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Trusting Your Partner

Many people who are in relationships have at least some level of trust with their partner. But there are some things that require more trust, and sometimes giving that trust can be scary.

Something as seemingly simple as sharing one’s sexual fantasies can involve more trust than you might think. Some people have fantasies that they would never want to make reality, and they’re afraid of what their partner might think if those fantasies are spoken. And even if someone is willing to share their fantasy and is interested in making it reality, engaging in something new and different involves trust in your partner as well.

In my novella Knot Intended, Nolie has to decide whether she trusts her husband Joseph enough to tell him her darkest fantasy: being kidnapped, tied up, and “forced.” Once she chooses to risk sharing the fantasy, Joseph offers to act it out with her to help spice up their sex life. Allowing her husband to play the role of her “kidnapper” requires even more trust from Nolie, as does remembering, during the roleplay, that Joseph is her husband, loves her, and would never truly hurt her. And because Nolie is able to give Joseph that trust, their sex life and marriage improve.

Trust isn’t always easy to give, but it’s often worth it.

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Spotlight on J.M. Powers

Today’s first Breathless Press spotlight is on author J.M. Powers and her new book Jewel of Ramstone. Welcome!

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A maiden, unable to recall who she is, must battle evil to regain the memory of her past and the hope of a future.

Awaking in the forest, a young maiden recalls naught—including her name. Equally conflicting is her desire to both slap and kiss Sir Galeron, the knight who claims to have protected her while she was unconscious. Much to her chagrin, he dubs her “Ruby of the Forest” due to her red hair, and insists she find refuge at his home of Ramstone. Prickling at his demanding ways, but with no other option, she accepts his offer. And although his kiss flames her attraction even more, Galeron dashes it with a confession. The brute is trothed to another.

Ruby’s journey is filled with laughter and weeping, daydreams and discovered abilities. But never does she feel complete. Her heart longs for a future that her past may destroy. Evil lurks, treading on each tidbit of memory she recovers. Will Ruby ever recall her past? And after an attack in the village that sparks a horrific nightmare, does she even want to?

EXCERPT:

“Ask me anything. Mayhap I can help.” His deep voice broke the silence.

How was he to help? “Pray tell, how did we come to share the forest?”

“I shall explain.” He bent and picked up a twig, then proceeded to peel the bark off. With each curl he tossed aside, she grew more frustrated.

‘Twas better to allow mistrust. Stand strong. She gasped. Unexpected, the thought rang with such clarity, it seemed someone else had spoken. “Perchance you should be honest. Did you drug me? Spell me?”

He tossed the twig aside. Though his eyes remained on her face, her whole body felt his scrutiny. “‘Twould do you well to hold your tongue.”

“I am beginning to dislike you,” she said, knowing full well the opposite was true. She truly wished her insides would cease…prickling? And her head. Damn, it ached so. Tingles and pain aside, she tried to focus. “Do you intend to explain or not?”

“I seek a means to tell you gently.”

With a slight shrug, she said, “No need for gentleness. You already tossed me about.” She grinned despite the truth in her statement.

He sighed. “It appears you are lost.”

“God’s eyes, knight!” She shook her head. “You must be a great sorcerer to possess such insight.”

“Your tongue shall be your undoing. Best you still it.”

Twice he attempted to stifle her. She clenched her teeth. “Still it?”

Galeron’s jaw twitched and she wondered if he were quelling a smile. “I found you here in the woodlands. I did not hold you captive, drug you, or harm you.” He blinked slowly. “Hold to that.”

She nodded. “Forgive—”

“Nay need. I understand. You now stand a day’s ride from Ramstone. Have you heard of it?”

He pushed off the tree and came to sit beside her, his thigh nearly touching her own. Nearly. It took a moment for her answer. “Nay, I do not recall Ramstone.” The fact she did not recall much of anything choked off the rest of her response.

“Odd,” he said, more to himself than her.

Sighing, she realized how badly her masquerade of bravery was faltering. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand come toward her. Surprised at the urge to lean into his touch, she remained still and allowed him to brush back the wisps of hair from her brow. His hand lowered in a fist, yet his voice was laced with tenderness.

“It pains me that I cannot give you answers.” His gaze strayed from her face, lowering to her neck.

Covering the neckline of her tunic with both hands, she glared at him. “Focus elsewhere.” He sees me as a woman after all. She dashed the thought away. Almost.

“I intend nay disrespect. The bruising on your neck concerns me.” Gently brushing her hand aside, he took a closer look. “Fingerprints.”

It took all she had not to cry out. Who harmed her?

“When we discovered you, there was nay sign of anyone else.”

She glanced around. “We?”

“I sent my men home.”

She blinked. Then blinked again. “Your men.”

“My brother, a healer, assured me your wounds were not serious, so I decided to wait—”

She put up her hand. “Why not leave me under the care of your healer? Or leave me in the nearest village?”

He swallowed hard. “It matters not! Are you always so…so…inquisitive?”

Ah, this man was not used to being questioned. She tried to ease his surly mood. “A shame your men were sent on their way. No one laid witness when I kicked you and bashed your comely face before you so unceremoniously dropped a maiden to the ground.”

He blew a long breath. “You insist on repeating that. Had you dressed appropriately, I would not have thought you a lad.” His chuckle made her grin. “Although you certainly fight like a maiden.”

She swiped her hand through the air. “Carry on.”

“Carry on,” he muttered. “I fear you shall interrupt again.” He looked up through the trees, ignoring her huff. “We still had several days before reaching our destination when we found you. With that in mind, I postponed the journey and sent my men back to Ramstone.”

“I see.” She studied the frayed edge of her tunic. “How long have I been here?”

“I watched over you a single night. How long you were here remains a mystery. I was only gone a short time for I needed to boil meat into a broth to sustain you. Had I known you were a maiden, I never would have left you alone.”

Her head snapped up. “Yet you would a lad? I am not defenseless simply because I am a female.”

Galeron’s eyes hardened. “Aye, ’tis so. I returned to find you brandishing a dagger. I left it in case you awoke and felt unsafe, not to use against me.”

She ran her hands through the leaves and shrugged a silent apology, too stubborn to utter it out loud.

“Fair one?”

Damnation, she hated when he addressed her with those words, and yet it awoke something in her, for he said it with tenderness. She glared at his smiling face. “Why are you calling me that?” To her chagrin, what she’d meant as snide came out as quite curious.

He splayed his hands in question, “Would you prefer I call you lad?” Two furrows appeared on his brow at her silent glare. “Because, you have yet to give your name.”

Disarmed, she swallowed her spiteful attitude. “If I only could.” She locked away her tears, her dismay, and did her best to keep her voice steady. “I hoped you would know…would say it by now. Sir Galeron, I…I recall naught before I saw you standing before me.”

Seeming to battle with her revelation, Galeron’s expression flitted from stunned to confused. Then his gaze bore into her with such tenderness it nearly undid her. “Nay memory?” he finally whispered.

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J.M. Powers harbors an alter ego of a normal woman named Jeannie. (Her editor is still on the fence about the whole “normal” thing.) Jeannie’s proficient at research, gluten-free cooking, and embarrassing her teenagers by wearing skinny jeans to the grocery store. J.M., the author-ego, plunges so deep into her writing she forgets life outside her creations still goes on. More often than not, J.M. answers with a glassy stare when her family asks what’s for dinner. Despite the craziness between reality and the world of writing, life falls together without broken bones or hearts.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/author.jmpowers

Blog: http://jmpowersromance.blogspot.com/

Twitter: @jmpowersauthor

Teaser Thursday- Bishie Sparkles

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The thing about manga that appealed most to Grant was that it didn’t exist only for kids. Despite the detractors who called the books “comic books” and sneered at the adults who read them.

If those detractors had any idea what was contained within the covers of the manga books Grant chose, they would know the books weren’t just comics. Comic books didn’t contain full frontal nudity and scenes of sexual encounters. The Japanese had the right idea, as far as Grant was concerned. Tame manga for kids, explicit for adults.

He would never dream of showing anyone the books he read. Aside from the full frontal nudity and blatant sex, there was the tiny fact that he was a fan of yaoi. Beautiful men fucking other beautiful men. There was no way in hell he wanted Joe Public on the Boston T train or bus seeing that kind of thing. He’d heard about too many gay bashings as it was, and he had no desire to be a victim of one. Sometimes he thought it might be[A1]  nice to be able to read during his commute home from downtown Boston, but he didn’t quite dare to take out one of his yaoi books where everyone might see.

So the night he bought Flower Glove, he waited until he got home to start reading. He’d bought the book at the chain bookstore in Downtown Crossing on his walk from the HMO where he worked to the subway. The title was completely weird, which he’d come to expect from manga, but the picture on the front cover had caught his eye in the bookstore. The picture showed a brown-haired man embracing a blond one. The blond was a bishonen, a manga “pretty boy” whose face was as beautiful as that of any female model.

He was clearly male, though, and Grant had barely been able to take his eyes off the picture long enough to pay for the book and let the cashier put it in a paper bag for him.

When he finally walked into the tiny studio apartment he rented above an elderly couple’s garage in Revere, he took the book out of the bag before he even closed the door. The last bit of October sunlight filtered through the window, and it glinted off the book’s cover, making the bishonen’s hair glow.

“Right.” Grant barely realized he was talking out loud to himself. With no one else in the apartment, he did that frequently. “Of course his hair’s glowing. This is a magical book, and if I wish really, really hard, he’ll come to life and suck my dick.”

He wouldn’t have turned the guy down if that had happened. Which, of course, it wouldn’t, since it was completely impossible.