Sunday, December 28, 2014

#AFTH w/ Cari Silverwood--Yeah...she totally wrote you guys a story. *nods* + giveaway

Woots! We've got Miss Cari Silverwood joining us from way over on the other side of the world *waves madly* Cari writes all kinds of fab goodness. Way dark and twisty, scorching hot and erotic, and some cheeky spoofty kinda stuff too which is so fun. There may be...tentacles. Bwahaha. I love it! Yall check out her post and leave her some naughty comment love :D She wrote a short story just for yall ;) Pretty fucking cool.
This one is a total gigglesnorter. A little Christmas. A little spoof and a crazy herd babe. Happy reading yall ;) ~Anna

 When the phone rang, Holly was leaning back in the office chair, with her feet on the desk, admiring her new shoes. She turned them this way and that, smiled. Shiny red. Her eye-blastingly red dress had crept up her thighs but she didn’t bother tugging it down. No one was here to see the black lacy crotchless panties he’d sent her to wear, or to smell the scent he’d told her to use.
Fuck me while the night is young. An exclusive fragrance. Only found in one shop in Paris. She’d swooned a little upon opening the gift. Understated yet sensual elegance. None of her other lovers could have matched this.
A little brash for a first date but she’d give him leeway. Now if only he was into cats, she’d be set.
The day was ending.
Ring, ring.
She leaned forward to grab the insistent phone, sending the chair rolling backward a smidge.
No more clients were booked. Her date with Blacklock was going to be one helluva night. The man fairly smoked down the phone line. Craigslist had been a goldmine, this time. Never mind that mistake with Dougie. Gold. She had to get his first name, though. The man was so closemouthed.
“Hello. Holly Hellion’s Detective Agency.”
As long as he didn’t look and smell like a hamster. Dougie had been a teensy bit disappointing. Be real. This could be a disaster all the others.
A growly voice came over the crackly line. “You will die today, along with all in your building.”
She sighed then ended the call in mid syllable. Go scare someone stupid. Damn prank calls.
Despite her reputation as one get up and go detective, there’d been no one to shoot, all week, just tons of surveillance of cheating wives and husbands and one lost cat. One annoying lost cat. The owner had refused to come get Misha and the thing had a habit of perching on filing cabinets and dropping on your head as you passed.
Scary little mother fucker.
She eyed the gleaming revolver weighing down her carefully compiled stack of lists. Shooting someone was on her bucket list. A bad guy, preferably. Not a cat. She loved cats. Even the evil ones.
All those to-do lists and nothing to do. Instructions on how to respond to murders, to kidnappings, to the zombie apocalypse...even to Black Friday – she had it all sorted into brilliant numbered lists.
Somewhere in the building, screaming began. People were running along the outside corridors. Going home time and only a week from Christmas – how keen they must be to get to their parties. She collected her handbag and looked suspiciously about for the cat, which seemed to have managed to get lost inside the tiny office.
Where the fuck was it? The adorable little bastard.
Misha could come home for the weekend. The garage was roomy. All this cat slash terrorist needed was food and a litter tray. Plus maybe she could shove the neighbor’s dog in for it to scare, once a day. Just to keep it exercised and happy. The cat, not the dog.
Her receptionist, Andrea, burst into the room along with a half dozen other people. She vaguely recognized them from other businesses in the building. Most were wide-eyed and pale of face.
They crowded up to her like a bunch of lemmings happy they’d found a convenient cliff.
“It’s him!” “Santa Clawz!” “The serial killer.” “Help us!”
Whimpers, cries, panic-garbled words? Perhaps that hadn’t been a prank call?
“What do we do, Holly?” Andrea hugged herself, shaking. “It’s Santa Clawz. No one has ever seen him, just his victims!” She thought a second. “Least I think they saw him, before he dismembered them and painted their name on the wall with their own blood? Unless maybe they had their eyes shut?”
“Good point.” The girl had brains, despite that accident when she’d scanned her naked ass and saved it into the Lost Pussy files.
One of the men fainted.
Holly stepped over him and headed around her desk. Just in case this was real, she grabbed the revolver, shoved it into the holster, and slung it over her shoulder, then she picked up the stack of papers. One of these lists should work.
What to do when a serial killer wants to kill you.
Blacklock was meeting her in the downstairs car park.
As she stepped into the waiting room, with her mini-crowd huddling and shuffling along behind her, the lights flickered. Even the hallway outside, that she could see through the frosted glass, dimmed. Hmm.
“Andrea have you contacted the cops?”
“The landlines aren’t working and there’s no cell coverage!”
Holly tapped the stack of papers against her palm.
Phones weren’t working, lights flickering, the sun was going down, and she was trapped in a multi-story building with a serial killer? She studied her little flock of followers. Trapped with a bunch of stupid people. The first list floated to the floor, as she searched the stack in her hand, again.
What to do when a serial killer wants to make a horror flick and kill off a crapload of people.
The corner of her mouth twitched. Her eyes must look like bright beacons. Holly bit her lip. She had to keep this date with Blacklock. No one would blame her for whatever happened next.
“You want to get out of here alive?”
They nodded at her. Three men, three women. Keeping them alive should be her number one concern. Or maybe priority two? Nothing whatsoever should interfere with this date with Blacklock. She checked the whimpering cannon fodder again.
Damn. Be good. They had to be priority one.
“Wait there.”
With the list as a guide, she backtracked to her emergency closet to stock up on essentials, and swung open the doors.
“Okay.” Holly held up the list.
In case of horror movie serial killer flick.
1. Cell phones always fail. Open window and release the carrier pigeon with the message for the police.
From the top shelf, a pigeon cooed down at her, cocking its red, beady eye. It’d been so worth it – all those years of pigeon food. She kept reading.
2. If you split up, you attract the killer and will be picked off.
Some of her list advice wasn’t relevant.
3. If female, don’t run across open fields, you’ll sprain your ankle and be killed.
Maybe that would count for hallways?
4. Don’t try to drive a car, they never start. You die.
5. Never have sex. You die.
6. Don’t be a young bubble-headed blonde. You die.
Wow. Clearly, she’d been having a depressing day when she wrote this one.
Tucking a carrier pigeon under her arm, she marched out, muttering to her followers, “Stick close.”
Holly pushed open the glass door with her toe. Her torch shone up and down the corridor. Empty.
When she sneaked out, a man in grey buttoned shirt and black suit sidestepped from the left and aimed a submachine gun at her head. The butt of a large pistol peeked from under his coat. The mean yet rock steady look on his face said, try anything and I shoot.
Where the hell had he come from?
Of course, she’d had her gun out in a split second too, and aimed at his head. It was a standoff, until he noticed the carrier pigeon.
His nostrils dilated as if he was scenting the air.
“Fuck me while the night is young?”
Oh my. She nodded, but kept her grip on the revolver. Blacklock? Or a smart serial killer?
His eyebrow quirked upward, knowingly, sexily. “Crotchless panties?”
“Blacklock?” Fuck. Her ovaries burst into song, like any fairytale princess would on seeing her Prince Charming, then they promptly put in an order STAT for babies.
“Yes. I’m he. The pigeon?”
It was he? Him? This handsome man with the military crewcut, the weapon expertise, and the shirt that bulged with unseen yet amazingly obvious muscle tone? She wasn’t this lucky. Ever.
“It’s for a message to the cops.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Because cell phones are out?”
“Uh huh.” Her mouth fell open a little. How did he know that?
All her lists, that had been magically suspended in mid-air when she’d dropped them to draw the gun, began floating to the floor.
He glanced at the topmost one and read it, from the way his eyes flicked across. “I need you alone. For obvious reasons.”
Thump, thump, thumpitty, went her heart. Her ovaries hit the second chorus. Gulp.
He went on. “Massive multiple point assault on the killer at once?”
“Oh yes.” The man had such good ideas. She spoke back to her followers. “Split up. Each of you take a separate stairway, room, or elevator route then hightail it back here. Don’t run, don’t stop, walk fast.”
He nodded. “No driving cars either.”
When they’d all gone, he wrenched her to him with a finger hooked under her holster, and kissed her, hard. Untangling tongues, she panted while ripping off her clothes and throwing on the blonde wig she’d grabbed from the closet, just in case.
“You’re going blonde? But are you bubble headed enough to attract the killer?” Blacklock wrenched off his tie, half strangling himself.
“Maybe. We have our second serial killer attractant. Sex? ASAP.”
All in the line of the detective business, of course. Who was she kidding?
Their conversation was as stilted as a flamingo caught on one leg with its pants down.
Blacklock hopped about trying to get his pants off before remembering to take off his shoes and socks first. The pants vanished and were thrown to the side...then his underwear disappeared.
Oh. My. She stopped halfway through undoing her bra, and swallowed. He was a big boy. “Today is my lucky day. Apart from serial killers.”
“Mine too. Holly... You are...” He exhaled then he seemed to cease breathing, turning a little purple.
After a scorching examination of her body from head to toe, then back up again to her breasts for seconds, he dragged her to the floor with him. Blacklock forced his thigh between hers and plunged into her. Luckily, he’d been as fast at putting on a condom as he was at aiming a submachine gun. So fast, she hadn’t seen him do it.
The throes and passion of sex consumed them and Santa Clawz was within three yards of their gasping, moaning, desperately humping bodies before they noticed. In unison, they snatched up their hidden weapons from the pile of clothes, and they blew him away. The cream walls were redecorated in red splatters.
Exit Santa Clawz.
Not done yet. Holly’s climax was every color of the rainbow, and then some. But at least the halls weren’t decked with her.
Her orgasmic screams brought all her lemming followers sprinting into the room. She waved her gun at them and gasped out, “Fine. We’re fine,” while still managing to count.
Six. Thank god. All alive still.
Blacklock smiled down at her then kissed the tip of her nose. “Ignore them. Our second date will be much more discreet.”
For the first time that night, she had time to think. Her smile was hesitant. There was always a catch. A good lover. A great warrior, but...
Misha dropped from the ceiling onto his head, her claws embedding in his scalp, just a little.
Grimacing, Blacklock sat up enough to allow him to lever the cat off. Then he placed her to one side and patted her. “Where did this evil little motherfucking animal come from?”
Awww. He loved cats too?
“What’s your first name?” she whispered.
“You already know it. It’s Black. Last name Locke. And your last name?”
Locke, she decided. Very, very soon.

A kinky western spoof featuring John Beastwood, a hero with six guns and six tentacles.

With Karl Thulhu ill in bed with what might be an exaggerated man-cold, Virginia goes in search of a cure. She trips on a nuclear powered skateboard and goes back in time to 1860. Shoving up her sleeves, Virginia marches into Peckerwood Springs determined to find her way back to her future.

Karl had better be really dying. Like REALLY dying. Virginia is cranky and tired of dodging tobacco spit and hiking through cactus blinged-up desert. If any damn were-squid gunslinger gets in her way, she’s gonna shove his nearest tentacle up his own whatsit.

Back to the future on acid, with a hefty dose of cum and tentacles. 

Amazon | Goodreads

Pierced Hearts Series  Amazon | All Romance | Goodreads

Cari Silverwood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of kinky darkness or sometimes of dark kinkiness, depending on her moods and the amount of time she's spent staring into the night. She has an ornery nature as well as a lethal curiosity that makes her want to upend plots and see what falls out when you shake them.

When others are writing bad men doing bad things you may find her writing good men who accidentally on purpose fall into the abyss and come out with their morals twisted in knots.

This might be because she comes from the land down under, Australia, or it could be her excessive consumption of wine.

Freaking out readers is her first love and her second love is freaking out the people living in her books. Her favorite hobby is convincing people she has a basement...though she really doesn’t. Promise. If it existed it would be a terrifying place where you would find all the dangerous things that you never knew you craved.

To escape you'd need to get the key you can see through the grate in your cell door. A key that’s hanging from the ceiling by string. The light above is flickering you can hear feet dragging along the corridor floor. Your door is locked.

Anyone know how to get blood stains out of concrete?

Find Cari Online

Soooos! We have a huge grand prize drawing going on during AFTH2014!
Just check out Cari's story and leave her a comment then jump over to THIS page to enter the Giveaway Widget!

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