Erotica, Erotic Romance, Adults Only
Enter the world of The Sugar House. Here you’ll meet the illustrious Madam Janice Cane and her brood of men and women who will fulfill your every fantasy. But can they find a way to fulfill their own?
Sugar & Salt
After over a decade working in the sex industry, Janice Cane retains no illusions about the nature of relationships. Everyone lies and everyone wants something. Still, a part of her longs for a connection.
Speed-dating becomes her addiction, a place to find a man for the night when she needs a quick fix, and her last hope that true love may still be waiting around the next corner. When a mysterious man entices both her intellect and her lust, she becomes entangled in an affair more complicated than she’d expected.
Jackson Grady met the love of his life. Unfortunately, he was running drugs for a pimp named Sasha at the time, who asked him to keep an eye on their new acquisition from Russia, the bedraggled beauty named Portia. She touched his heart and forced him to confront the kind of man he’d become.
Now, Portia and Jackson both work at The Sugar House. He continuously looks out for her, and longs for her with his every breath, but knows he is unworthy of such an angel. What will Portia do to win not only the heart, but also the body, of the man she loves?
Caitrin’s a Dominatrix at the high class brothel The Sugar House, and an elegant burlesque performer with leagues of men and women falling at her feet. The Sugar House is her home, her hunting ground, but she’s never felt like she belonged. Only with her childhood friends and fellow deviants, Donovan and Raef, has she found her place.
Donovan prefers his women on the submissive side, and likes to create erotic art out of rope and the female form. When a crisis at The Sugar House puts a friend in trouble, he must confront his deeper feelings for the one woman he’s told himself he can’t have – Caitrin.
With their friendship in turmoil and The Sugar House on the verge of collapse, can these two friends find their way to each other?
“So did you ever figure it out?” Greenpeace asks, keeping his posture relaxed and confident.
Janice can’t determine just what breed of man he is. “What’s that?” She returns from her musing, caught off guard by the question.
“Why I don’t recycle.”
“Oh, I just figured it was one of your many charms. Perhaps you’re part of Al-Qaeda, too?”
“You found me out, but I can’t get into a cell. This beard just won’t grow in.” He ran a hand across his rugged features.
“I hear Rogaine works wonders.” She sips her drink.
“Oh? You tried it?”
“Definitely. You should see my legs.”
Greenpeace tilts his head back and laughs with abandon. Nothing but joy shines from his face, and his eyes narrow from the expanse of his smile. “I was right.”
“Mmm, what about me, exactly?”
“So you remember me, too.”
“How could I forget?” He leans in closer and scoots into the now vacant seat between them, Simon having disappeared without notice.
The scent of a long day and cardamom surround her as he approaches. His lips part slightly and drop to hers.
She smirks and takes a sip of her drink.
“I have a confession,” he whispers.
“Yes, something I’ve been dying to tell you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want your death on my conscience.” She leans in, tempted.
“No, that would be tragic. Mourners would fill the streets. Black coats would billow out from Central Park and the tears… oh, the misery.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s just how it would be.” She rolls her eyes at his dramatics.
“Women keening over my grave.”
“Personally, I’d throw myself in the East River.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Glad we agree. Now your confession.”
The air between them pulsates. Heat and music rise in proportion to one another, but she barely notices, her thoughts consumed with nothing but him.
“Yes, I have one. Were I Catholic, I’d call on a priest, but I’m afraid I’d give the poor man a heart attack.”
“Must be a good one.”
“It’s about you, a bit of a fantasy, actually.” He slugs back his whiskey, drinking half the glass.
“Really?” A thunderbolt shoots though her body at the thought.
“Every night when I come home from work, there’s this fleeting moment when I think you might be there, sitting on my couch, drinking a glass of wine, dressed only in one of my shirts: something conservative. In my mind you’re wearing thigh highs.” He slips a hand up Janice’s leg to the top of her stockings. “Yes, something just like this.”
She’s distracted by the tight grip of his hand on her thigh. “That’s not much of a confession.” She shrugs, having hoped for something a touch more titillating.
“No? A fantasy about a woman I’ve only met once? Could be considered obsessive to some, since I think about you every single day.”
“The world of fantasy is far more expansive than that.”
“Sometimes the simple things bring the most pleasure.” He slides his fingers higher up her leg.
“Only to those who aren’t in touch with their own darkness.”
“And you know darkness?” He continues to sneak his hand higher up her thigh.
“I do, and I know men. Trust me, that’s not much of a fantasy.”
Greenpeace leans in, his breath tickling her neck. “I didn’t tell you the rest.”
Her eyes widen and shockwaves of anticipation radiate from the warmth of his breath straight to the heat of his hand. She brings her hand to her neck, covering it in an attempt to control her reaction.
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AUTHOR BIO & LINKS
Pavarti K. Tyler is an artist, wife, mother and number cruncher. She graduated Smith College in 1999 with a degree in Theatre. After graduation, she moved to New York, where she worked as a Dramaturge, Assistant Director and Production Manager on productions both on and off Broadway. Later, Pavarti went to work in the finance industry for several international law firms.
She now lives with her husband, two daughters, and two terrible dogs. She keeps busy working with fabulous authors as the Director of Marketing at Novel Publicity, and by penning her next novel.