with "Postcard" in the subject line (US only) and your mailing address in the body or coming to our kickass, cupcake-filled party August 25th at Fontana's! Kindle edition should be for sale August 1st or thereabouts, I'll let you know.

In two weeks this book will be in my hands, and about 4 weeks it'll be in stores. You'll get one straight from my shipment if you requested (or request by July 5th) to be an Amazon reviewer (MUST have Amazon account, MUST review it by August 31) - email obsessedantho at gmail.com with"Amazon" in subject line and your mailing address.



Pre-order Obsessed from:

Amazon

Kindle edition (available August 1st)

Barnes & Noble

Powells

IndieBound

Cleis Press

Below is an excerpt from UK author Justine Elyot's story "Mephisto Waltz" - buy the book to read the whole thing! Sexy piano playing...we've got it.

Take the fear,” he says. “And leave. Or else, turn it into something else. Turn it into—”

With a gasp of pure frustration, his lips are on mine, his million-dollar fingers in my hair, messing it up. I had been so careful with the clips and combs and spray earlier, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

My third kiss, and it is nothing like the others. No alcohol on the breath, no drooling, no limp lips. This is how it is meant to be. I have been wrong all these years to be disappointed in kissing—it is the kissers who have let me down. Leonid has lips that sing, just like his fingers, and into me he pours all that fire and fury that echoes around the concert halls of the world. Not even a token spark of resistance can be mustered on my side; instead I yield, totally and instantaneously, melting into him, wanting to be him, and have him, and hold him in a permanent kiss.

Oh, that’s his tongue! I have never gone so far before, and rather than finding it disgusting, I just want more, deeper, farther, harder. It feels like walls crumbling, like old orders dying, it feels like music. And now I can see how the music can be mine. Now I see it.

In my euphoria, I am not sure whether to break the kiss or continue it, but he leaves me no choice, his hand tight at the back of my head, locking me into the embrace. Once my lips are stinging and my face is damp and the tears have come, he lets me out, but his face is still so close, nose to nose, his eyes looking behind mine, into my soul.

“You have it,” he says. “You have so much of it.”

“But it’s for you,” I whisper to him in despair. “You, not the piano.”