Our guest today is the gorgeous Helen Hardt. Helen is the full package, in addition to being beautiful and talented, she's also nice. So join me in welcoming my friend and fellow author, Helen Hardt.
And the Music Returns…
And the Music Returns…
The winter holidays are my favorite time of the year. I love the colors, the aromas, the preparations, rekindling old and beginning new traditions…and I especially love Christmas music! Unlike some, I’m ecstatic when I hear those melodies playing before Thanksgiving. This year my house is a little more quiet than usual. My older son, Eric, left Colorado for Florida this fall when he entered the University of Miami as a freshman vocal performance major. This time last year, his rich bass filled the house with holiday joy. Times change…
Today is a great day though – he’s coming home for the holidays! I haven’t seen my baby since August, haven’t heard his beautiful voice for four months. Yes, times do change. Eric won’t live at my house permanently ever again, but I’ll still get to see him (and hear him!) during the holidays. His singing and playing the piano have become tradition at our house.
Another tradition is the wassail I make every Christmas Eve. There are as many recipes for wassail as there are stars in the sky. I hope you enjoy mine.
Thank you for stopping by! I’ll be giving away two gifts today. One commenter will receive a copy of my current release, Ivy League Cowboy. Another will receive deep edits on the first twenty pages of a completed manuscript. Don’t forget to leave your email address. Good luck!
I c. sugar
2 c. water
1 c. lemon juice
1 qt. apple cider
14 whole cloves
4 sticks cinnamon
8 allspice berriesBourbon or Brandy
Boil sugar and water ten minutes. Add spices and let stand one hour. Strain spices, and add juices and cider. Heat carefully. Do not boil. Serve warm. A half shot of Wild Turkey makes it perfect! My husband goes for a whole shot J.
Ivy League Cowboy available at Musa Publishing
Dusty O’Donovan, an accomplished bull rider, isn’t afraid to ride El Diablo, a feisty stud whose owner, Zach McCray, is offering $500,000 to anyone who can stay on him for a full eight seconds. Though Zach refuses to let a woman ride his bull, he's intrigued by the headstrong Dusty, who he last saw when he was thirteen and she was six. Sparks fly when they’re together, but will Dusty’s secrets tear them apart?
They stood outside the door to her room while she fished for her key card.
“You sure about this, darlin’?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She had a hard time breathing. “I’m sure, Zach. I want this.”
“Oh God.” Zach grabbed her purse from her. “Where the hell is that damn key?”
He found it and pushed it in the slot, then pulled her into the room, shutting the door and pushing her body against it. His hardness protruded through his jeans and poked into her belly. She wanted to touch him everywhere, lick him everywhere. She wanted to rip his clothes off, then her own, and get down and dirty right there on the hotel rug.
“You’re so beautiful.” He cupped her face in his hands. “You have the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen.” He pushed his erection into her. “Do you feel that?”'
“Feel how much I want you. How much I hunger for you.”
“Yes, yes.” Her breathing was unsteady, her pulse wild.
“Do you want me?”
“God, yes. Yes.”
“Say it, darlin’. Say you want me.”
“I want you.”
His mouth, reckless and possessive, claimed hers. His strong arms enveloped her and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently and began to unbutton her shirt. He moved slowly, letting his fingers linger as he tantalized each inch of flesh. She squirmed as tiny flames ignited every place he touched her. She wanted to rip her shirt off and move things along.
When he finally exposed her breasts and lavished his attention on them, she wanted even more. She wanted to be naked. Naked under his touch. She wriggled and groaned, whispering his name.
“Please,” she said, and found herself repeating the word.
“Please what, darlin’?”
“Do you want me to touch you?”
He cupped her breast, lightly running his thumb over her taut nipple. She shuddered.
He ran his fingers lightly over her belly, circling them around her navel. She squirmed.
He unsnapped her jeans and ran his fingers under the waistband, sending tremors through her.
“Oh yes,” she said, sighing.
He slowly unzipped her jeans, eased his hand inside her panties, and found a sensitive spot that sent her writhing.
“Here?” His voice was hoarse, needy.
Helen Hardt is an attorney and stay-at-home mom turned award-winning author and editor. She lives in Colorado with her husband and two sons. Visit her at www.helenhardt.com, www.helenhardt.blogspot.com, www.romanceeditor.blogspot.com, and www.fiction-editor.blogspot.com.