Out now!!!

Pleasure Palace!!!! Happy release day. Checkout the cover.

The blurb!

Audrey is desperate for a job—any job—after the breakup of her marriage. The unemployment office refers her to the historic Palace Theatre, affectionately called The Pussy Palace because of its X-rated offerings. She checks her pride at the door, if not her disdain for the raunchy establishment, but despite her contempt for the movie house, she’s compelled to stay when a couple of naughty spirits beckon her to play with them…and the hot guy who runs the projector.Pleasure Palace!!!! One day and it will be released on the world. Checkout the cover.


The blurb!

Audrey is desperate for a job—any job—after the breakup of her marriage. The unemployment office refers her to the historic Palace Theatre, affectionately called The Pussy Palace because of its X-rated offerings. She checks her pride at the door, if not her disdain for the raunchy establishment, but despite her contempt for the movie house, she’s

The Palace Theatre has been in Mike’s family for generations, and he dreams of restoring the cinema to its former glory and showing epic old movies on the big screen. Tough to concentrate on goals, however, when his new concession girl has him distracted and a ghost has taken over his body and stolen his free will. At least Mike and the horny spirit have something in common—a desire to claim Audrey.

 

The excerpt!

“I’m looking for,” Audrey glanced at the card in her hand, “Mr. Dick Handler.”

He snickered. “Sounds like a dirty joke, right?”

She tilted her head. “I beg your pardon.”

“Dick. Handler. Get it?” He waited a beat for her to get it. “No? Not funny? Maybe I’ve worked here too long.” The man shook his head and dinged a bell on the counter. “Dick! Guest waiting.”

“No refunds after the first fifteen minutes,” Mr. Dick Handler called from behind a red velvet curtain with gold fringe.

A refund must be a frequent request, she guessed.

Deep-blue-eyes waggled his brows at her playfully and tapped the bell again. Then he stood back, leaning against the concession counter with a crooked smile that screamed of mischief. He crossed one ankle over the other, as if settling in comfortably for a show. The way his jeans hugged his hips and waist was distracting. Not tightly—perfectly, for lack of a better word. Don’t get me started on the T-shirt stretched across his chest.

A man emerged from behind the curtain. He looked to be in his sixties and reminded her of a young Hugh Hefner, minus the signature smoking jacket and matching bikini-clad blonde bookends that accompanied Hef. His skin was tanned to a leathery grain, his hair sprinkled with gray and white, but he seemed physically fit for his estimated age.

“May I help you?” he asked. “Lost? Need directions?”

Audrey shook her head.

“Restrooms are for paying customers only,” he said apologetically.

She passed him the index-sized card. “The unemployment office sent me.” Probably because everyone else had refused the job reference. She should have too, but desperation and zero marketable skills made her entertain all opportunities.

Deep-blue-eyes chuckled.

“Don’t you have work to do, Mike?” Mr. Handler snapped.

“Nope,” he replied.

“I’m afraid you’re not what we had in mind.” Dick Handler returned the card to her without so much as looking at it. “But thank you for stopping by.” He vanished before she could open her mouth to object.

Audrey glanced down to her A-cup chest, and then leaned to her left to catch a glimpse of her likeness in a garish gold-framed mirror. The buxom bimbos on the adjacent movie poster appeared to be laughing at her and her boyish reflection. Her husband had suggested a boob job—the nail in the coffin of their marriage.

Deep-blue-eyes, also known as Mike, bobbed his head in the direction of the bell, encouraging her to tap it. There was no doubt in her mind that he was an instigator of trouble. He might look like an adult but his maturity was in question. She squared her shoulders and dinged the bell.

Mr. Handler returned immediately. “Yes?” he said pleasantly. “Need me to sign something verifying you applied?”

“I didn’t apply,” she protested, her temperature rising from anger and the scrutiny of Mike with his laughing eyes. “You wouldn’t let me apply. I’d like to speak to the owner, please.”

“I am the owner.” Mr. Handler glanced at Mike before returning his attention to her. “For the time being anyhow.” He shook his head and muttered, “I’m getting too old for clogged toilets, a leaky roof and specter sightings.”

Mike scoffed and Audrey said, “What?”

He waved her off. “You’re not what we’re looking for.”

Her eyes dropped to her chest again, daring him to comment on her averageness of figure. No one at the unemployment office mentioned any specialized assets besides the ability to handle food and money. It had been a while since she’d been on the hunt for a job. Her experience was limited and work was scarce.

“Is there something wrong with me?” she asked.

He waved his hands again. “No. Nothing.”

“So offer me the job,” she said, although the last thing she wanted was to be hired. She wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the place by anyone she knew. And they wouldn’t want to be caught at a smut theater by her, although her circle of acquaintances almost certainly got their pornography anonymously and discretely, the way porn was meant to be attained.

In spite of her contempt for the establishment, something—a wicked voice in her head—compelled her to stay and be a part of this debauchery.

“Yeah, Dick, offer her the job,” Mike echoed, earning himself nasty glares from Audrey and his boss. She didn’t need his brand of help. He clearly viewed the exchange as a joke that she was the butt of.

An older gentleman wearing a leisure suit emerged from the viewing area, mopping his red face with a hankie but looking relaxed and satisfied. He eyed Audrey suspiciously as he crossed the lobby. He wouldn’t look out of place at the supermarket or gas station. Her skin crawled a bit due to her inside knowledge that he’d been watching a dirty movie.

Mike waved and said, “Thanks for coming, sir.”

“Come again soon,” Audrey added, showing Mr. Handler a sample of her excellent customer service skills. Plus, under the circumstances, it was just fun to say.

 

The Book Trailer!

 

 

Spreading Holiday Cheer!

Available for preorder at Amazon and Barnes and Noble - Holiday Hangover!

By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site. An Excerpt From: HOLIDAY HANGOVER Copyright © KELLI SCOTT, 2012 All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc. I’m dying. Not peacefully in my sleep. No, I’m dying one of those slow, painful deaths you dread more than mimes, clowns or public speaking. Dying in one’s sleep is a better way to go. And dying in bed is not the same as dying in your sleep. Feeling around, my eyes fused shut, I’m sure I am in bed. Not my bed. My bed is like a heavenly cloud of crisp, clean linen. This bed—the one I’m dying in—is more like a comfortable, cozy slab of stone. Cozy because the vacant side of the mattress beneath my fingers is still warm from a body. I’m not dying of a case of slab-of-warm-cozy-stone, either. I fear the painful piercing in my brain will be the death of me. Opening even one eye will surely be the nail in my coffin. I hear running water. A shower, so I’m not alone. After all, no one wants to die alone. I could use a shower before I die, or at the very least a swish and gargle from the sink to wash away the fuzziness coating my mouth. Maybe a warm, wet compress for between my aching legs, where I swear a runaway freight train must have blown through. The splatter of flowing water I hear is a pleasant accompaniment to the off-key humming of Here Comes Santa Claus. Baritone. A man. I hope it’s someone I know, then on second thought pray for a stranger I’ll never see again. I breathe in the woodsy male scent around me but I’ve never had any luck putting names to smells. And still no luck opening my eyes or scaring up a little spit to swallow the nasty taste in my mouth. Think, Jane—what’s the last thing you remember? A party. That’s a start. Our annual Seacliff Condo Association holiday party, to be exact. The Seacliff Condos aren’t by the sea, nor on a cliff. Sometimes when the breeze blows our way the residents catch a whiff of the nearby ocean. That’s something. The Cliff, as we call it, is very nice. Upscale. But not on the water. If it was, I couldn’t afford living there. The recreation room, which boasts an enormous television for Monday Night Football gatherings or movie night, was decked out in an array of holiday décor, representing Hanukah, Kwanza and Christmas in an effort to mollify all residents and their religion of choice. As the president of the condo association, that’s my job—to mollify. And delegate. I had zero to do with entertainment, decorations or refreshments, being deficient at all three. That would be Trisha Delgado from the third floor, a younger, sassier version of Martha Stewart, if Martha wore sequined tube tops and hot pants in winter. Trisha runs a small daycare out of her unit. I turn a blind eye to her home-based business venture on account of her being easily delegated to do my dirty work. In other words, I rely on her. She is my eyes and ears at The Cliff during the day while I work my day job in the billing department of a prominent orthopedic surgeon. Trisha secretly sends me texts if there are any rumblings about potential uprisings due to our long list of rules and regulations. She keeps me updated on unauthorized roommates, illegal parking and unsanctioned activity of any kind. Not that I’m a killjoy or anything. Trisha probably knows whose bed I’m in. The way she gossips, everyone knows but me. The news will get back to me eventually if I don’t figure out for myself who I’ve boinked. Boinking where you live is simply a bad idea. “Relax,” Trisha said to me at the party last night. “Have a drink. Loosen up. Get in the holiday spirit.” Holding up a wall with my backside, I sipped at a cup of coffee while I watched everyone else at the holiday gathering get sloshed. “I don’t do that sort of thing.” Anymore. She screwed up her face at me. “Which thing don’t you do?” “Any of them.” “Have. Some. Fun,” Trisha said, patting me on the back. A pat to emphasize each word of bad advice. “One little drink won’t hurt.” That was when I decided Trisha was in league with the devil. I should have walked away. “True.” I nibbled on a frosted Santa sugar cookie until I’d munched away his privates. “But have you ever heard that song Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off?” “I love that song.” “I’m fairly certain someone wrote those lyrics about me.”

Blurb! Cover! Excerpt!

Rub Me The Right Way. Release date: 10/16/2012

Blurb!

Heather Bowen is an uptight, stressed out insomniac in desperate need of a massage or a shrink or an orgasm to cure what ails her.  

On doctor’s orders, she starts with a massage to work out her knotty/naughty kinks. At the hands of a talented massage therapist, Heather gets a full body rub down. And more. Next stop—a psychiatrist to get at the root of her anxiety and sleeplessness. But is she ready for Dr. Simon’s controversial treatment?

What begins as prescribed therapy becomes a wild fantasy ride of erotic discovery that makes Heather question her sexual orientation along with everything she believed about her carnal desires.

 

Cover!

 

Excerpt!

 

“You all ready, Heather?” Tasha called out, probably worried about how long it took me to get undressed. I shoved the drape of the dressing room aside. “Absolutely.” She led me to the room across the hall as if through a slow motion dream. She was that graceful and lithe and willowy. Tranquil sounds filled the space. Waves lapping at a sandy beach. She patted the massage table. “Up or down?” “Excuse me?” I didn’t know there’d be a quiz. Perusing the clipboard, she asked, “First massage?” “That’s right.” Then couldn’t help but add, “I’m a massage virgin.” “Well, we’ll see what we can do to remedy that.” She smiled, not taking my comment offensively, unless she was a really good actress. “Would you like to start face up or down?” “What do you recommend?” I stopped myself from repeating the virgin reference. She skimmed the clipboard again. “Lower back pain. Tense, knotted muscles. Insomnia. Headaches. Stress. Let’s start face down.” Looking up from my long list of afflictions, she asked, “Would you like me to step out while you disrobe?” Would that be rude? “Of course not.” I scoffed. “We’re both women, right?” Tasha turned her back, preparing her oils or instruments or whatever. With her attention elsewhere, I slipped out of the robe, hung it on a peg, and hopped on the table quick like The Flash, hauling the sheet over my nakedness, which I still wasn’t sure was appropriate. Oh, well, what the hell? She’d just have to deal with it. I planted my face in the face donut and waited. The acoustics transitioned into raindrops on a tin roof. Occasionally a clap of friendly thunder rumbled in the distance to mix things up. She positioned me like a rag doll, placing my arms at my sides on the outside of the sheet. “Comfortable?” she asked. “Yes,” I mumbled. I fixated on her delicate bare feet, her toenails painted a fuchsia color. The fringe of her sarong nearly tickled the floor as she gracefully glided around. A silver chain encircled her ankle. How I wished I could be more like her. Free-spirited. Serene. Bohemian. “Be sure to tell me if I rub too hard.” She rested her palms on my skin, and I tensed. “Okay.” “Relax, Heather.” “I am,” I protested.

 

 

 

A Taste to Wet Your...Er...Appetite

And the release date is *drum roll, please* September 28. Here's an excerpt.

Jennifer sat at the vanity in front of the mirror and skimmed her fingers along the length of the raised scar on her cheek. For a second she was transported from her hotel room, back in time to a dark night and a rain-slicked road. The metallic taste of blood, the smell of smoke and gasoline and fear flooded her senses as if the accident had happened minutes ago instead of months before. She felt the warm, thick blood drip into her eyes, blurring the chaos around her, the same as she had felt it that night. Tires squealed and people screamed. Sirens echoed in her mind, too far away to offer any comfort whatsoever. Coming to her senses, she whispered, “I can’t do it.” Jennifer snatched her hand away from the ghastly scar as if the gash burned her fingertips. The long curl of dark hair flopped back into place to hide the jagged mar across her otherwise perfect features. “I can’t go through with it.” “You can,” said her sister Marlene, the practical and rational voice of reason. “And you will.” She also leaned toward being bossy. Taking after their father’s side of the family tree, Marlene had come to grips with her plain appearance long ago, actually embracing her ordinary looks. Instead of dabbling in the finer points of makeup application like Jennifer, Marlene focused on her education and interpersonal skills, sort of how a blind man develops a heightened sense of smell and hearing. Not that their father wasn’t an attractive man. The handsome features and large bone structure simply didn’t translate as well on the face and body of a woman. What Marlene lacked in striking beauty she made up for by being chatty and opinionated and amusing. Also like Dad. Jennifer took after their mother, a beauty icon in their circle of friends. Fashion forward. A lover of fine footwear and trendy eateries. Jennifer was like the Macgyver of accessorizing. Give her a couple of hair pins, a silk scarf and a skinny belt and she’d give you glamour. Finger-combing the curl of hair for maximum coverage, Jennifer asked, “What if people are horrified?” “Then they’re dirt bags who aren’t worth your time or a second thought,” Marlene replied with a wave of her hand. Jennifer snorted a laugh. Easy for you to say. Jennifer’s fingers glided over the embossed invitation to the Forty-seventh Annual Volunteer Appreciation Masquerade Ball. A yearly excuse for adults to dress in costume, drink to excess and pat each other on the back for their charitable endeavors. She’d been attending all her adult life. Her mother too. Her Grandmother before that. Goodwin gals came from a long line of volunteers. Each year the celebration grew bigger, the decorations more elaborate, the invitations more expensive. Why was a pressed invitation with gilded lettering a beautiful thing and her raised scar triggered double-takes and gasps? It wasn’t fair. On a man a scar added character. Intrigue. Danger. On a woman, it overshadowed all else. “I can’t take one more sympathetic comment or pitying look,” Jennifer said, her voice cracking with emotion. Suck it up. Be strong. “I dare anyone to be so stupid,” Marlene said. “My advice, Jenny—forget about the scar. If you do, everyone else will. Swear to God, I don’t even notice it anymore. Focus on having fun. If it makes it easier, leave the mask on. Get hammered. Be mysterious. Flirt with every hot guy. Get laid.” Get laid! Nothing could be further from her mind. She hadn’t flirted since way before she’d broken up with Gage, her Marine pen pal turned love interest. Her intention had been to brighten the life of one Marine in Afghanistan with care packages and cheery news from home. Soon she’d been in love with Gage. Yes, in love with a man she’d not yet met. They’d never said the word—love—but she’d felt it stronger than any force of man or nature. Jennifer had wanted to save her declaration for when she met him face to face. Shortly after the car accident, she’d broken his heart. Hers too. No explanation. She’d decided it was better that way. Marlene had pulled no punches at the time and had called her a moron. Jennifer turned to Marlene and couldn’t manage to stifle a burst of laughter. Her sister, dressed like Rhett Butler, mustache and all, cracked her up every time she laid eyes on her. It would never get old. Her husband was somewhere in the hotel dressed as Scarlett O’Hara, wearing a hoop skirt and a wig with corkscrew curls. “How do I look?” Jennifer asked. Wearing a white peasant blouse and a multi-colored flowing tiered skirt she’d made herself—no rental costume for her—Jennifer decided to embrace the mystical Gypsy deep inside and take her sister’s advice. Well, some of it, anyhow. She could get on board with being mysterious, drinking, flirting and possibly some fun. “Gorgeous,” Marlene said, twisting the upturned ends of her fake mustache. She handed Jennifer a colorful, glittery mask adorned with peacock feathers. Maybe it would be a magical night after all.

Tasty Teaser

Silk Stalkings excerpt!

 

The late model Miata in front of Diego Ramos crossed the centerline for the second time in the span of as many minutes before swerving into the left-hand turn lane without using a blinker.
 

Typical. Probably drunk, he thought. Diego had just come from towing a BMW to the city impound lot—the driver had been issued a DUI and hauled off to jail. It was a weeknight, but the owner of the BMW had stopped off after work for a nightcap that had turned into three or four. Maybe the driver of the little red sports car ahead of him had too.
 

Now I’ve seen everything. Or rather, despite his headlights cutting through the murky darkness, he could see nothing in the car ahead of him. Not even the driver’s head. Oh. There she is. He assumed she was a she because she drove a total chick car in a color that probably matched her fingernails—red. She must have had her head between her legs, kissing her ass goodbye. Excellent use of time, judging by her driving skills.
 

A hip-hop beat thrummed from her car, carrying all the way to the cab of his tow-truck. Diego watched her head bob to the music as they waited for the light in the turn lane to change. What is she doing? Applying lipstick, as near as he could tell. When the arrow glowed green, he waited a few beats before tapping his horn. Nothing.
 

She gunned her car through the intersection as the arrow turned yellow. Diego threw his hands in the air, but stopped his truck just short of the crosswalk. He didn’t need another ticket on his record. He beat his fingers against the steering wheel while he waited. When the light changed to green again he eased through the intersection and turned into the parking lot of the grocery store, as the sports car had.
 

She whipped her car into a prime compact spot close to the front doors as he cruised the lot for something roomier that would accommodate his large vehicle. Diego backed his tow-truck into a space alongside the building adjacent the grocery store, where he could enjoy his dinner in solitude later. But he could still clearly see her sports car. Not by accident or circumstance. Diego was drawn to trouble as a nail is drawn to a magnet. Being a wise man with a fair amount of common sense, he should head across town to a different store. She struck him as dangerous in the best possible way.
 

And sexy, he decided when the driver opened her car door and planted one lethally high-heeled pump on the pavement. What followed did not disappoint. Good thing he was done with curvy, conceited women with mile-high legs. He was on the lookout for a round little chica with big, brown eyes who could cook like his mother.
 

No harm in watching the driving-school-dropout from a distance though. So he did. Auburn curls bounced around her head and shoulders as she hurried into the store. Diego sauntered along behind her, which was a real treat for him. She wore white thigh-high stockings that stopped a couple of inches short of her flirty, pleated plaid skirt. Bows accented her stockings a few inches below the hem. On top she wore a plain, white cotton dress shirt, probably so as not to distract from the assets she had going on below the waist.
 

He needed a closer look and something to eat. Dinner and a show.
 

 

Little Miss Wild-Behind-The-Wheel bent at the waist to pluck a hand basket from the stack by the store’s automatic sliding doors. As she bowed, her skirt stopped just shy of her panties…if she wore panties.
 

Diego bit his tongue to stop himself from hollering, “Nice!”
 

Following her to the produce department, like your garden-variety pervert, he plucked an orange from the display and sniffed it for no other reason than to look as if he weren’t following her. He gave the orange a firm squeeze to decide whether it was a keeper. The orange was. She wasn’t. But that didn’t stop him from watching her. Hell, a city-wide blackout wouldn’t have stopped him from watching her.
 

She placed a head of lettuce in her basket. As she leaned in and reached for a long, thick cucumber, her foot came off the ground and bent at the knee. The sight reminded Diego of one of those 1940s black-and-white movies where the gal does the flamingo stance while getting kissed. Even her shoes looked like reproduction 40s footwear—on stilts. Or steroids. They were dangerously high. No wonder she’d been all over the road—she’d been driving with a disability.
 

Upon closer inspection, she didn’t seem drunk. The woman could probably walk a straight line if pressed by the cops. She deserved credit for walking at all on heels that high. The rest of her apparel appeared sort of Catholic schoolgirl gone bad. Very bad. She needed detention.
 

And a spanking.
 

His mind went off to a dark place as he imagined turning Naughty Dotty there over his knee to smack his open hand on the naked, milky flesh of her thighs. Right there in the sweet spot between her hem and her stockings. Desire sizzled all the way down his spine like a burning fuse. Diego mentally stamped out the flames before he exploded, imploded or needed to hide his erection behind a shopping cart.
 

He’d come in for a salad. Nothing more. I’m working, for Christ’s sake. Diego did not need the kind of trouble that came wrapped in a package like hers. His “type” was earthy, sweet and natural—starting now. The girl next door, not the whore next door. He’d had enough of bad girls. I’m thirty, for crying out loud. It was time to settle down and stop getting his heart tramp-stamped like a passport to sin. Don’t even get me started on the ding to my pocketbook. He’d been conned and outright robbed by the naughty-next-door type. He’d decided he must have a “kick me” sign on his back, visible only to hot chicks with very high heels, short skirts and low morals.
 

He weaved a path to the salad bar to feed his cravings with a chef’s salad—extra ham, egg and cheese. He needed protein to muster the strength to stay clear of the danger zone. Along with the healthy salad, he loaded his to-go container with some bad choices. Heavy pastas, bread and half a dozen butter pats. He’d pay dearly at the checkout, but better to feed his desire with food than a mistake.
 

Diego groaned a few minutes later when he found that the checkout lane was backed up with late night shoppers. Spotting his wet-dream-come-to-life in the shorter express line, he decided to brave the traffic jam of carts to avoid her.
 

“Sir…” A floor manager attempted to usher him to the more logical express line.
 

Diego raised his hand in protest. “I’m fine here.” An overflowing cart with a fussy toddler and a stressed-out mother pulled up behind him, making him feel guilty for holding up the line because he was too chicken to get within twenty yards of the hottie in high heels.
 

The manager tilted her head. “We have less wait time in the express line.”
 

He patted his back pocket, where he’d stuffed his checkbook. “I’m paying by check.” The express line clearly stated cash only. Diego played by the rules. Not always, but starting recently.
 

She waved him along. “Not a problem.”
 

The mother of the toddler flashed him a glare that might kill under certain circumstances. Her kid wailed, leaking tears and snot that threatened to ruin his appetite.
 

“Sure.” Diego followed the manager along to the express line. Stopping way short, he left a good four or five feet between him and the sex kitten.
 

Her white shirt was gathered up and tied in a knot near her navel, giving the impression that perhaps she was wearing her lover’s dress shirt after an evening of romping. She had her basket on the conveyer belt directly behind some guy purchasing a case of beer, a carton of smokes and a smutty magazine—the trifecta of debauchery. The woman ahead of him was twitching as she bought her weight in lottery tickets. Diego decided to count ceiling tiles. One, two, three…