Thanks so much for having me!
It’s always a whirlwind of events when one of these collections releases. So many authors excited about their stories being read. Readers eager to get their hands on them. Can you imagine some folks don’t like short stories? I think they probably haven’t read a good one. A great short story lets you get to know the characters involved and shows you a mini-journey—a problem being solved, a wish fulfilled—and then it closes. With an erotic romance, you know you’ll get to know the hero and heroine and see how they come together, physically and emotionally. Sometimes, we only want a nibble of chocolate, because that’s all we have time for. Sometimes, we want the whole damn candy bar. Erotic shorts are the nibbles, and a terrific way to get to know an author you haven’t read.
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Smokin’ Hot Firemen
: Erotic Romance Stories for Women
Edited by Delilah Devlin
Foreword by Jo Davis
232 pages, 5 ½” x 8”
ISBN: 978-1-57344-934-2
Publishing on August 9, 2013 (In honor of National Book Lover’s Day!)
—Jo Davis, bestselling author of The Firefighters of Station Five
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Four-alarm erotica — stories of sexy hunks who can handle the heat
They enter fiery structures with selfless courage—the very definition of the word “hero.” Women understand their allure… A soot-covered face, sweat dripping from hard, chiseled muscles, the sharp snap of suspenders — yes, only a fireman can make suspenders sexy!
Delilah Devlin’s burning-hot book includes thrilling stories teeming with gorgeous firemen from some of today’s hottest romance writers. In “Saving Charlotte,” Sabrina York’s firefighting Dom rescues a woman tied to a red-hot bed; from Cathryn Fox comes “Temperature Rising” where a fire chief fulfills some very steamy fantasies; Elle James’s “Chasing Fire” sees a daring smoke-jumper parachuting into the hot zone of a forest fire then setting his girlfriend ablaze with erotic heat; and Magic Mike ain’t got nothin’ on Delilah’s own fireman-turned-exotic-dancer-for-a-night “Johnny Blaze.”
With a list of award-winning authors that includes Ily Goyanes, Shoshanna Evers, Adele Dubois, and Rachel Firasek, Delilah delivers tales of these courageous men sliding down their big poles to steal readers’ hearts! Smokin’ Hot Firemen imagines the romantic possibilities of being held against that massively muscled chest by a man whose mission is to protect and serve . . . every need.
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Delilah Devlin’s “Johnny Blaze”
I held my iPhone in front of me as far as my arm could reach and took a picture. Then I quickly sent it to my Facebook page. Yes! I don’t know how Syl managed to talk me into it, but I’m at HardCox!!! Happy Birthday, me!
I posted the photo, then slipped my phone back into my purse, which I’d placed beneath the small round table where Sylvia, Heather, and I sat next to the raised stage.
“You took a picture of yourself?” Sylvia giggled and held out her hand. “Give me that phone!”
“No way, you’ll just post pictures of the dancers’ asses.”
“And their hoses!”
My eyes bugged. “My mama would be horrified!”
I was already beyond mortified at being here—a male strip club, of all places. Syl didn’t have to add kerosene to the fire burning in my cheeks. But she’d had me at one name, “Johnny Blaze.”
So I had a thing for firefighters. Or at least one in particular who didn’t even know I existed. The picture on the sandwich board outside the club—of a fireman wearing suspenders attached to the hose covering his privates—had been the deciding factor after I’d dug my heels into the concrete sidewalk. His body reminded me of my secret crush. Syl knew all about my private addiction. She’d pointed to the board, then while my jaw slackened, whipped me through the entrance.
Now, she laughed and lifted her Mai Tai, eyes shining with devilment. “See anyone you’d like to take home?”
I eyed the dancer currently on the stage now—Davey Crockett—who wore a coonskin hat and a striped, bushy tail covering his parts while he did the helicopter much to the delight of the audience whooping and hollering all around us.
“Nope,” I said tightlipped. My own gaze followed that twirling tail, hypnotized. It
have been forever since I’d seen a cock. To see one with a bushy tail was just bizarre. I raised my voice to be heard over the loud rock music, “How long do we have to stay?”
Syl shook her head and raised a finger in the air to hail a beer-bitch with a tray of Jell-O shots. A blue cup landed on the table in front of me. Rather than fight Syl, I raised the drink and threw it back, gagging a little before gulping it down.
Alcohol never sat right with me. It made me hot. Something I didn’t need because my cheeks were already a fiery beet-red. Alcohol, added to the tanned, waxed, buff bodies gyrating so close that splatters of sweat already spotted my blouse, left me feeling completely out of my element. The only reason I was still sitting here was because I had to see “Johnny Blaze”, not that any stripper would match up to the man of my fantasies.
Davey Crockett raised his arms over his head and did a flip, landing near the edge of the stage, his beaver tail slapping his belly then his thighs.
I couldn’t help where my gaze landed because I wondered how much was furry sock and how much was his pleasure stick. Lord, the man was probably gay, anyway. I slid the napkin from under my drink and flapped it at my face.
The music stopped. A handsome man dressed in dark slacks and a black leather vest walked to the center of the stage. “Evenin’, ladies,” he said into the microphone he held, his thick Texas drawl sweet as syrup.
The crowd shouted back, “Evenin’, Jason.”
The women knew the announcer by name? Good lord, they needed to get a life.
Then his “We have a birthday girl in the audience…” snagged my attention. The audience erupted in laughter and catcalls.
My eyes rounded. I shot a look at Syl. “Nooo….”
Syl smiled slyly back. “You’re only twenty-five once, cupcake.”
Two nearly nude men swished through the curtain at the back of the stage, one a bald dude wearing a biker’s bandana and leather chaps. The other a black man with a chest a bodybuilder would cry over.
Jason cupped a hand over her eyes and scanned the audience. “Where can she be?”
Syl and Heather bounced in their seats, arms flying, hands pointing toward me.
I hunched low, wondering if I could crawl beneath the table, because the two burly men were coming straight for me.
“Syl, I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.
Her smile was so broad I didn’t know how her face didn’t split in half. “You are going to thank me, baby girl. Just you wait.”
When both men flanked me, I stubbornly kept my gaze lowered, pretending I didn’t see them. But the black guy gripped my elbow and gently brought me to my feet. Then they both formed a chair with their arms and pushed the “seat” beneath me, nudging me hard enough my knees collapsed. As they swept me up, I gripped their arms, sure they’d drop me as they climbed the stairs to the stage.
I’m not a little girl. At five-foot-eight and nearing a hundred eighty pounds, I gave them a work out. Not that they seemed to strain. A wooden chair had been brought to the center of the stage. They stood me in front of it then the biker pressed me into it with a hand on my shoulder.
Knowing I was going to have to go with it or look like a complete coward, I flopped into the chair and folded my arms across my chest.
Jason produced two large white squares and raised them over his head. The crowd began to chant. “Hoo-hoo-hoo!”
Not until he handed them to the biker and both men went on their knees did I understand. “Uh…why do I need knee pads?”
The biker flashed a brilliant smile. “To save your pretty knobs, sweetheart.”
My eyebrows crept up. I wanted to ask why, but I suspected his answer would send me dashing off the stage.
Biker boy slipped off my pump and smoothed a pad up my calf, fitting it to my knee. His buddy did the same, thankfully not at the same time or I’d have wound up flashing my crotch.
I was having serious misgivings about my outfit now—a shortish black skirt, that had seemed flirty but demure when I’d dressed at home, and black short-sleeved button-down blouse. With the large silver hoops and thick silver cuff, I’d looked cute but casual, or so Syl had said when she’d scoured my closet for just the right outfit. Since our destination had been a secret up until we pulled into parking lot, I hadn’t given her choice of wardrobe another thought.
Now I wished I’d worn jeans, something to cover the length of white leg the men were still fondling. Biker dude stood, lifted me to my feet with a firm hand at my elbow, then marched me to the edge of the stage.
With Syl and Heather grinning like idiots, I knew he wasn’t just sending me back to my chair. Behind me, the curtain whooshed again. The crowd drove to their feet, whistles and shouts rising so loud I wanted to cover my ears. I didn’t dare look back.
“John-nee! John-nee! John-nee!”
My heart stuttered then burst into a wild tattoo. Heat burned my cheeks, but also began to pool between my legs. Funny how a little thing like a man with a hose can turn a girl’s insides all weepy.
Biker dude gripped my shoulders and forced me to turn.
Johnny Blaze stood, framed by the curtain, his fireman’s hat tipped low in front, the stage lights gleaming on the shiny top and shadowing his features. His tanned chest and ripped abs were bare except for red suspenders—thankfully attached to yellow turnout pants. His large feet were encased by black boots. He raised a finger and curled it—twice.
I shook my head, glancing behind me to find the stairs, but gentle pressure on my shoulders forced me to my knees.
“Gotta crawl, Bridget,” biker dude drawled. “All the way on your knees.”
He knew my name? Kneeling, I cut him a quick glance. “I’m in a skirt.”
His smile gleamed white against his darkly tanned face. “I know. Sweet how that worked out.”
And because I knew I’d been set up, and that I couldn’t back away from the challenge now, I bent, pulled my skirt down in the back to cover my ass, and started to crawl on hands and knees toward the fireman who stood stock still, his hands fisted on his hips.
Lord, he looked so much like my inappropriate crush that what had been a trickle became a warm gush against my panties. I imagined it was him, that he had me in my bedroom, crawling toward him and his lovely baggy pants. The things I’d do…
Only the closer I drew, the deeper my suspicions grew.
His chest rose and fell too quickly—not something I’d expect from a guy who hadn’t yet danced his way around the stage. His expression was hidden, but the angle of his jaw, so rigid, so still, reminded me of the new fireman in my home town I’d been lusting after for weeks.
The reception desk at the library faced the front door, which had wide glass panels looking onto the main street and the fire station on the other side. I’d spent weeks leaning on an elbow and sighing over the new guy, the one Syl said was single, and not a player. She’d been trying to hook me up for weeks, inviting me to drop by with cookies for the men—something I’d done in the past, but which I’d refrained from doing since his arrival because I didn’t want to seem too eager or desperate.
Besides, what would someone who looked like that want with me?
I kept crawling, but suddenly, two thick thighs gripped my waist. Biker dude straddled my waist, but kept his weight from me. With one hand gripping my shoulder, he gave my ass a slap. “Don’t stop now,” he said loudly, slapping me lightly as I crawled faster, his body hopping to keep pace with me. The problem was, his thighs dragged at my skirt, and soon I felt cool air brushing against my bottom. I tried to reach back, but he was in the way. “My skirt!”
“Don’t worry about it, sugar! Gotta have those birthday spanks.”
My face got hotter; I started to sweat. I crawled, tugging his thighs along with me until I was three feet from Johnny Blaze, who had yet to move.
Biker dude stepped away. I pulled my skirt back over my ass, one cheek burning. A chair appeared beside me. Johnny moved, sat with his legs spread, and patted his muscled thigh.
The gesture was deliberate. I shook my head and glanced up again, seeing his face for the first time. My jaw dropped.
With a flourish, he tossed his hat away, grabbed my upper arm, and hauled me over his lap, face down.
Pushing up, I tried to lean away, but he stuck his elbow in my back, and I collapsed, the undersides of my breasts riding the side of one huge thigh. “What are doing here?”
Sabrina York’s “Saving Charlotte”
Mark Conner fought his way through the smoke and flames to the third floor of the apartment building. A skitter of concern writhed in his gut. This fire was moving fast. Despite the nearly fifty pounds of equipment, he picked up the pace and motioned to Izzy to do the same.
According to the wailing mother on the street, there was a child still trapped up here.
Two doors flanked the top floor landing. Without discussion—they hardly needed it anymore—Izzy turned right and Mark turned left. In tandem, they kicked in doors.
Mark angled his flashlight and scanned the smoky living room. Nothing. Smoke roiled around him; sweat prickled his brow. There wasn’t much time.
Then he heard a faint cry. He shouldered his way down the hall and into the bedroom…and froze.
A second was far too long to stare. Lives could be lost in a second. But the sight that greeted him nearly brought him to his knees. A sudden, inappropriate lust snarled through him. He forced it to the back of his mind. For later.
He’d expected a small child, coiled in a corner.
Not an exquisite angel bound to a bed.
And she was exquisite. Her skin was milky white and shimmered in the caress of his flashlight beam. She writhed and cried out and fought at the bonds holding her down. Her lush hair was a dark cloud against the pillow. And her face…it took his breath away.
Tears scored her cheeks. Panic widened her eyes. “Help me,” she said in a failing voice.
A loud pop brought him back to the moment. Yes, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and he’d seen plenty of naked women tied to a bed—but if he didn’t get her out of here, she was going to die.
He rushed to her side and examined her bonds. He knew instinctively there was no time to untie her. Instead he reached for the cutting tool clipped to his belt and quickly slashed the rope at her wrists and ankles. He wrapped her in a blanket and tossed her over his shoulder.
He met Izzy on the landing; his buddy held a small bundle in his arms. They nodded to each other and pounded, hell for leather, down the stairs. The building was weakening. Mark recognized the sounds, the feel of it. They had seconds to escape, if that.
They made it out—burst through the door in a hail of fire and smoke—but only just. As they emerged out onto the street, the building collapsed behind them. A loud cry went up among the firefighters, and they all snapped into action, training their hoses on the structure. The building was a lost cause, but they could save the neighboring homes.
Mark ignored the cacophony. He carried his precious burden across the barricaded street to the paramedics. Luke was busy fitting an old woman with an oxygen mask, and Samuel was wrapping a burn.
Gently, Mark lowered the woman from his shoulder. He arranged her on a brick planter, careful to keep her nakedness covered.
He pulled off his helmet, mask, and hood, and unstrapped his SCBA gear to wipe the sweat from his brow. “A-are you alright?” Something clogged his throat. Probably his unholy reaction to her ethereal beauty.
Hell and damnation. She’d nearly died. How could he think about fucking her? His cock was thinking about it. It was hard and heavy and tight.
She nodded. A lone tear tracked its way down her sooty cheek.
He forced himself to look away from her delicate, sculpted features, the hollowed cheeks, the wide doe-like eyes. Trembling lips. Instead, he directed his attention to her wrists and began undoing the knots. He bit back a curse. Whoever had tied her up was an idiot. For one thing, the rope was bound far too tight. Even if she hadn’t been fighting for her life to get free, it would have cut into her skin. As it was, her wrists were raw, slick with blood.
“You should have this tended.” He didn’t mean to sound so gruff. It galled him to see a woman abused like this. He released her wrists and went to work on her ankles. It took a while, because the knots were an undisciplined mess.
Mark knew he was delaying the inevitable, avoiding the question he had to ask. He hated to embarrass her after all she’d been through, but duty was duty. Reluctantly, he met her gaze—it seared him. He cleared his throat. “Do I…would you like me to notify the police?”
Her eyes widened. Lips formed a silent no.
“You weren’t tied up against your will?”
Heat prickled his nerve endings when she lowered her lashes and shook her head.
Not against her will. Holy hell.
Mark glanced over his shoulder. The building was now a smoking relic. “Was he in the apartment?” He kind of hoped she’d say yes.
She didn’t. “No. He t-tied me up and left.”
Mark froze. His nostrils flared as outrage cut through him. What kind of Dom tied up a woman and left? “He left you?”
“Yes.” Her voice was soft, sweet. Smoky. She studied her tender wrists for a moment then met his eyes. “He went to the bar for a drink with some friends. Said I was to ‘think about it’ while he was gone.”
What an ass.
Of course, no one would expect their house to catch fire while they were out gallivanting with friends, but leaving your trusting sub tied to the posters, exposed and vulnerable and completely alone was unconscionable.
“How long have you been with him?” He didn’t know why he asked. He was only torturing himself. She belonged to someone else.
“A year.” She swallowed. Mark watched her throat work. He knew a raging urge to taste it. Lick it. Suck on that soft, creamy flesh… “We’d never tried this before.”
Oh hell.
A dismal curtain fell on his soul. He’d assumed, from her lowered gaze, her posture, her submissive mien, that she was deep in the life, that she lived it, breathed it, craved it like he did. If this disastrous outing was her first taste of bondage, she would never try it again.
It was a pity, a damn shame he hadn’t found her first.
He pitched his voice low, so no one else would hear. “For the record, a loving Dom never leaves his woman unprotected.” He couldn’t resist cupping her cheek, thumbing away the fresh tears that welled at his words. Couldn’t resist a whispered, “He doesn’t deserve you.”
She said nothing at that, but he could tell she’d heard him. Her expression took on a glow, a peace and—dare he hope it—a tinge of relief.
Luke finished up with his patient and collected his bag to come over.
Mark knew it was time to release her. He didn’t want to. He wanted to hold her forever. But she wasn’t his.
Still, he couldn’t resist leaning closer, capturing her gaze and murmuring, “If you ever want to try this with someone who knows what he’s doing, someone who will honor your desire, come to Station 12. Ask for Mark Connor.”
alliwantandmorebooks.wordpress.com 
Gail S
/ August 6, 2013Good Morning! Love SHF! Everyone should grab a copy & enjoy. 🙂
Just sayin’ 😉
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flchen1
/ August 10, 2013Oh BOY! Love the intros, Delilah! This is one smoking hot collection! 😉
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