Hey guys! Welcome to day 4! This is turning out to be even more fun than I imagined. Today I have Tory Michaels who was nice enough to bring along a couple "friends" to wish me a Happy Birthday. (Don't forget to comment and leave your email for a chance to win an e-book)I met Tory when she asked me to review the first book in her Dream-Walker War series. Since then we have become quite good friends. Today she brought with her Jordan MacNaught and Christine Javert to give me birthday wishes. If you have read any of the Dream-Walker War then these characters are familiar to you. I have to admit, I have a bit of a crush on Jordan. (Shhh. Don't tell him. He isn't the biggest fan of humans.) Ok Tory, take it away.
I’m very excited to be here today to help Ursula celebrate her birthday. And, because of course a good author is never alone (at least in her head), I have a couple of people who wanted to wish Ursula a happy birthday as well.
Jordan MacNaught: ::tall, slender, pretty blond man:: Oh, I say, that’s doing it up a bit brown. Why would I wish to tell a rotter happy birthday? It’s yet another day in their life, in the inevitable march toward death.
Be nice, Jordan.
JM: You wish me to pretend to be something I’m not?
You can be nice.
JM: I can’t imagine what you’re talking about. And before you decide to trot out some decision or other of mine that might demonstrate either, thus embarrassing me, might I remind you I live in your head and I can send you quite interesting dreams.
Like working at Taco Bell?
JM: That was not my doing. Anyway, aren’t we here to wish the rotter a happy birthday?
Stop calling her a rotter.
Christine Javert: ::tall, black-haired woman:: Oh, c’mon, Tory. When does he ever call a human a human. ‘Sides, she’s a rotter. It’s just the truth, not an insult.
When he says it, it’s an insult.
CJ: Point taken. Now, birthday girl?
Before we get to that, I thought you two might want to share your thoughts on birthdays. Given you’re two and a half centuries, Chris, and…
CJ: He’s an old fart!
JM: Chrissy! Have some thought to my dignity.
CJ: What dignity? You’re a sociopath and everyone knows that. Especially Birthday Girl. Yo, Urs! Happy B-Day. I can’t imagine what it must be like, aging and all that crap. Do your bones creak yet? Do you have gray hair? Do you…
Christine! Stop haranguing her.
JM: Ah, Ms. Michaels, you don’t have the knack for silencing her. I can think of a better way than that.
I’m sure you can. I don’t sleep with Chris though.
JM: True. Now, Ms. Avery, while I acknowledge you as a member of the, um, human species, you will get old, and white-haired, and feeble, this isn’t your fault. But from my vantage point, I view human birthdays with some sort of pity. You’ve no idea the wonder of seeing the centuries pass by. You’re limited to your eighty or hundred of them. But, you also likely live your life to the fullest because you are limited to so little.
CJ: God, that’s depressing. I love birthdays. I only celebrate mine every decade or so, and that’s usually just an excuse for a rollicking good party.
JM: You look at anything as an excuse for a good party.
CJ: I run a nightclub. Parties are great for business. Bite me.
JM: I plan to, later.
Chris, Jordan, birthday girl, remember?
JM: You spoil all my fun. I’m not singing for her, but Ms. Avery, my deepest felicitations and well wishes for you upon this happy occasion. I understand you’re rather a fan of mine, and it is ever an honor to…::snorts:: Oh, Ms. Michaels, don’t make me finish that statement. I can’t do it with a straight face.
You’re the one who started that. But fine, you did good. Chris?
CJ: Yo, Urs, happy birthday dudette! I’m sure you got lots more ahead of you. And at least you don’t have to deal with the mess the psycho and I do.
Thanks, Chris. Okay, you two. Go on back to what you were doing.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY URSULA
Thanks for stopping by guys. It's been a blast. Comment below for your chance to win a copy of Prophecy of Blood! (leave your email for crying out loud)
Here's a little information about the latest book in the series:
One hundred ninety-eight seasons after the mushroom-shaped clouds first blossom to poison the humans of the Rising Sun, near the beginning of the Season of Inundation, Atlantis will return.
With those words ringing in their ears, vampires Christine Javert and Jordan MacNaught find themselves in a race against time to stop the return of Atlantis. As they hunt for the deadly Ares, they discover the true depths of his plot to incite a world-wide species war, turning the humans against all the non-humans, not just the vampires as they’d originally thought.
“Dude, next time just tap me on the shoulder.”
She needed to lodge the protest, though her body sang at the familiar touch. She and her body needed to have a good, long talk about this situation. He shouldn’t be able to make her go mushy just by putting an arm around her. Not when they’d sated their lust so recently.
As expected, Jordan wore a suit that evening, and it suited him perfectly. No tie for a change though, and his crisp shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. So for him, he was going for a casual look.
The arm around her back drifted south until his hand rested on her ass and gave it a gentle squeeze. “My way’s more fun. Admit it, wasn’t it fun, seeing him slink off?”
He grinned. How a grown man frozen in his early twenties could continually look like a mischievous little boy when he grinned was beyond her. But it worked for him. Chris shook her head and groaned. Protest. Remember? You’re doing the whole friend thing, and friends don’t grab friends’ asses. Not even friends you bounce at every opportunity. With an effort, she leveled out her breathing. “I didn’t expect to see you here so early. I was heading out soon.”
Even with the attempt to moderate her voice, her words came out breathy. She cringed internally. If Jordan noticed, he didn’t comment. “You need a keeper. I’ve appointed myself to the task.”
Arrogant jackanapes. Rather than draw a scene by having a conversation in the middle of the dance floor without dancing, she sighed and looped his arms around his neck. At least she didn’t have to bother with the intricacies of a waltz. The last time she’d danced with him had been in London, the night before he buried her.
The hand on her butt squeezed again. “What was that thought? You just scowled.”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He frowned, but let the matter drop. “You look smashing, Chrissy. Why were you wasting it on the dog?”
“It was a dance, nothing more. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Dozens of people surrounded them, but she saw only Jordan. Felt him as his other hand trailed lazily down her back. His lips brushed her ear as he leaned close. “After earlier, I might just make it my business.”
Her mouth went dry, and she blinked at him. “Huh, wha’?”
“I make a lousy friend, as you well know.” He cupped the back of her head and kissed her. Her knees threatened to buckle. “And since I intend to be inside you again at the earliest possible moment, the ‘friend’ label doesn’t fit.”
Oh. Wowser. She licked her lips, saw an answering flare of arousal flash in the green eyes staring into hers. “You’re not serious. Like, you want to date?” He blew my mind, but it was that good for him, too?
“Such a dull word, but sufficient.” He drew her closer. Fire followed the path of his lips around the bottom of the dark-blue choker she wore to cover up the nasty scar from the attack that left her almost dead. He took a long sniff, no doubt smelling the Princess perfume she daubed on. “You smell good enough to eat, Chrissy. I could spend hours doing just that.”
The already warm nightclub turned scorching. Maybe it was just her temperature.
“In that obnoxious pink bed of yours.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, tried not to picture them in her room. It definitely was her temperature soaring, not the club’s.
Jordan’s voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Arms and legs restrained, holding you open for me. No escape, no retreat.”
Her non-existent imagination conjured the image up in startling detail, bolstered by the memory of the handcuffs around her wrists earlier. She whimpered, couldn’t help the moisture that trickled from her to soak her panties. Oh damn, no. That should not turn me on. Not him. Not like this, not again.
She moved with the music, turning to press her back into him. His strong, sure hands pulled her hips against his in a dance they’d done so many times together, one that had nothing to do with music.
“And the thought, being with me like that, excites you. Letting control go earlier like you did, gave you a rush you’ve never gotten before in sex.” Jordan pushed the hair at her neck to the side. Sharp fangs sank against her throat, not quite breaking the skin, his other hand drifting up to cup her breast. The fabric of her dress did nothing to shield her against the heat of his palm. “Did you sneak out afterward because of how it made you feel?”
Teasing touches trades down her sides until he reached the hem of her skirt. His hand slid beneath to caress the skin of her thigh just above her garter.
Take back control, Chris. You steam-roller. Men don’t do this shit to you. Nor did she want them to. Right? Except him, damn it all to hell. And he was talking about feelings? What the fuck? Struggling to keep her head against the sensuality he dragged out of her, she clamped her hands over his wrists to still his movements. With only a hint of her normal forcefulness, she said, “Knock it off, MacNaught.”
“Or what, hmm? Let go, Chrissy. You’d enjoy yourself more if you relaxed. Remember?”
He twisted his wrist, broke her admittedly weak grip on him, and the exploration of her leg continued. She colored, prayed no one was staring at them. The display, while making her hornier than a bitch in heat, was mild for the ‘Cor. It didn’t matter, because she flat out didn’t do public affection. None of her boyfriends crossed the line with her, knowing she’d flatten them if they pushed too far.
She couldn’t flatten Jordan though. To make it worse, she didn’t want to.
Goosebumps rose in the wake of his caresses over her thighs. His fingers inched upward, just brushing her mound, only blocked by the flimsy barrier of her soaked panties.
He laughed softly in her ear. “You say no, but your body, your oh-so-pretty pussy says yes, doesn’t it?”
Chris twitched. If she didn’t move away, didn’t break this off, the bastard would think he could maul her whenever he wanted. And what’s wrong with that? So what if he does the caveman thing? You read the trashy romance novels, and are surprised when someone acting like those alpha assholes turns you on?
A harsh blast of noise from behind her head where it plastered against Jordan’s suit coat worked as effectively as a bucket of water.
Originally from the Sacramento Valley, Tory packed up and moved all the way to Southwest Florida in 2004 with her husband (a Florida native) under the premise that ‘hurricanes almost never hit that part of the state.’ That year, 4 blasted the area. 4 more came the following year, and her husband blames her for bringing the hurricanes. She now resides in Jacksonville and is relieved that, thus far, no more hurricanes have followed her around.
She began writing in kindergarten when a turnip wished to be human and, other than a hiatus shortly after getting married, has never stopped. Her love of vampires began somewhere in junior high, and combining the two loves didn’t take long. She loves music, considers herself a ‘book slut’ whose reading habits would break her family financially if given free reign, and is (usually) delighted to be a mommy of twin Shrimpettes and a Shrimp.