Thursday, 27 December 2018

I'm so pleased to say that at the moment I have two books out in January, two in March and one in May. If I get my act together there could be more.
Very happy.

Seven years ago, I'd never have believed I'd still be writing or had so many books out.To everyone who supported me, who still supports me, a very big thank you.
No, none are under my 'real' name, but I have no problem about anyone knowing it. However, I find it helps to have pen names. I put that 'hat' on, get into the mindset, and start writing.

So we have Raven for hotter romance, Kera Faire for dark romance, and Katy Lilley for sweeter romance.

I mustn't forget J. Lilley for YA either.

(You can find them all on Amazon, 

under whichever pen name you want to look at)

Writing is something I love. I was very fortunate that when I was first published, my then publisher let me try my hand at whatever I fancied. (Thank you Breathless Press) This gave me the chance to discover what I preferred, what I was okay at and yes, what not to touch with a bargepole. 

There's nothing nicer than having the opportunity to discover your strengths and weaknesses. 

I know I love Regency, adore writing stories set in places I've lived in or visited all around the world, can't write sci-fi or horror, and seem to be migrating to sweeter stories most of the time. Not all of the time though *wink*

Of course not everyone likes what I write, and that's fine. We all have our likes, dislikes and preferences. But that won't stop anyone who wants to write. We just grit our teeth, smile sweetly and get on with it. I tink in the first place, if you have writing in your blood, you write and hope others will read it. But you can't not write.

After all, what can be better than a coffee and a good book?

and on that note, I'm heading back to write

Want to know what? Ah well, you'll have to wait and see...

Happy Reading,

love Raven, Katy, Kera and J


Thursday, 6 December 2018

Happy release day, Doris O'Connor with Claimed at Christmas

Got me a guest today...

I'm over the moon to say happy release day to the lovely Doris o'Connor and showcase 

Claimed at Christmas

and mega sorry, blogger won't let me add the cover picture...time to check it out on Evernight Publishing...

~Life starts at forty? Biggest lie ever told. 
Leisha here—AKA crazy cat lady—resigned to live out my dotage with said felines. Okay, dotage might be pushing it a little, but, you know, sliding down the wrong side of forty is not the fun it’s cracked up to be. 
Until I’m drafted in to help out at Santa’s grotto, and then… well crazy doesn’t come close. This new Santa is decidedly odd. Who ever heard of the man in the red suit 'not' granting wishes? 
Still, when in Rome and all that… 
Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think my wish for two Doms would be granted. However, when my two rescue cats magically transform into drop dead gorgeous hunks come Christmas morning, we’re all in for one hell of a ride. 
Problem with magic is… can it last?~ 

and here's a wee tease

"Lie still, sweet Leisha. You've earned yourself enough punishment as it is."
Good God. It’s the voice from my dream. A voice so full of authority and leashed passion, my breath hitches and excitement spreads through my veins like wildfire.
"P-punishment? What for?"
"Hmm, let's see." The stranger, whose eyes hold me captive with their familiar arrogance, smiles and presses his erection into my mound. "Does this feel as though it ought to be castrated? And I won't even mention the fucking tags."
His annoyed growl vibrates through me, until it settles in my swelling clit, and I gasp as I take my first proper look at him.
It can’t be.
Yet, there, right above me is the unmistakable evidence. My captor is missing his right arm—just like Ben.
"Ease up, Aran, you're scaring our woman. We need to explain this. Then we can paddle that sweet ass of hers and give her the fucking she deserves."
"Paddle … deserve?" I sound like a dimwitted parrot, but when one is staring at a drop dead gorgeous human version of one's cat—and this one has a scar just like Bill—surely a woman is allowed to sound like a feathered idiot. Or the Queen… Since when do I sound as though I’ve swallowed a plum?
"You're my cats. You're Bill and Ben." That statement comes out as a high-pitched squeak, and both men growl.
Oh, my goodness, those animalistic sounds… I just love a man who growls, don’t you?
"Another ten swats to the tally for those ridiculous names, and we're not just cats." Ben, Aran, or whoever the hell he is—right now I can’t bring myself to care about the semantics of the situation—smiles. That action shows off a set of razor-sharp teeth, and I forget to breathe altogether when his eyes bleed to glowing amber. He leaps off me with all the speed and agility of a large predator, and I can only watch in stunned fascination, as the men nod to each other. The air shimmers around them, and in the blink of an eye, my bedroom is filled by two huge, beautiful black panthers. They nudge each other playfully, and before I have the chance to process of any of this, the air shimmers and they’re back in their human, and very aroused, forms.
Two impressive cocks bob up and down in front of me, and I can’t keep my eyes off that poetry in motion. Heat rises in my cheeks at my thoughts, and the men laugh. When I finally manage to wrench my eyes upwards, my insides clench in need at the quiet way both men are studying me. A trickle of my essence seeps out of my wet core, and both men pull in sharp breaths. Aran takes a step toward me, but his brother stops him.
"Let me go, Caid. She wants this as much as we do, don't you, sweet Leisha? Are you not wondering how our cocks would feel buried deep inside your cunt and ass, right now? Have you not fantasized about this many a night when you kicked the covers off to use your toys?" He smirks at my far too telling rough inhale and fists his cock slowly.
Unbidden, my gaze follows the movements of his fist. The first drop of pre-cum aids the glide of his hand, and I lick my lips in anticipation of his taste. It’s been way too long since I last tasted cock, let alone one as magnificent as this one.
"Aran." Caid's sharp command forces a snarl from Aran’s wide chest. He flicks his unruly mop of hair out of his face with an impatient toss of his head and the bed dips under his weight when he sits down. 
"Forgive my brother, Leisha. It's been a while since we were able to shift in and out of our true form. This," he waves his hand toward his own thick erection, "is a side effect of the shift. Not that I don't have every intention of fucking you until you can't walk straight, but first things first. Acting rashly is what got us into this predicament in the first place."
My head starts to pound again, and not due to any leftover hangover from my wine-induced stupor the night before.
"I don't understand. If you're panthers, why were you cats? Why stay with me? And what predicament?" Something else occurs to me, and I pull the sheet up to my nose to cover up. "And if you're only wanting to fuck me, 'cause shifting makes you extra horny, then you can forget it."
I hate the telltale wobble in my voice. Just my damn luck this is. Two gorgeous, naked men are in my room, and they don’t even want me for me. So much for Santa granting my wish. Sick bastard!
Aran's annoyed growl shakes the bed, and I squirm under the disapproving look Caid pins on me. My nipples bead into hard nubs, my stomach lurches, and every submissive bone in my body screams, God, yes!
"That will be another ten. How much is the tally now, Aran?"
"Thirty, brother. It's a shame we can't take her to the club, but I'm sure we can improvise. That hairbrush she's been torturing us with should do the trick, nicely." Aran chuckles, and I swear every hair on my body stands to attention at that dangerously sexy laugh.
"I … you wouldn't dare." My protest is far too breathy, and sure enough both men just smirk. Excitement pools low in my belly at the determined expression on their faces, and I clamp my thighs together to relieve the throbbing in my clit.
Aran grabs my foot and shakes his head. His suddenly clawed fingers dig in just enough to hurt, and I can feel my eyes widen in shock, or maybe that’s just pure unadulterated lust. I can’t believe how turned on I am already, and they’ve barely touched me.
"Stop fidgeting. From now on your orgasms belong to us. There will be no getting yourself off unless we give you permission."

You can get your copy of Claimed at Christmas

Happy Reading,

love Raven xx

Wednesday, 28 November 2018

#MidWeekTease in Hong Kong with a hot bod

Morning (or whatever) from a dreich Scotland. Dark wet and gloomy just about sums it up.

So maybe we need a bit of heat to cheer us up...

this wee snippet is taken from Hong Hong Heat...

One guy, tall, fit and blond hair, caught her eye and her heart did a weird double pitter pat.
It was the guy from the hotel. No snazzy suit, but black running shorts and a black sleeveless vest that shouted serious runner to her. As he approached along the track, she couldn’t help but admire—and drool at—the way he moved. His short hair had curled in the heat and the sheen of sweat over his body highlighted the muscles in his arms and the strength of his legs. She’d bet he had a washboard stomach and a cute ass.
Dammit, cease and desist drooling, woman, you’ll embarrass yourself. Nevertheless, she took a step back to wait for him to pass.
There was a grunt of pain from behind her. Deb turned to see an elderly lady, with perfectly coiffed white hair and wearing an elegant linen suit, rub her ankle.
“Oh, heavens, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching what I was doing. Have I hurt you badly?” Debra was appalled at her clumsiness. First day there and injuring the natives wasn’t a good start.
The lady laughed. “Don’t worry, no lasting damage and I wasn’t paying attention either. I was waiting for Gorgeous George to go by.” She inclined her head toward the guy who was a few yards away.
The lady rolled her eyes. “No idea if that’s his name, but he sure is gorgeous. Sexy Steve, Hot Bod Harry, take your pick. I see him most evenings and it makes my day.” She waved at the man who grinned and waved back, before he slowed to almost a halt.
“Hi, gorgeous, you ready to run away with me yet?”
The lady cackled. “I’m too much of a woman for you, honey.”
“Too true, my loss.” He looked straight at Debra and winked. “How about it?”
Deb bit back a snigger. “Depends what ‘it’ you mean.” She blushed. Was she actually

bandying innuendo with a stranger? A much younger than her stranger. Her kids would be horrified. Tough, it’s only a ships that pass in the night thing.
He jogged in a circle. “Up to you, honey.” He waved, increased his speed and moved away.

you can get hold of Hong Kong Heat from Amazon, Kobo and Totally Bound

you can get hold of the other #MidWeekTease posts here

Happy Reading,

love Raven xx

Wednesday, 21 November 2018

#MidWeekTease, yes honestly

Hi all,

Well, that's if anyone reads this, because, let's face it, I've been conspicuous in my absence lately.

However I'm here today, it's raining, cold and still dark as I type so what better way to start the day than with #MidWeekTease

I'm in the middle of edits for my next book, Temptation due out in January, from Evernight Publishing.

This is the first book in a new Series, Isola Dei Sogni. An island in the middle of the Indian Ocean, where dreams and fantasies come true.

Think hot men, hot weather, shifters and intrigue.

The first book is about Meryl who goes because her friends want to. (Or so she says) Plus she thinks her sister could do with a break.

But the best laid plans etcetera...,

When a blast from the past appears, what next? In the words of The Clash..she has to ask herself..."should I stay or should I go now..."

(pic, source pinterest)

and your tease...

Meryl dropped the booklet like a red-hot coal, and it landed in a pool of the murky liquid. It couldn’t be. Why on Earth would the one guy—ha, guy, my butt—she wanted to avoid like the plague, be on the picture of a section in a brochure for a kick-ass luxury island resort? She was hallucinating. Had to be. Faint from lack of food. Going crazy from lack of sex … argh, enough already. Sex is not the be all and end all of life. Maybe not, but even a little bit of be and not the all would be good. As much as she’d like to deny it, her interest in anything that involved men was nigh on extinct, and women didn’t interest her in that way. It was, she had long decided, all the fault of a certain sort of human. One who looked very much like the man in the brochure now covered in coffee, with its pages crinkling and the inks running into each other.

Catch all the other #MidWeekTease

Happy reading,

love Raven xx

Sunday, 7 October 2018

Wow, I'm 7 today... A brief fly past of those seven years

I just can't believe that seven years ago on this date, my first book was published.

Wallflowers Don't Wilt.

Regency, two women and a man and I had so much fun writing it. 

The story came about because a group of us were chatting in our Fb group one day about what to write. This idea came out of the blue, and the others said, 'go on then'.

So I did. Everyone helped me polish it, and decide where to send it. I sent it to the late, lamented and I miss them, Breathless Press, who answered in three days. It was a yes.

And Raven was born. My name isn't a secret, but nor is it romantic so I chose Raven (because it's the bird that brings news and there was one in the garden during those three days I was waiting to hear,) and McAllan, because it is a play on probably the best whisky in the word.

When I read back over Wallflowers I can see how my writing has evolved and hopefully got better.

I don't just write Regency these days, although there's rarely not a Regency brewing in my mind. I've got my Kera Faire dark romance, my YA as J Lilley and my latest creation, Katy Lilley for rom com. Yes lots of 'hats', but it seems to work for me. Gets me into the right mind set.

When I look back at all the books I've been lucky to have published over the years I'm stunned. I have to give a lot of credit to Justyn Perry and the team at Breathless Press all those years ago for letting me swap genres to see what I was capable of. They gave me the confidence to try new ideas. My present publishers (Totally Bound, Evernight Publishing and Manatee Books are equally as supportive of me dipping in and out of one area to write something different. Thank you everyone.

Of course it doesn't stop there with all the hard working team at the publishers. I was lucky in that Doris O'Connor and I 'clicked' ad we do what we call rediting on each other's works before we send them in. That's short for red penning. Berta reading. Telling each other what we think and why. We are we both admit, each other's harshest critics. Even so mistakes get past us. The trouble is you tend to read what you know should be there.

Most of all though this is a thank you to you, the readers. Without you, I'd be all on my own, rereading everything myself.

And on that note, back to edits, but first, just to show you...

(From Wallflowers Don't Wilt)

London, 1817

“The last time, thank goodness.” Arabella, Lady Dunsmuir, smiled at her companion as they took their seats among the wallflowers at Lady Hersingsham’s Annual Ball.
The wallflowers—those unfortunate young women who, due to age or appearance, took little part in the festivities at a ball.
Serena, Lady Saltsey, nodded in agreement as both settled their dresses around them, their ankles covered as polite society decreed. Their fans were retrieved from the ribbons, which secured them in elegance on to their skirts, and readied them for use if they deemed necessary. They could choose to dance or to be content to sit, watch, and discuss the latest on dit being furtively whispered among their peers. Furthermore, they also chose to only wear the finest clothes, the most up-to-date-designs, and wear them with elegance and grace. In addition, they ignored the put-downs, pithy comments, and snide re- marks said loudly enough for them to hear, and treated them with the contempt they felt they deserved. They were two very strong-willed, self-assured young ladies, determined to lead their lives as they so desired. Damn the consequences.
Arabella was the more forthcoming of the two. Many times, her outspokenness had earned her harsh words from parents, governess- es, and even at times Serena.
Serena, her opposite in most things, was ever a peacemaker, but could be as equally outrageous when she chose. She chose, however, to do so in such a manner that the parties involved were never quite sure what act of rebellion or sheer stupidity had occurred.
There was the time they had wished to see the fireworks on the Thames. Forbidden to go, Serena had donned the footman’s breeches to facilitate her escapade. Or the occasion it transpired that her new ball gown had been inexplicably festooned with “moth holes,” be- cause to her mind it had been totally unflattering. Serena largely got away with her excesses.
Poor Arabella had to face her punishments. As she always felt whatever misdemeanor she had carried out had been successful, punishment seemed a small price to pay, especially when shinning down the ivy from her bedchamber was so easy to accomplish.
As she gazed around the room with interest, Serena answered Arabella. “At times I thought this day would never arrive. Now we have only this last ball to endure, and tomorrow we can say farewell to all this.” She waved her hand around the ballroom at the laugh- ing men and women, the pitying glances from those dancing, and the looks of despair from those seated nearby.
Arabella found her other hand and squeezed, smiling as their pinkies linked, entwined, and made silent promises.
“Tomorrow, Serry, just one more night before we are together.” 


And from my latest (as Katy Lilley, New Beginnings for Bryony Bennett)

which you can still buy from Amazon...


Present Day...

It was darned hard not to punch the air or run around the room like a demented hen when you’d just been given the good news she had. Instead she rose—oh so dignified, and totally at odds with her normally less than sedate image of long skirts, floaty blouses and hair that didn’t look tidy for more than three minutes at a time - and glanced across the desk to the man who sat there.
Let’s hope my knees don’t give way. Not the look I’m aiming for. Did he really say what I think he said?
He stared back impassively, and for once she didn’t hate the prim, work uniform suit she wore. She had gone straight to the solicitor’s office when she finished her shift and hadn’t found time to change into something less constricting. Now she was glad of that.
Bryony Bennett forgot all the nasties of the last year. The replacement boiler she’d purchased to the detriment of her new car fund. The aborted holiday, when Matt the rat showed his true colours, and allegedly forgot to remove his other girlfriend’s knickers from his pocket. Bryony had slapped him hard enough to see her hand print on his cheek, looked downward and said in a scathing tone, ‘I would knee you somewhere delicate except it’s too tiny to find’, before throwing his car keys into the canal and storming off. Although, with hindsight, the knicker scenario might have been on purpose, they’d been arguing a lot in the previous weeks, and several months later she was relieved it had happened when it did. Especially when she heard from a friend of a friend of his that the other girlfriend had ditched him. He’d be sniffing around like a truffle hound in autumn if he knew of her good fortune. And she knew however hard she tried to keep it quiet, somehow the news would get out. Things about money seemed to be absorbed by osmosis and shared.
 If she added the week in the rain she had in Suffolk, instead of a week of sun in Tenerife after she’d torn up her ticket and thrown it over him like confetti, and he’d rebooked the seat for his new girlfriend, she had a right to be satisfied things had turned out as they did. Bryony had heard from the same friend of a friend of his that the woman had overdone the sun on their first day and had spent the rest of the week moaning. Was she a bitch to be secretly pleased?
Probably and I don’t care. Milly would be happy he’s gone. She never rated him.
Somehow Bryony even managed not to well up as she thought of her fun loving, outrageously dressed godmother, who died in her sleep after what she’d called the best day ever. A tandem parachute jump with a twenty something hunk called Antonio, followed by a ride in a speedboat, and a dance with her heartthrob—and current lover—an impossibly handsome Cuban salsa dancer called Juan-Carlos Orguiza twenty years her younger.
 That made her think of something.
‘You mean?’ She daren’t put it into words in case she jinxed it. Just say it. ‘All of it?’
He nodded. ‘After expenses of course, which I assure you are modest. Your godmother was a very forward thinking lady.’
She had another thought. ‘What about J-C O?’ Her godmother’s nickname for him.
‘He was unable to attend, but his share has been accounted for, a very substantial share. The rest is yours.’
‘Pinch me, will you? So I know it’s not a dream.’
The grey haired, stereotypical solicitor beloved of nineteen twenties novels shook his head and almost smiled. ‘No need, you are indeed awake.’ He steepled his hands and rested his chin on them. Was he going to offer a cup of weak Earl Grey and some seed cake next?
‘Apart from Mr Orguiza’s bequest, your godmother left you everything. To be precise, her savings, her house and all her assets, after all bills are paid. You are, if I may say, a very wealthy woman. I do hope you will let Struthers, Startwell and Stott advise you.’
Were all solicitors carved from the same block of wood? At least, if they were over fifty? Having been introduced to all three members of the firm she would swear they were interchangeable. This one was Startwell… she thought. He actually smiled on occasion, or at least looked less grim than the other two.
 ‘Oh, you may say it,’ Bryony assured him. She’d ignore the rest until that bit sank in. ‘Twice if you want.’ A thought struck her. ‘Ah, what’s wealthy exactly?’
 He frowned. Had she committed some solecism she knew nothing about? Surely it was okay to ask? After all, if it was a couple of hundred thousand that would be rather nice, but not go a long way once she’d paid her mortgage off—if she could pay her mortgage off—and babied her aged sports car to last another year.
‘Well, now. It seems Miss Millet dabbled.’
‘Dabbled?’ She thought Milly more into pottery than paints. ‘You mean, painted or something?’ Did she sound as confused as she was?
‘Or something. She played the stocks.’
The slang sounded wrong coming from him, and Bryony wondered if she had heard him correctly. ‘Er, did you say stocks or slots?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.’ A picture of her octogenarian godmother, in a flowing skirt, oversize butterfly sunnies, and platform heels, playing a machine somewhat like the pinball wizard in the rock opera Tommy, had flashed into her mind with the thought of slots. She’d just watched the film for the umpteenth time the week before and had a wee weep afterwards. It was a favourite of both her mum and Milly. Aged hippies if ever there were any. Their attitude had rubbed off on her. ‘Was she any good?’
 He smiled, and looked half human, not a robot. ‘Well, now let me just say, at a very rough estimate her estate after tax is in the region of two million, six hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Give or take. I’d call that very competent.’
The butterflies in her stomach did a war dance, goose pimples jumped on goose pimples and the room swayed. Bryony swallowed and hoped to hell she wasn’t going to pass out or throw up.
Give or take what?


Happy reading,

love, Raven xx

ps, better mention the lovely hubby with whom I travel to so many places and get ideas for my stories. Thanks hon xx