Today I wrap up my favorite author feature with the prolific writer Donna Hill.

Enjoy the excerpt from Prize of A Lifetime – Donna Hill’s upcoming release:

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”  Mitchell asked a final time.

Sasha nodded, uncertain of what she would say if she tried to speak.

The sound of partygoers moved outside their door. Laughter rippled up and down the corridor drawing their attention.  For a moment the spell that they cast between themselves was momentarily broken.  The noise quieted by degrees, and Sasha and Mitchell returned their attention to each other.  He reached behind her and unzipped her dress.  She gasped softly, his eyes questioning her. Her answering response was an unequivocal, yes.

Sasha worked the buttons of Mitchell’s starched white shirt until it was completely undone falling away from the hard lines of his muscular chest.  She ran the tips of her nails across the rippled muscles of his six pack.  He drew in a short hot breath then eased Sasha dress over the curves of her body until it slipped away and pooled at her feet. 

“Oh… my… God,” Mitchell uttered, when his gaze fell upon the curves, the softness, the sensuous delight that was Sasha’s banging body.  He lowered his head and sought her lips.

Sasha’s eyes drifted close as she stretched her arms upward and linked her fingers behind the curve of his neck.

His gentle fingers played with her spine, causing shivers to run up and down her body. The hard bulge in his shorts pressed roughly against her and she felt her own desire rise and flow between her thighs.

A quick pop by nimble fingers released her strapless bra. Mitchell pulled it away and tossed it on the floor. He took a step back to take her in and it was a feast.

Her breasts were full, lush and perfect.  Her nipples hard and pointed ready to be tasted and he did.

Sasha let out a gasp of delight when Mitchell’s hot lips covered her right nipple, gently tugging, laving and sucking on it making her legs tremble in response. He massaged the other running his thumb across the hardened peak.  Any thought of doubt or misgiving vanished, replaced with a need so demanding that she was certain if she didn’t have him, and soon, she would explode. And she wanted to be sure that the explosion happened with Mitchell buried deep inside of her. She released his belt and zipper. His slacks dropped to his ankles. He kicked them out of the way.

She reached down, slid her hand beneath the band of his shorts and tenderly stroked the length of him, stunned by the silky texture that covered what felt like steel.

Mitchell shuddered. The muscles in his neck tightened like knotted rope. Something deep and dark rumbled in his throat. In a smooth move he reversed their positions until Sasha’s back was to the bed.  He eased her down.

She lifted her legs onto the bed and slid over to give him room to join her.

For a moment, he stood above her, drinking her in like a man starved for nourishment, before pushing his shorts down over his hips and stepping out of them.  Sasha drew in a breath of awe and alarm. Even in the dim light, he looked lethal.  She trembled.

Mitchell moved toward her, stretching the length of his body alongside hers. He caressed her face as she turned her head to kiss the inside of his palm.

His hand drifted down, trailing across the rise of her breasts to the hollow of her stomach to the hot darkness nestled between her legs. She jumped ever so slightly when he began patting her there, gently in a teasing rhythms that shortly had her writhing and moaning softly. He pushed away the barely there string of her thong to find her wet and ready.

Instinctively her hips rose as his finger played with the throbbing bud, slid further and up into the slick wetness of her opening.

Sasha gripped the sheets as her body took on a will of its own, moving up and down against the steady stroke of his fingers.

His rhythm built in intensity. Her head spun as an unbearable heat filled her.

“That’s it,” he cooed, urging her on. “You feel so good,” he murmured. He lowered his head and took her breast into his mouth as he continued to finger her.

“Oooooh, God,” she cried, as the first spasm was unleashed and roared through her in a wave that curled her toes and separated her from reality.  Her chest rose and fell in hard knocks as her orgasm slowly subsided leaving her weak yet wanting even more.

Slowly she opened her eyes and stared into his.

“Ready for me now?” he asked, slowly easing his fingers out.

She whimpered, suddenly feeling empty. Numbly she nodded her head, then reality hit.  “Wait,” she managed to say. Pulling herself up on her hands and knees she crawled to the edge of the bed and felt her for purse on the floor. She took out two condoms then returned to her spot next to Mitchell.

“Why don’t you do the honors?” he said.

With shaky fingers she tore the packet open and removed the thin sheath. Nervously eyeing him she placed the condom on his swollen tip and rolled it down his length.

Mitchell bit down on his bottom lip to keep from groaning out loud. The heat of her hands, the way she subtly jerked him up and down while putting on the condom was nearly his undoing.

He gripped her wrist.  “Okay, okay . . . you gotta stop,” he said.

Amusement sparkled in her eyes and a sense of power flooded through her that she could make him feel anywhere near as awesome as how he’d made her feel moments ago.

“What would you have me to instead?” she taunted.

“Lay back and open your legs for me. Let me in.”

Locking her gaze with his, she did as he asked.  He reached around her and snatched a pillow from the head of the bed. “Lift up,” he ordered, and slid the pillow beneath her hips.

He moved into a position above her, snug between her parted thighs. He cupped his hands beneath her knees and rose up on his. He pushed her thighs back toward her chest until they were wide, stretched out on either side of his shoulders.

He didn’t need a hand to guide him. Like radar he found her opening. That first contact was electric and shot through the both of them. He pressed. The head breached her opening and she gasped, feeling her insides begin to spread as he slowly pushed into to her.

Mitchell lowered his head and kissed her, filling her mouth with his hungry tongue, muffling her moans as he began to move in earnest deep within her.

The nothings that he whispered in her ear were anything but sweet. They were hot, erotic, down right good and freaky. And she gave just as good as she got.

About Donna Hill:

Donna Hill began her career in 1987 writing short stories for the confession magazines. Since that time she has more than fifty published titles to her credit since her first novel was released in 1990, and is considered one of the early pioneers of the African American romance genre.

Three of her novels have been adapted for television. She has been featured in Essence, the New York Daily News, USA Today, Today’s Black Woman, and Black Enterprise among many others. She has appeared on numerous radio and television stations across the country and her work has appeared on several bestseller lists, including Essence, Emerge and The Dallas Morning News among others. She has received numerous awards for her body of work—which cross several genres including The Career Achievement Award, the first recipient of The Trailblazer Award, The Zora Neale Hurston Literary Award, The Gold Pen Award among others, as well as commendations for her community service, during her tenure as Director for Kianga House—a transitional residence for homeless teen mothers and their children.

Donna co-wrote the screenplay Fire, which enjoyed limited theater release before going to DVD. As an editor she has packaged several highly successful novels, and anthologies, two of which were nominated for awards. She organizes author-centered events and workshops through her editorial and promotions company Donna Hill Promotions and provides publicity and marketing services for authors.

She is also a writing instructor at The Frederick Douglass Creative Arts Center in New York. For the past year, Donna has been a writing instructor with the Elders Writing Program sponsored by Medgar Evers College through Poets & Writers, with a goal of compiling the memoirs of the elders for publication.

Donna currently lives in Brooklyn with her family and works full–time, as a writer, for the Brooklyn Borough President’s office.

Be sure to pick up a copy of one of her latest books. To find out more about Donna Hill, go to: http://donnahill.com.

I love those character interviews Shelia does and decided to do the same thing on my guest blog for her. Here’s my “chat” with the heroine of my new contemporary romance, Save The Best For Last (Bunderful Books, trade paperback, 257 pages).

Q. What is your name?

A. Genevieve. My friends at home in Paris pronounce it Zhuhn-vyehv. You Americans say it, Jen-uh-veev or even Jen-uh-veev.

Q. You just have one name?

A. Of course not. But it’s a little complicated. Here in the States, I use Shane for sentimental reasons. My real last name is (glances around to see if anyone is listening, then speaks in a whisper) L’Esperance.

Q. L’Esper who?

A. That’s one reason why I use Shane.

Q. There’s another reason?

A. Yes, but I won’t tell you what it is.

Q. What’s your most prized possession?

A. The sapphire necklace that was a gift to my late mother from my father, who is now (voice trails off into a whisper) deceased as well.

Q. That’s a tough break. With no family, who do you trust?

A. No one. I’ve got too much to lose to go around confiding in people. In a pinch, I’d probably choose my doorman, Z.L. I’ve known him since I was about twelve. (pauses) I’m twenty-seven now.

Q. What about the people you work with?

A. I’m a freelance graphic artist. So I see different people all the time, and they’re my clients, not my co-workers.

Q. Why do you keep to yourself so much?

A. I can’t tell you that.

Q. No family, no friends…no wonder you’re closest to your doorman. Speaking of which, that freelance work must bring in big bucks, huh? That Upper East Side of Manhattan where you live isn’t exactly a low-rent district.

A. Well, if you must know, it’s my father’s condo.

Q. Didn’t you say he passed away?

A. Yes. Uh, I guess that does make it mine now. But I won’t discuss the financial details.

Q. Are you sure you don’t have any family? Don’t I see you every now and then in the company of an older gentleman with a receding hairline?

A. Oh. You mean Barry.

Q. Who’s he, your uncle?

A. No! He’s my…my friend.

Q. Boyfriend?

A. No. We’re just friends. Like you mentioned, he’s a little older than me.

Q. A little older? He looked old enough to have firsthand memories of the JFK assassination.

A. No, of course not. That was over forty-five years ago. Barry is only forty-one.

Q. Wow. That’s ancient. Can he still, you know…function?

A. You’re getting way too personal here. And if you must know, I wouldn’t know about that. Like I said, Barry and I are just friends. Everybody needs to have at least one friend.

Q. There’s something else everybody needs, too. And if he’s not even trying to…well, as they say, something’s rotten in Denmark. In this case it’s so rotten that I can smell it all the way over here. Tell me, Genevieve, have you considered that you’re not the only one keeping a secret?

To find out Genevieve’s secret, the deal with Barry, and how it leads her to Harlem and a man named Dexter, you’ll have to read Save The Best For Last. It’s not available in bookstores, only on-line at Amazon.com and through my e-store.

Also check out Bettye’s latest novel of mainstream women’s fiction, A New Kind of Bliss (Dafina Books, trade paper, 321 pages) which is available in stores, as well as at on-line retailers.

I’ve been a fan of Bettye Griffin’s work for years. It’s hard to pick one favorite book because they all are my favorites. To learn more about Bettye Griffin and her books, visit her website:  http://www.bettyegriffin.com.

“I’m pleased to have this opportunity to introduce you to CORNERED, my newest thriller, which hit stores last month. What’s the book about? I like to think of CORNERED as my ultimate, family-in-jeopardy suspense novel. It’s about a family man who has some very dangerous secrets in his past . .. and those secrets suddenly come back to haunt him and his family in ways he never imagined possible.

I’ve always strived to write a fast-paced thriller, but in CORNERED, I wanted to pull out all of the stops and write a story that was impossible to put down. Did I succeed? Pick up the book and find out!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this excerpt . . .”

CORNERED
by Brandon Massey
In Stores Now

With Nowhere To Run…

Corey Webb is living the American dream—successful business, beautiful wife, gifted daughter—but the dream he worked so hard to achieve is about to become a nightmare. When a chance encounter brings him face to face with the dark past he’d long since left behind, Corey knows the threat to his life and family could be deadly.

…It’s Do Or Die

Unpredictable, intelligent, and terrifyingly ruthless, Corey’s stalker will settle for nothing less than complete submission. He’ll stop at nothing, and sacrifice anyone, to get what he wants. There’s no point in running, no chance of hiding, and no hope for Corey and his family to escape unscathed…

Excerpt from Chapter 1:

The morning that Corey Webb’s past finally caught up with him, he was taking his daughter to a doctor’s appointment.

Tuesday, June 10, began hot, windless, and bright. The clear sky was cobalt blue, the blistering sun giving it the gloss of a glazed porcelain bowl. Although it was two weeks before the first day of summer, the temperature was forecast to peak in the mid-nineties, the heat worsened by a strength-sapping humidity that would guarantee thousands of air conditioners cranked to the max throughout metro Atlanta.

Cool air humming from the vents of his black BMW sedan, Corey navigated the crawling rush-hour traffic on Haynes Bridge Road in Alpharetta. His wife, Simone, and their nine-year-old daughter, Jada, were debating an R&B song that had been playing on the radio, a track apparently titled “Get Me Some.” Corey had changed stations within five seconds of hearing the song’s lewd hook—and had been treated to Jada singing the rest of it word for word in a pitch- perfect voice, drawing a gasp from Simone and a blush from Corey.

“I can’t believe you knew the words to that awful song, Jada,” Simone was saying. “And you tell me you can’t recall where you’ve heard it, which I simply do not accept.”

Corey had to admit that even after all these years, he got a kick out of watching Simone play mom. With her penny- brown eyes, jet-black hair styled in a cute bob, milk-chocolate complexion, and prominent dimples, she might have been a fresh-faced coed, not a thirty-four-year-old woman with a PhD in clinical psychology.

She was a great mother, though. He liked watching her at work.

Twisted around in the passenger seat, Simone subjected Jada to her penetrating gaze and awaited a satisfactory answer.

“Mom, I said somebody at school played it on their phone,” Jada pleaded from the backseat.

Keeping quiet, letting Simone handle this her way, Corey glanced in the rearview mirror. Jada had pecan-brown skin, gray eyes, thick dark eyebrows, black hair woven into tight cornrows. He’d once worn his hair like that when he was a kid. It struck him that the Corey from back then and his daughter looked so much alike they could have been twins.

“Who’s this somebody?” Simone asked. Her voice carried a gentle breeze of her Alabama accent. “Give me a name. I want to talk to their parents.”

Last month, Jada had completed fourth grade at Alpharetta Elementary. She currently attended a three-week summer program in Roswell for gifted students. Nevertheless, high-performing youngsters, like all other kids, obviously found the time to enjoy lascivious songs that would have shamed their parents, and they did it on their cutting- edge cell phones that performed every conceivable task short of whisking you to the moon.

Sometimes, when listening to his daughter talk about what she and her classmates did these days, Corey felt as if he had grown up in the Middle Ages.

“Somebody,” Jada said. “I don’t remember who it was. Everyone in class has a phone except me. When can I get a phone?”

Corey held back a smile. His girl was a clever one. When you couldn’t win the debate, change the debate.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Simone said.

Jada frowned, caught red-handed. A chuckle slipped out of Corey.

Simone turned to him. “Why are you laughing? This is serious. Your daughter was singing about having sex.”

“No, I wasn’t, Mom,” Jada said. “I was singing about getting some till the morning comes.”

It took every ounce of willpower in Corey to hold back a laugh. Simone flashed him a deadly, don’t-you-dare-laugh glower.

Corey cleared his throat. “Umm, that’s not the kind of song you should be singing, Pumpkin. Seriously.”

“Why not?” Jada asked.

“It’s a song for adults, that’s why,” Simone said. “It’s not appropriate for you to sing. Understood?”

“Okay,” Jada said with a sigh. “Then I won’t sing it any more.”

“Good,” Simone said. “And if you hear one of your friends play it again on their phone or iPod or whatever else, you’ll tell me who did it, because none of the children in your class should be listening to that song, either.”

“Yes, Mom,” Jada said in a defeated voice. Then she piped up, “But when can I get a phone? Daddy said I could have one.”

Corey cut a glance in the rearview mirror again. Jada was grinning at him. Nine years old going on nineteen.

“You told her that?” Simone asked him. “I thought we had an agreement. No cell phone, at least for a few more years.”

Corey shrugged. “All of her classmates have them.”

“Yeah, Mom, everybody does,” Jada said. “Everybody except me.”

Simone shot him a rebuking look. “Baby, you know I don’t agree with keeping up with the Joneses.”

“Who are the Joneses?” Jada asked. “Do they live near us?”

“It’s just a form of expression, Pumpkin,” Corey said.

“It means getting something you don’t need, only because everyone around you has it,” Simone said. “It’s giving in to peer pressure, which we’ve discussed before.”

“But what if I need a phone?” Jada asked.

“You don’t need a phone, honey,” Simone said. “You want a phone. There’s a world of difference.”

“It could be a good security measure,” Corey said. “We could get one of those phones for kids that would call only the numbers we program into it—like ours and your mother’s.”

“But if we’re doing our jobs as parents and keeping track of our child, she would never have a use for a cell phone.”

“Things don’t always go as planned,” he said. “I like to take extra precautions. At the end of the day, better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”

Simone got quiet. They both knew she could never beat him in a debate about security. He was co-owner of a firm that installed alarms and surveillance systems in residences and businesses throughout the region, and their own house was a marvel of high-tech surveillance and monitoring. Debating the merits of security with him was like debating criminal justice law with a judge.

“You still shouldn’t have promised her a phone before discussing it with me,” Simone said.

“I didn’t exactly promise her a phone.” He looked in the mirror and caught Jada’s eye. “Pumpkin, did I promise you a phone? Didn’t I just say maybe?”

“Yes.” Jada nodded vigorously. “Daddy said maybe, Mom.”

“Didn’t I say that I’d have to discuss it with your mother, first?” he said.

Another eager nod. “Daddy said he’d have to talk to you about it, Mom.”

“See?” Corey grinned at Simone.

“You two co-conspirators are full of it,” Simone said.

She shook her head in what was meant to be an aggravated expression, yet a smile broke through the mask, accentuating those killer dimples. The disciplinarian role she played so well was only an act, Corey knew; her heart was as sweet and soft as melted caramel.

“So can I get my phone?” Jada said.

“Your father and I will discuss the subject later,” Simone said.

“Can you talk about it now?” Jada asked. “Please?”

“Later,” Simone said firmly.

Jada made a whiny sound, but Simone gave her a warning glare, and she fell silent. Simone settled back into her seat, mothering duties concluded for the moment.

Corey took Simone’s hand, squeezed. Glancing at him, she returned the squeeze, lips curved in a soft smile.

On mornings like that one, Corey felt like the luckiest man alive.

Growing up, he’d never imagined that he would one day have a life like this. A beautiful wife. An adorable daughter. A successful business. Most people thought they never got what life owed them, but he considered his own story as proof that sometimes you actually got more than you deserved, that God smiled on sinners and saints alike.

He’d been raised by his grandmother in one of Detroit’s toughest neighborhoods. He’d never met his father, didn’t so much as know the man’s name. As for his mother, she had abandoned him when he was three to follow some long- forgotten Motown crooner to California. She’d died twenty- five years ago with a needle in her arm in a seedy Los Angeles motel.

Grandma Louise, a big-hearted woman from Arkansas with a penchant for quoting Bible scriptures and packing snuff inside her cheek, had done her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, but her old-fashioned teachings couldn’t compete with the siren song of the streets. Considering the things he’d gotten into and the dangerous crowd he’d run with, he should have wound up either in prison, or dead.

But he’d been spared, had escaped the chasm that claimed so many black men just like him. Rarely did a day pass when he did not count his blessings.

Idly scanning the dashboard, he noticed that he had only twenty miles’ worth of gas left in the tank. A QuikTrip convenience store was coming up ahead, the fuel service islands busy as people gassed up on their way to work.

He turned off the road and parked beside the only available pump.

“That time again?” Simone checked the price of the gasoline, clucked her tongue. “My goodness, remember when it was less than a buck a gallon?”

“Those bygone days,” he said.

“Can I help you put the gas in, Daddy?” Jada asked.

“Sure, Pumpkin.”

“Don’t be too long, guys,” Simone said. “It’s twenty to nine. We can’t be late for our appointment.”

Outside the car, Corey let Jada slide his debit card into the card reader slot, enter his PIN, and select the grade of gasoline. He inserted the spout into the tank, and told Jada the total price he wanted to pay. Her gaze riveted on the digits climbing on the price display, she ran her fingers through her cornrows, absently adjusting the tiny black speech processor hooked behind her left ear.

Jada had been born with profound hearing loss. When she was two years old, Corey and Simone had arranged a cochlear implant, a modern medical miracle that served as a prosthetic replacement for the inner ear, electronically stimulating auditory nerve fibers to produce a sense of hearing. Years of intensive speech therapy had enabled Jada to attend mainstream school from kindergarten onward, and she enjoyed as active a social life as any girl her age—Girl Scouts, ballet, play dates, the works.

In spite of her social and academic success, she enjoyed hearing in only one ear, a condition that posed unique challenges when she was in environments where sounds came at her from all directions. That morning, they were taking her to a specialist in Marietta who would evaluate whether she was a good candidate for a bilateral implant: a cochlear implant in her other ear.

“Almost there, Daddy,” Jada said.

Corey squeezed in a few more cents and returned the nozzle to the pump. Jada handed the receipt to him.

“Can I go inside and get something to drink?” she asked.

“Actually, I could use some coffee myself.” He tapped on Simone’s window. “Want some coffee or juice, babe?”

Simone checked her watch; the doctor’s appointment was at nine fifteen, and she was a stickler about being on time. “If you can be quick about it, sure, orange juice would be great.”

“You heard your mother,” Corey said to Jada. “Let’s be quick about it.”

“Yeah!” Jada performed a happy dance.

Together, they went inside the minimart, Jada skipping beside him, her hand in his, swinging his arm around between them as if he were a piece of playground equipment. He directed Jada to the glass-fronted coolers at the back of the store, while he went to the hot beverage station adjacent to the cash register.

He filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and flavored it with cream and sugar. Checking his watch, he went to collect Jada.

Hands on her hips, she was examining the brands of orange juice inside the refrigerated display case.

“We’ve gotta go, Pumpkin,” he said.

“I don’t know what kind of orange juice Mom likes,” she said.

Corey started to reply that Simone liked Tropicana, when he noticed someone standing in an aisle a few feet away, observing them.

It was a colossus of a man. Corey stood about five-ten and weighed a hundred and seventy-five, and this guy had at least six or seven inches and a hundred pounds on him. Fairskinned— what Grandma Louise liked to call “high yella”— he wore faded denim overalls over a white T-shirt, muddy work boots, and a tattered Atlanta Braves cap cocked on an unkempt, bushy Afro. A stubbly beard made his pudgy face look soiled.

The guy’s brown eyes were oddly flat, as if they were painted on his face. But Corey realized the guy wasn’t looking at him at all.

He was looking at Jada. Gawking at her.

Jada was a beautiful child, but this man’s intense attention was far from that of an innocently admiring adult. His was the naked leer of a pervert, a parent’s ultimate nightmare.

Oblivious to Corey standing there, concentrating solely on Jada, the man licked his lips, his tongue leaving a glistening trail of saliva.

Disgust and anger wrenched Corey’s gut. He sat his cup on a shelf, grabbed Jada’s hand and pulled her to his side, shielding her from the giant stranger.

The pervert blinked as if awakening from a reverie, and only then did he look at Corey.

His stare was as empty as a scarecrow’s. A chill trickled down Corey’s spine.

Something’s wrong with this guy, he thought. Dude’s elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.

“Daddy, what is it?” Jada asked. She hadn’t noticed the man.

“We need to go, sweetheart.” He nudged his daughter along with a firm hand on her back.

“But I wanted apple juice.” She looked over her shoulder.

“Don’t look back there. We have to go. We’ll get your apple juice later.”

He ushered Jada outside. The hot air was thick as cotton, but refreshing compared to the bone-deep chill he’d felt inside the minimart.

A man called out: “Corey? Corey Webb? That you, man?”

In midstride, Corey stopped. He knew that voice, that piercing falsetto. He had not heard it in probably fifteen years or so, but he would never forget it.

Could that be who I think it is? Corey wondered . . .

To learn more about Brandon Massey and his books, go to: http://www.brandonmassey.com

Today is the official release date for Mrs. Black by Angelia Menchan. After reading today’s excerpt, be sure to go order your copy.

Chapter One

“Cinnamon what are you going to do about Brown?” Cinnamon stared out at the lake surrounding her home. Malcolm Black, her best friend since high school and former lover stood several yards behind her, asking a question she wasn’t prepared to answer. She and William Brown had been married over thirty years and as with most marriages there had been ups and downs. Brown had been involved in a series of affairs, Cinnamon and Black had been embroiled in a love affair a couple of years ago. However, for the past eighteen months, she and Brown had focused on being faithful. Brown had fallen off the wagon. She had promised him almost two years before that if he compromised their marriage again she would divorce him. She had also promised Malcolm she would become his wife if that ever occurred. He had been living a celibate lifestyle waiting for her.

Turning to him, she looked into his handsome, dark chocolate-face. It saddened him to see the pain on her beautiful, toffee-colored face. He loved her more than anything in the world and he wanted her for his own. He’d warned Brown, his friend, on more than one occasion.

 

“What would you have me do Malcolm? I told him to leave our home and he has. Now I need some time to pray and ask God to guide me on this.”

“I understand, but, Cinnamon, you know how I feel about you and I want to marry you, make you my wife…”

“Malcolm, I know and when I marry again, you know it will be you. But right now my life is chaotic. My husband, the father of my children, has decided to have another affair. The husband of the woman decided I needed to know, he also decided to try and blackmail me, once he heard about my books, so what I pray is you’re patient with me.”

“Are you considering staying with him, again?” She could hear the pain in his voice.

“No, I’m not, but I need to plan what I’m going to do. I’ve been married almost thirty-two years. I need to find a way to tell my kids. Aura probably already knows. As the premier attorney in Center City, she might. Muhammad is planning to get married in two months and though Amy is only two years old, she loves her Papoo. I love you Malcolm and a part of me wishes I had been a better woman two years ago.”

“Better how?”

“I wish that instead of having an affair with you, I had left Brown at that time, allowing him to carry on with Khadijah, but I thought I knew best. As stupid as it may sound, I really thought that when he gave up traveling he would be faithful. But, why would he? He has a wife who has looked the other way for decades, taking him back and forgiving him over and over, so now, I finally have what I deserve. Not only that but I openly ran around with you and we’re still close. My guess is that Brown probably doesn’t believe we aren’t still sexual.”

Walking over, he pulled the woman he had loved for almost forty years into his arms. Immediately she started crying. His heart broke, because it took a lot to bring her to tears.

“It would be nice if you waited until the ink was dry on the decree before you moved into my house.” Cinnamon and Malcolm pulled apart at the sound of William Brown’s voice. Malcolm stared at his friend, choosing to say nothing. Cinnamon walked over to her husband, getting close to his face.

“William Brown, this is my home, it was bought with Dubois money. Please give me my key and leave!” He flinched at her words, she had never mentioned the fact that the home they lived in had been hers when they married, that and acres of land.

“Cinnamon, Brown, I’m going to leave now. Cinnamon if you need me, call.” Malcolm prepared to depart.

“That won’t be necessary Malcolm, William is leaving.” Looking from his wife to his friend, William Brown stood his ground. Malcolm nodded to him, placing a kiss on the side of Cinnamon’s mouth, before walking out.

About Angelia Menchan:

Angelia Vernon Menchan, wife, mother, mentor and former Job Corps
Counselor pens her first coming-of-age novel for emerging women.
Mrs. Menchan is the author of several other books and articles. Born
and raised in Ocala Florida, she resides in Jacksonville, Florida.

Visit Her website for more information: http://www.angeliavmenchan.com/

A quote from Pat about her books: “Any resemblance to those dead or alive is a doggone shame!!!”

Enjoy today’s excerpt from Pat G’Orge Walker’s new novel Somebody’s Sinning in My Bed:

He was so beloved, the thirty-five year old, powerfully built, ultra handsome, tawny-colored, mega church pastor, Reverend Grayson Young. And yet that irony was not lost upon him as he stood rooted to the floor tile of a sex den. At that same moment his cross that he’d normally worn around his neck fell from his pants pocket. He could hear the March wind howl through an open window, testifying no doubt, that finally, he’d emotionally and spiritually traded in his church pulpit for one of a different kind.

So with his legs parted for good balance, he took one last look around the Sweet Bush Lounge. As he shook with anger, his eyes appeared shrunken and he looked deranged. Then the Grammy Award winning, mega star Reverend Grayson Young, aimed the 357 Magnum at where he knew it would do the most good.

“Adulteress!” His head jerked back, a move that caused his smooth, black curly hair to fall about his ears and neck. Suddenly his sable-brown eyes, no longer sunken, went wide as he bellowed, “Wanton Whore!”

There was no turning back as the Reverend Grayson Young used one hand to tip over a nearby votive candle, which quickly ignited the covers on a velvet-backed chair. Satisfied that the fire would purify whatever evil was within the sex den, he turned around and used his other hand to pull the trigger.

When the scandal was over, where it’d served as media fodder for several weeks, there was only a slight shift in the church where there should’ve been outrage. And yet, when it came to the mindset of the flock, it mattered little that before the fatal inferno, and his suicide, just about every Sunday, for the past four years, they’d heard the self-righteous Reverend Grayson Young preach of the necessity to live Holy or burn in hell.

Even months after his death, when the reverend’s many abominations came to light, what he’d preached, and ultimately what he lived, still didn’t matter to the majority of the members. In about every conversation in the house of God, the reverend was still beloved, he was still a man, and he was still forgiven.

However, spiritual amnesia blanketed the congregation of Brooklyn, New York’s New Hope Church Assembly when it came time to forgive the sins of his widow the beautiful, yet fallen First Lady, Chyna Young. They would not forgive her, as God would.

And it didn’t matter that no one in that congregation was sin-free and could’ve thrown the first stone.

St. John 8: 3-11

About Pat G’Orge-Walker:

Pat G’Orge (pronounced Gee-or-jay) – Walker is in a league of her own.  This accomplished Christian author and comedienne has an amazing mind and talent for turning her observations of church and black church life, in particular, into gems of sidesplitting humor.  It is her own special gift from God that enables G’Orge-Walker to depict the often ridiculous antics of church folk.  She does it without subverting the Good News or watering down the potency of its message.

Pat G’Orge-Walker has led a colorful life professionally, to say the least.  She is a former music industry veteran who has worked for several major labels including Epic, Def Jam and Columbia.  She cut her chops as a singer by performing with the legendary 60s girl group, Arlene Smith and the Chantels (“Maybe”) as well as with the gospel groups The Spiritualettes and The Heavenly Two.  And she has written as well as acted in stage presentations.

Find out why she’s one of my favorite writers by picking up her latest book. www.sisterbetty.com and www.myspace.com/sisterbettycomedy

Enjoy the excerpt from Eric Pete’s latest release – REALITY CHECK:

I returned from Miami officially engaged. Really engaged.
    And I had the ring to prove it.
    All of Lionel’s planning stood revealed. He had more than the proposal mapped out, as I found out later that evening. We had gone for a walk on the beach after dinner. Following the surf and sand, we returned to the room, where we made love.
    I’ll tell you now, I’ve never faked an orgasm my entire time with Lionel—until that night.
     As Lionel cradled me in his arms, I cried. They weren’t tears of joy, as Lionel probably figured. As I lay there, emotional, he informed me of his (and his mom’s) wedding plans.    
     Catalina Island.
     It was the first place Lionel had taken me. He had already talked it over with his mother, Adele, and she was on hand to arrange everything for us once we selected a date. Hell, she would probably rent the whole fucking island. I knew she would have preferred a traditional church wedding with bells and all, being a Dunning, but Lionel knew how I felt about churches. My mom was supposed to be here for this.
     “When do you want to do it, baby?” he’d asked.
     I was still numb as I stared down at the diamond on my finger, and I blurted out, “No time like the present.” What happened between my mom and dad wasn’t me. This was going to work.
     We were to be married in three months.
      When the limo returned me to my apartment late Monday night, I had no idea of the rollercoaster in store for me on Tuesday.
     I returned to work to find that one of the girls had walked off the job the day before and another was out sick. My desk overflowed with stacks of files, and I was to be wed in three months.
     Tuesday felt more like a Monday than Monday ever could.
    Mona and Charmaine rushed to my desk before I even had a chance to put my purse down.
     Mona squinted at me disapprovingly. “Bitch, you came in last night and didn’t even call to tell me? Let me see that ring!”
     I held it up for them to see. Charmaine was silent for a full four seconds.
     A new record.
     Four.
     Three.
     Two.
     One.
     “Oh my gawd! OMG! OMG! OMG! The size of that diamond. Do you know how much this must have cost?”
     “I do,” Mona chimed in. An avid collector/recipient of diamonds and such, she probably did know.
     “C’mon, y’all. It’s just an engagement ring,” I said, trying to convince myself. The immense piece of ice on my hand was a sobering reality that made me more self-conscious the more I tried to ignore it.
     “Okay, okay. Enough about the ring. How many times did you do the nasty? Do you have a date set? We want the dirt.” Charmaine cackled with delight. Mona actually agreed with her this time.
     “I’m not answering your first question, you nasty wench. As for your other question, well, the wedding’s going to be in Catalina . . . in three months.”
     “Oh,” they answered in stereo, caught off guard with the announcement. Mona and I exchanged looks that spoke of our conversation at her condo that Friday night.
     “Whew. All this work.” I sighed in an effort to change the subject.
     “C’mon, Charmaine. Let Glover catch her breath. We’ll holler at you later, girl,” Mona said, letting me off the hook for now. 
     The rest of the day was less than peachy. Mr. Marx, the office supervisor, was on the warpath with us being understaffed. In addition to playing catch-up on my own desk, I was expected to fill in wherever needed. That, combined with the jet lag, did not make for a happy Glover.
     Yep, a lot of shit on my mind.
     Lionel called me from his office to see if I was up for lunch. I took a raincheck, needing to clear my desk as well as my head. Besides, we had a lifetime ahead of us. In a futile attempt to catch up, I decided to work through lunch. Charmaine and Mona, having no such notions, trekked off to do some shopping.
     Lunch came and went in a blur. I was deep into my work while simultaneously lost in thought.
     Did I love Lionel?
     What’s an extra stapler doing on my desk? Who’s been sitting here?
     Did I really love him?
     These files don’t belong here. But where do they belong?
     He never gave me any reason to doubt his love, so what was wrong with me?
     Now, why couldn’t somebody return this call? That is pure lazy.
      I guess I had issues.
     “Excuse me!” he yelled as I stormed past the front of the office. Somebody had come in from off the street.
     Damn.
     I didn’t work the front and wasn’t up for the grief that came with it. I slowed down, considering whether I should keep on walking to the other side of the office. He didn’t really see me anyway. I moved too fast when I got wound up.
      That wasn’t my style, though. I broke off from the direction I was heading and approached the front counter.
     The voice belonged to one pretty good-looking brother. He was medium brown, not as tall as Lionel, but with some little bulges beneath his white dress shirt. Wondered briefly about another bulge that might lurk in his navy blue slacks.
     Briefly.
     He looked like he’d had a rough day at the office. Believe me, I felt him on that. I felt his tired eyes all over me as I approached, but he had something different in his accompanying earnest smile. Seemed a little less “wolflike” than most men, if there is such a thing these days. Strangely, it reminded me of the first encounter with Lionel.
     “Can I help you?”
     “Um, hi. I need an application.” He seemed a tad slow, and I had work to do.
     “For . . .?”
     He told me he was looking for the state employment applications. I apologized for not knowing where things were and explained about our being short-staffed and stuff. I really don’t know why I volunteered all that info. I found the application and handed it to him, reminding him of the Friday deadline and options for online filing.
     “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t forget. I need the work,” he replied with that smile. He laughed, but it didn’t hide the exhaustion behind it. Poor thing.
     “Well, I hope you find the work you’re looking for,” gushed from my mouth before my mind caught up. Why did I say that? My intention was to just be courteous, but it came out playful, almost kittenish. His facial expression didn’t change, so I was relieved I hadn’t embarrassed myself.
     Unless that was his poker face.
    “Later,” he said as he took the application from my hand and departed. My eyes went to lock in on his ass, but his shirt had come out of his pants in the back, blocking the view of his bum. I lingered at the counter for a second more for less than noble reasons.
I was grinning—until I looked down at the weight on my hand.
     And on my soul.
     Time to be a big girl again, as reality kicked in. He did have a nice smile, though, and I appreciated the brief escape from my issues, but it was time to finish the task I was doing prior to “smiley” interrupting me.
     I moved on to the back, taking one last peek before he made it out the door.
    Hmm. I never got his name.
     Good.

About Eric Pete:

Eric Pete is an Essence best-selling novelist whose previous works include: Someone’s In the Kitchen, Gets No Love, Don’t Get It Twisted, Lady Sings the Cruels, Blow Your Mind and Sticks and Stones. He has also contributed to the anthologies: After Hours, Twilight Moods and On the Line. His upcoming release is Crushed Ice (January 2010). He currently lives in Texas where he is working on his next novel. His website is: www.ericpete.com.

Enjoy this excerpt from Carleen Brice’s latest book – Children of the Waters:

Was she a fool or had Nick really been flirting with her at dinner? Billie’s heart thumped with hope. Could it really be possible that somehow Trish and Will could bring Nick back to her? All through dinner he was looking at her and talking to her like he used to. And damn he looked good! Barefoot, in baggy jeans and a soft cloud-white t-shirt against the night of his skin. She lifted her hair off her neck and fanned herself with her rubber-gloved hand, grinned, her face flushed. She was burning up and it wasn’t from the summer air or the hot water in the sink.

But her smile faltered when she recalled the end of the evening, when Trish and Will left and the spell seemed to break. Now she was in the kitchen alone washing the dishes and Nick was sitting outside on the front porch. Should she go to him? What would she say? More important, what would he say?

The front door opened and she held her breath. If anything was going to happen, it was now when Nick went through the kitchen to get to the basement. She snatched off her rubber gloves and waited, her biceps clenching into hard little knots.

But a strange thing happened. Nick didn’t head for the basement. He started to play the piano, something he hadn’t done at home in ages. She leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and watched and listened. He wasn’t playing any song yet, at least not that she recognized, just letting his fingers familiarize themselves with the keys. Still it was a beautiful sound. The notes floated through the house like birds. Juju thought so too. He jumped on top of the piano to follow them. He loved for Nick to play piano. Usually he’d run back and forth trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. But today he seemed to be listening like Billie.

Eventually Nick’s aimlessness drifted into a recognizable tune.

Billie’s eyes glistened. It was Stevie Wonder, just like he sang to her that first time. She went to Nick and sat next to him on the piano bench just as he started to sing, “There’s something bout your love that makes me weak and knocks me off my feet.”

She leaned against the familiar bulk of him, so solid and present. She watched his hands on the keyboards. There was a reason they called it tickling the ivories. He could play her body the same way; make her skin sing. When he was done the last note rang in the air for what felt like a long time. She took his right hand and kissed the inside of his palm. Then she kissed his cheek. He turned to her, pressed his mouth against hers and let his long agile fingers run over her breasts and neck and through her hair. He smelled like home and tasted like raspberries and wine. He was every good dream she had ever had.

Breathing hard, she stood, took his hand—the same hand she had kissed, the same hand that just minutes ago was telling her he loved her with the song he played—and led them to their bedroom. Could it only be days since Nick had last been here? It felt like eternity, but all thoughts of the past few weeks fell away as Nick slipped her sundress off her shoulders and kissed her breasts. When he slid her panties down her legs, the only thing that mattered was right here, right now.

When she removed his shirt, the results of his ribs-and-fries-and-cookies diet showed in his spreading love handles. She smiled and caressed his bare torso. The soft layer over the hard muscles made her feel like she had gone back in time to when they first met, before he had her to cook healthy meals, before he said he was leaving her.

He took her hands, kissed the inside of both palms and leaned her tenderly back onto the bed. Back she fell, back through time and space and emotion. And even though he was gentle, it was just like when she first met him: she fell hard.

About Carleen Brice:

Carleen Brice’s debut novel Orange Mint and Honey (2008, One World/Ballantine) was an Essence “Recommended Read” and a Target “Bookmarked Breakout Book.” It was optioned for a movie by Lifetime Television. Terry McMillan said, “Carleen Brice is a fine writer. I have recommended and will continue to recommend Orange Mint and Honey to others.”

Carleen’s second novel Children of the Waters (One World/Ballantine) was released on July 7th. It tells a story of two sisters separated by prejudice and brought together by love. Trish Taylor’s white ancestry never got in the way of her love for her black ex-husband, or their mixed race son, Will. But when Trish’s marriage ends, she returns to her family’s Denver, Colorado home to find a sense of identity and connect to her past.

She lives in Denver, CO with her husband. You can learn more about Carleen and her books at www.carleenbrice.com.