I find myself in the difficult situation of trying to write three books and once, and all three calling me with equal and unwavering demand. Over the last three days, I have woken up in the middle of the night to jot down lengthy and diverse scenes from 3 books on my phone.
Avenged: Alien sci-fi. Started as a short story mf, ended up as a menage. This is a fun, spicy, and fast-paced, with dub-con.
The Centaur in my Dreams: In true Liv style, I have just written a very emotional scene for later in the book. Absolutely love the way this book is going. The earlier centaur books were very much about kinky exploration of centaurs and humans. This one has a lot more story and less heat, although the heat will be explosive when it comes. It's a super intense read, and I really love it.
Owned Two (For want of a better title): Post-apocalyptic romance. For those who read Owned, this is Taylor's book.
Excerpt from Owned Two
I read a lot in my younger years, particularly the classics. Say what you will about them, their relevance, and their style; they become classics for a reason. So, in a certain classic, as the story goes, everyone needs to leave something behind. I used to think my legacy was my son and my work. Then the apocalypse ripped my boy away along with my wife. Not only them but everyone else I gave a shit about, and even those I didn’t.
I’m no longer a renowned psychologist with three books and a lucrative TV deal in the pipeline. Now I’m a self-styled king with dominions under my rule.
Order, I like order but also crave chaos.
There are echoes of the good that once defined me, the man who wanted to watch his son flourish, and to set my indelible mark via words that offered insights into the human psyche, and to leave the world in some small way better.
What once defined me is gone. The good parts got swept away with survival.
Understanding people individually and collectively can be both a blessing and a curse.
I also understand myself, my remodeled hopes and aspirations, what drives me, and the failings that might ultimately lead to my demise.
Giving a shit for one.
That’s something that can lead to a man’s downfall.
That’s how civilizations come toppling down.
Only we’re not even that advanced. In actuality, we’re a heartbeat away from anarchy.
I know I should hand her over to someone else, someone who isn’t a self-styled king with a propensity for violence and a mind that retains all the cognizance to understand how fucked up I am.
But I won’t.
Because I want her.
The beautiful broken woman who reminds me what it is to feel.
Feelings are bad.
They cloud the mind and warp judgments.
It’s too late. The steps are taken. She doesn’t deserve someone like me. She deserves a break, a chance, a fucking moment to grieve for all she lost. I’m not going to give her that. Because despite how vulnerable she appears in a world where violent men rule, I recognize the steel inside her, the survivor, the kindred spirit who would sell her fucking soul to breathe another day.
And I crave that. I’m fascinated by her, want to break her down and crawl into her mind.
I also want to fuck her.
It’s a potent combination, one I’m not even going to try to resist.