Sunday, March 5, 2017

Review: Highland Pursuits by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

Until now, I've only featured my own work on this blog. To increase activity and support writers I admire, I've decided to feature the work of others from time to time.

My first guest is the very talented Emmanuelle de Maupassant, who has just released a new historical romance novella called Highland Pursuits.

I first had the pleasure of reading Emmanuelle de Maupassant's "Highland Pursuits" as a short erotic story that appeared in the Because Beards anthology to benefit The Movember Foundation, a charity supporting prostate cancer research and treatment.

Although I really enjoyed the story, it felt a little unfinished, so I was excited that Emmanuelle developed it into a novella. According to Emmanuelle, this longer, novella, length offers more scope to explore the wonderful characters' eye-popping shenanigans. Hamish and Ophelia were in her dreams for many weeks, as she wrote this story.

While the earlier version was more erotic in nature, this version focuses more on romance with a delicious sensuality. Truth be told, while I appreciated the titillating nature of the original story, the novella is more in line with my romantic sensibilities.

Set in 1920s Great Britain, Highland Pursuits immerses the reader in the period with rich language, vivid descriptions, and a dry wit reminiscent of Jane Austen. Like Austen's Elizabeth Bennet, Lady Ophelia Finchingfield is not in want of a husband -- at least not one who's a sloppy kisser. After refusing the hand of a respectable suitor, Lady Ophelia's mother cuts short her debutante season and ships her off to Scotland to stay with her grandmother until she comes to her senses.

Regardless of her mother's intentions, Ophelia sees the banishment as an adventure and an opportunity to freely explore her sexuality. Perhaps she'll encounter a passionate poet or lusty artist in the highlands -- or maybe a bearded estate manager, rough in look and manner. Hamish may make a poor first impression, but Ophelia soon finds herself intrigued by the surly Scot in more ways than one.

Highland Pursuits is lushly written with a charming voice that captivates, enticing readers to follow Ophelia's alluring sexual awakening. The addition of secondary characters to the novella enhances the story with an amusing upstairs-downstairs appeal. Like most comedy of manners, misunderstandings abound. Between sleazy advances from the lecherous Comte de Montefiore and the intrusion of Hamish's would-be fiancée Felicité, Ophelia's journey to self-discovery is tempestuous and often droll. While still somewhat abrupt, the ending is very satisfying and Ophelia's happy ending seems well in hand. Overall, I'd highly recommend Highland Pursuits to fans of scintillating historical romances.

In honor of Highland Pursuits release, Emmanuelle is not only offering three signed paperback copies via Goodreads, but also has her entire catalog on sale for $.99 from March 1st thru March 8th.

To enter the giveaway, click here.

You can buy Highland Pursuits here:

Emmanuelle's other books:

Other links for Emmanuelle de Maupassant:

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Facebook Fiasco

It has been a while since my last post, but I intend to post more frequently from now on. There's been a lot going on in my personal life, not the least of which was my mother passing away last Christmas Eve. I'll have a post about that soon as it relates to my lack of activity.

Anyway, after Hurricane Matthew sideswiped Florida and the electricity, phones, Internet, and satellite TV were back up and running, I decided to resume my social media activities, including Facebook. I'd shared a number of posts -- most were promos for other people's work. There were some enticing pictures from my Tumblr account that I shared, but I was very careful that they didn't show any naughty bits.

I'd been put in "Facebook jail" a couple of times, because I'd linked my Twitter and Facebook accounts and a few nipples slipped through. I didn't want that to happen again, so I'd disconnected the accounts and have been very careful ever since. I've even gone so far as to not share links to friends blog posts that displayed a potentially too provocative picture when it was previewed. That made it difficult to share some Masturbation Monday posts, which was a crying shame.

So imagine my surprise when I tried to log on to Facebook last Sunday and my account was locked down. At first, it gave me the dreaded message saying they'd removed some pictures from my Timeline for violating their policies and I was being suspended from posting for seven days. Cursing a blue streak, I vowed to never post another freakin' picture on Facebook.

As I continued jumping through hoops to gain access to my account, I was asked to review pictures I'd uploaded and delete anything objectionable. The two pictures they asked me to review were both JPEGs I'd posted for Labor Day. One just said "Labor Day" with the American flag and the other had the iconic image of Rosie the Riveter -- fully clothed, I might add. Both images are below.

I can't imagine why either image would be objectionable, unless you're anti-feminist, misogynistic, or anti-America. As far as I'm aware, none of those things are acceptable reasons for Facebook to ban a picture, so I chose not to delete either image.

Then, Facebook security said that under their "Real Name" policy, I had to either delete my account if it wasn't under the name I use in real life or provide a photo ID that proved it was my legal name. That brought on a whole new round of cursing.

As a writer of erotica, I choose to use a pen name to protect my privacy and so my extended family remains in blissful ignorance about my dirty little secret. It's not that I'm ashamed about writing erotica; it's just that I don't want to hear a lot of crap about it and I don't want every horny Tom, Dick, or Harry showing up at my doorstep.

Therefore, all my social media accounts have been under my pen name. I didn't know that Facebook would have a problem with this until recently. Sorry, I didn't read the lengthy "Terms of Agreement" -- how many people actually do -- so I didn't realize this was going to be an issue.

After all, I know a lot of people that use something other than their legal name on Facebook for a number of very valid reasons. Some are other writers like myself who need or want to separate their everyday life from their writing life, some just want to socialize while protecting their identities, some are victims of bullying and stalkers, some are expressing their true selves but were legally born as someone else, and some for a whole host of reasons that don't hurt or infringe on anyone else.

Ironically, Facebook's "Real Name" policy was apparently enacted to protect its users, but in many cases it's doing exactly the opposite. Even more ironic is that users can be reported anonymously, setting this whole aggravating process in motion. How is that right or fair? But life is rarely fair, is it?

So someone obviously reported me and set Facebook on my ass. Why? Are they offended by erotica? Was my profile picture too titillating? Were they offended by the link to the People Magazine article I posted about one of their writers being groped by Trump? Or that I said that as a woman who has been groped without my consent (not by Trump), I could understand why Natasha Stoynoff didn't come forward at the time and make a big stink about it? Was it because I wrote that the whole thing had a ring of truth in it that sickened me and that I believed her? Oddly, I did that the day before my account was locked down. As the song goes, "Things that Make You Go Hmmmm . . . "

It doesn't matter. The end result is the same, but I'd love to know who and why.

After my account was locked down, I searched online and found several writers who have had the same problem. One finally managed to get around Facebook with some fancy footwork, but I don't have the time, energy, or means to do what that writer did to get her account back.

For a few hours, I'd resigned myself to not using Facebook anymore. But then, I thought about all the stuff I'd be missing: networking with other writers, participating with groups, events, giveaways, etc., and just socializing with like-minded folks. So I decided to use the Facebook account I had under my legal name, which I hardly ever used, and created a new Author Page for Ria Restrepo. I don't think that violates the rules in any way, but again, I've not read all the fine print.

This is a tricky situation for me, because although I've avoided publicly revealing a connection between my legal name and pen name, I am sure some enterprising person could figure it out. And please, that's not an invitation to do so.

There are limitations to doing this as well. Now, extended family and everyday life acquaintances can see I'm friends with some colorful individuals and possibly get the idea that I'm more "interesting" than they thought. While fans and the public at large can like my Author Page and follow me, they can't "Friend" me unless they know my legal name. I've sent friend requests to all the previous friends I could remember, but I had over four hundred, so I'm missing quite a few. I've trusted a handful of folks to quietly spread the word, which I've found unnerving because I'm outing myself to a certain extent. While many have found me on the new account, some haven't.

If you were Facebook friends with Ria Restrepo and were wondering where I disappeared to, now you know. My new Author Page is here. I'm keeping all the erotic stuff on the Author Page, while sharing more everyday non-erotic stuff on the primary page under my legal name. I'd greatly appreciate it if you could like my Author Page. I'll happily return the favor -- unless you represent something I find truly abhorrent. If you'd like to be "Friends," send me a message from my Author Page and I'll send you a friend request from my primary page. Please, this is not an invitation to hit on me or try to "hook up."

As for the troglodyte that reported me to Facebook, I hope it gave you the sense of power and satisfaction you crave. I'm all for getting people off. It's just a shame that my desire to entertain inspires some people to be petty and vindictive.   

All the best,

Ria Restrepo

Thursday, March 31, 2016

My First Time

About a month ago, the lovely and talented Kay Jaybee asked me to participate in her ongoing interview series "My First Time," featuring writers talking about writing and publishing erotica. Of course, I was honored and thrilled to take part and share some insights into me and my writing that I've never revealed before. You can read all the juicy details here! Go on, click the link. I know you want to!

Monday, March 14, 2016

Follow Me on Bloglovin!

I recently joined Bloglovin and hope to post more frequently in the future. Want to keep up with all the naughtiness? Follow my blog with Bloglovin!

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Best Women's Erotica of the Year!

I'm terribly late in writing a post about this, but when I received the official go-ahead, I came down with a nasty stomach flu -- not pretty -- and then I became absorbed in NaNoWriMo. I'll have more on my NaNoWriMo participation in a later post. Right now, it's time for the big announcement!

I'm so incredibly honored to announce that my short erotic story "Restitution" has been selected for Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1! It's edited by the amazing Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Cleis Press. You can read the official announcement here and see the table of contents.

There's a very talented line-up of writers in this anthology, including a couple I've had the pleasure of appearing with before in Spy Games: Thrilling Spy Erotica (Jessica Taylor) and the upcoming Prompted (Tabitha Rayne). I'm so excited I don't know what to do with myself and can't wait for the January 12th, 2016 release! You can take a peek at the sexy cover below.

You can keep up with all the news about Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 on Tumblr, Goodreads, Facebook, and Twitter. And of course, you can also follow me on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Pinterest, and Tumblr (NSFW).

Best Women's Erotica of the Year

All the best,
Ria ;)


Sunday, October 11, 2015

Kinda Sexy -- My #Lippie Entry

The awesome Charlie Powell created the #Lippie contest to benefit Refuge. Each contest entry is inspired by a MAC lipstick color. You can read all the great entries here. I thought this sounded like a lot of fun for a good cause, so I decided to join in. My color, as selected by Charlie Powell, is "Kinda Sexy." I'm kind of cutting it close, but here is my "Kinda Sexy" entry. I hope you enjoy it!

Kinda Sexy

Copyright ©2015 by Ria Restrepo. All rights reserved.

"You know what you need?" 

"Better taste in men?" Viv said and tossed back a shot of tequila.

Kate rolled her eyes, then downed her own shot. "Obviously, but you need something more than that."

"Bigger tits?"

"Your tits are perfect." She motioned to the bartender for another round. "No, you need a mantra."

They'd been pounding tequila for the last half hour, so Viv wasn't sure she'd heard her best friend correctly. "A mantra?"

Frankly, Viv didn't think she needed anything with the word "man" in it—not after she was dumped by her boyfriend for a walking set of breast implants named Candy. Really? Candy? But since Kate was good enough to commiserate over drinks after a long workday, when she should be home with her husband and little girl…well, Viv could hear her out.

"Yeah," Kate continued once their drinks arrived, "every time you find yourself being responsible instead of following your bliss—or choosing a sensible guy instead of one who makes your knees weak—you say, 'Fuck it, I'm kinda sexy!'"

Viv traced her finger around the rim of her shot glass. "Greg made my knees weak."

Kate snorted. "His steady job, health plan, 401K, and stock portfolio made your knees weak."

"Geez, Kate, you make me sound like a gold digger." She drank her shot and slammed the glass down onto the bar. "I have most of those things myself. I didn't need him for that. It would just be nice to find someone serious to make a life with."

"I know, honey." Kate patted her hand, then scrambled to retrieved her chirping cell phone. After reading a text message, she said, "Ian's here already. Come on, we'll take you home. You're in no condition to drive."

"That's okay, I'm not ready to go just yet."

Kate gave her a long hard look, then sighed. "Okay, but take a cab home. Have fun, but don't drink too much more. Oh, and don't take drinks from strangers."

This time Viv rolled her eyes. "Yes, mother."

Kate grinned. "Let your freak flag fly a bit—remember the mantra!"

"I know, 'Fuck it, I'm kinda sexy!'"

"Good girl!" She finished her shot, kissed Viv's cheek, then headed out of the hotel bar.

Viv watched Kate cross the lobby and disappear out the front doors. The high-rise hotel was across the street from the office building where they both worked, so hitting the ground-floor bar after work was a no-brainer. It was happy hour and buzzing with urban professionals who worked in downtown Miami.

Turning back to the bar, Viv noticed her reflection in the mirror. She looked every bit the buttoned up financial analyst she was—not that there was anything wrong with that. But as she chewed on what Kate said, Viv thought it couldn't hurt to loosen up a bit. Maybe she'd find a cute guy to flirt with for a while and get her mind off of Greg.

"Fuck it, I'm kinda sexy!" she told her reflection.

Literally letting her hair down, Viv removed the pins holding it in place and shook it loose until the chocolate waves tumbled down around her shoulders. She grabbed some lip gloss from her purse and applied a fresh coat. Then she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, then another, and yet another. Leaning forward a bit, she checked out her cleavage in the mirror. Okay, she wasn't as stacked as Candy, but her breasts were decent.

"Your friend is right," a deep silky voice said, making Viv's gaze jerk up to the tall, dark, and mouthwatering man looking back at her in the mirror.

Viv cleared her throat. "About the mantra?"

He slowly shook his head from side to side, never losing eye contact. "No, your tits are perfect."

She'd been aiming for cute, but landed drop-dead gorgeous. It would've been impressive, but this guy had "love 'em and leave 'em" written all over him. Then Viv remembered she was only looking for Mr. Right Now. 

Fuck it, I'm kinda sexy! 

Viv was about to invite him to sit down when a familiar girlish squeal drew her attention to the bar entrance. "Shit!"

"Something wrong?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Sensible Viv would've ducked out the back way and avoided any potential scene, but fueled by tequila, she was in a "fuck it" kind of mood.

"Maybe you could help me out with something," Viv said, leaning in and putting her hand on his arm.

The corner of his mouth curved up dangerously. "I'm always at the service of a beautiful lady."

Oh, she bet he was!

"My ex-boyfriend just walked in with the trophy skank he dumped me for."

He nodded his head. "Ah, and you don't want to be caught drinking alone at a bar."


His grin turned deadly. "I've got this."

Viv had one second to rethink her decision before he pulled her off the barstool and into his arms.

His warm breath teasing her ear, he whispered, "Throw your head back and laugh."

She did, then gasped when his lips trailed down her throat to her décolletage. He planted a soft kiss there, then made his way back up to her other ear. "Moan for me, baby. My name's Rick, by the way."

"Oh Rick, that feels so good," she honestly moaned as he nibbled on her earlobe.

"He's watching us and he doesn't look happy."

"Fuck it, I'm kinda sexy!" Viv launched herself at Rick, thrusting her fingers into his thick black hair as she captured his wicked mouth with her own.

Rick staggered back a step and landed on a neighboring barstool, obviously surprised by her sudden attack. He quickly recovered, grabbed hold of her hips, and pulled her close so she was straddling his long, hard thigh. His lips were supple but firm as he took over the kiss, turning her impetuousness into something deliciously languid.

As his tongue caressed the seam of her lips, Viv forgot everything—where they were, who she was, why she was kissing him in the first place. The world simplified and she surrendered to the moment. Opening her mouth, she met his tongue with hers and tasted him for the first time.

A thousand times more intoxicating than the tequila she'd drunk earlier, Rick made her whole body dissolve and melt into him as his mouth claimed hers. His hands had unyielding possession of her ass and were rocking her hips forward against his thigh. Her skirt had worked its way up so that only her drenched panties and his slacks separated her needy sex from his flesh.

God, if he kept it up, Viv was going to…oh yes, just one more thrust against her clit…

"Jesus, Vivian, when did you become such a slut!"

Greg's indignant interruption wasn't as bad as having cold water thrown on her, but it was damn close.

Wrenching her mouth from Rick's, Viv gave Greg a lazy smile. "Guess I just needed to find a real man to bring it out in me."

"Come on, baby," Candy simpered, "you don't need her. You've got me now."

Rick reached up and fondled one of Viv's breasts. "Personally, I prefer the real thing over inflatables any day."

"Why you—"

Before Candy could lunge at Rick, Greg grabbed her and started hauling her out of the bar. "Let's go, Candy! Good riddance!"

"Candy? Really?" Rick asked.

Viv laughed, then groaned and let her forehead fall onto Rick's shoulder. "God, I can't believe I did that. We're lucky they didn't throw us out for making such a display."

"They wouldn't do that."

Looking up at Rick, Viv asked, "Why not?"

"Because I own the place." Then he added, "Well, the whole building, actually."

Viv could only gape at him as she absorbed that information.

Rick flashed her a panty-scorching smile. "Why don't we go up to my penthouse and finish what we started?" 

Fuck it, I'm kinda sexy! 

Once Rick got her into the elevator, he pinned her up against the back wall with his rock-hard body. "For the record, you're not kinda sexy. You're damn sexy!"

As he reclaimed her mouth and began turning her back into a quivering mass of girly goo, Viv thought, "Damn, maybe he's Mr. Right, after all."

*  *  *

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Only in My Dreams -- Wicked Wednesday #173

I know it's really late in the day, but I hope you enjoy my first Wicked Wednesday offering inspired by this week's "dream" prompt. 

Warning: contains domination and submission. If that offends you, please read no further.

Only in My Dreams

Copyright ©2015 by Ria Restrepo. All rights reserved.

If I could, I'd dream the impossible…dream about him.

He wouldn't be married. He wouldn't have kids and a nice house in the suburbs.

We'd live in the same state—in the same city, even. We'd live the fantasy we'd explored in so many variations.

In my dream, I'm watching him perform at some small, intimate club. His band isn't there that night. It's just him and his acoustic guitar. He's lost in the music. His eyes are closed, his longish hair falling into his face every time he leans over his guitar. His smooth, rich, powerful voice pours over me, his words seeping into my soul, singing songs of lost loves, redemption, and forbidden desire.

After his set, I go into the ladies' room and take off my panties. They're damp from the mastery in his voice and strong agile fingers. I carefully wrap them around a hotel keycard and palm the illicit package in my hand.

Back in the club, he's at the edge of the stage, entertaining a few smitten ladies. I edge closer, pretending to be just another groupie waiting for my turn. He politely smiles and thanks his fans for coming out to see him. If they only knew the wicked games we play.

Finally close enough, I slip my present into the pocket of his well-worn jeans. No one sees me, but I know he feels me. Not waiting for any acknowledgement, I turn and walk away, leaving him and the club, disappearing into the night.

Half an hour later, I'm naked in the hotel room, kneeling in front of the bed, waiting for him. The carpet is rough on my knees and my body is stiff from holding this position—thighs splayed so I can't relieve the growing ache in my cunt, arms clasped behind my back so my chest is pushed forward, head bowed so I can barely see the edge of the door.

Nervous anticipation has every sense amplified. The light in the room seems too bright. My skin tingles. I can smell my own excitement. And over the ringing silence, I hear the distant ping of the elevator arriving on this floor.

Is that him?

My heart pounds in time with the throbbing between my legs. The door lock engages, it slowly opens, and I see him come into the room. My muscles tense as I fight the urge to look up at him. He shuts the door behind him, then walks toward me. I struggle to keep my breaths slow and steady as he stops a few feet in front of me.

Even if I hadn't heard or saw him enter the room, I would have sensed his presence by the magnetic force pulling us together. His North to my South. His top to my bottom. His dominance to my submission.

"Look at me, naughty girl," he finally says in his warm, mellow voice.

When my eyes meet his, it's all there: need, lust, understanding, acceptance, promise, and so much more. I feel the air change, the subtle vibrations pulsing along the taut string of desire connecting us reverberating throughout the room.

"Do you feel it, baby?"

"Yes, sir."

He steps closer and offers me his hand. "Stand up."

Putting my hand in his, I touch him for the first time, skin on skin. The delight of just that weakens my cramped legs, making it difficult to stand gracefully, but somehow I manage.

He leans in close enough for me to feel his breath on my shoulder. "Are you wet for me?"

"Oh yes, sir."

He lightly touches my hip with his callused fingers. I expect him to move downwards, but he trails his fingers up the side of my waist, over my rib cage. They trace around my arm to my shoulder, then to my neck, pausing briefly to feel my rapid pulse. His fingers then follow the slope of my breast, rasping over a distended nipple before going down my stomach to my smoothly shaved pussy. At last, he delves between my slick folds and murmurs his approval.

"Such an eager little slut."

A long-suffering "good girl," I love being called dirty names and he knows it—especially if they're used appreciatively. From him, it's the highest compliment. I'm his slut, his whore, his little bitch in heat. Always. Only for him.

"Get on the bed and rub that horny cunt for me—but don't come until I say."

"Yes, sir."

Swiftly obeying his command, I lean back on the pillows and spread my legs wide apart, so he can see how aroused I am. I glide my fingers through my drenched slit, teasing my aching clit, circling it, moaning at the sensation.

He watches me for a moment, his fervent eyes devouring my wantonness. Then he slowly starts pealing off his clothes—t-shirt, shoes, socks…

As he's unfastening his jeans, he says, "Spread some of that wetness between your tits." 

Tits, not breasts. That's the word that gets him hot. We've talked about it so much, I know what to expect. He loves my generous tits and needs to fuck them. And I can't wait to give him what he craves. I burn to be his—in all ways.

Easing first one, then two fingers into my tight cunt, I gather up as much of my juices as I can, then rub the slickness between my tits. There's no shortage of moisture; I'm practically sopping as I watch him take off his jeans and boxer briefs in one go.

He's impressively erect and grasps his dick in his hand. "Is this what you want, little girl?"

I whimper with longing as he teasingly strokes it. "Yes…please, sir."

He doesn't torture either of us any longer and climbs up onto the bed. Straddling my chest, he places his long, hard cock between my tits. It's comforting and deliciously arousing feeling his weight on me and the heat of his skin against mine. He fondles my ample flesh before squeezing it around him.

"Hold them together. Just like this. Nice and tight."

I do as he says and he starts rocking his hips, sliding his dick back and forth, possessing that part of me as his own. Pre-cum oozes from the tip of his cock, making my tits even more slippery. I can't resist leaning forward and licking him as he emerges from my cleavage again and again.

His breath hitches and then he groans. "Fuck, you're a hot little slut."

Reaching back, his long fingers find my needy slit and start playing me with the same confidence and skill he uses on his guitar. As his thrusts become more forceful, his balls slapping the underside of my tits, he fucks two fingers deep inside me while his thumb strums my clit.

The sensations are overwhelming, my moans and his in perfect harmony, the pleasure building and building to a crescendo neither of us can resist.

"Come for me!"

And I do, wailing my release as he reaches his own. Growling, he gives one final hard thrust, spurting his climax all over my chest, neck, and chin. Writhing beneath him, I rejoice in him branding me with his cum, claiming me body and soul.

The aftermath of such intensity leaves us both sprawled out on the bed, panting as we recover.

Once we've caught our breath, he leans over and captures my lips with his own. His kiss is both tender and possessive. When he pulls away, he smiles at me and says, "Good girl."

And I know I'm his.

If only in my dreams.

* * *