Thursday, 28 August 2014

Book Blast: Satyr’s Lure by Anya Richards

Summer in the high mountain pastures, in the shadow of ancient Greece’s Mount Parnassus, is usually Iason’s favorite time of year. A time when he feels happiest, surrounded by nature and free to take a lover from among the other shepherds. But this year he’s chosen his companion poorly and the resulting scars, of both body and soul, have left him questioning his worth.
It is only in the arms of the enigmatic and enthralling stranger Telesphoros, who rescues him from a storm, that Iason begins to heal. Yet the secrets both men hide overshadow the magic of their encounter, and foreshadow the heartache to come.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22892089-satyr-s-lure?ac=1

Publisher: Self-published

Cover Artist: Lea Barrymire



About the Author:

After living a checkered past, and despite an avowed disinterest in domesticity, multi-published erotic romance author Anya Richards settled in Ontario, Canada, with husband, kids, an adorable pup and two cats that plots world domination, one food bowl at a time. Her slightly darker alter-ego, Anya Delvay, emerges occasionally to write erotica.
Interested in all things historical and hysterical, Anya describes herself as intensely curious, (although the word ‘nosy’ has been bandied about) and a life-long people-watcher. Using what she’s discovered about people, places and various weird and wonderful things, Anya has written contemporary, historical and paranormal/fantasy romance novels, novellas and short stories for Samhain Publishing, Ellora’s Cave, Cleis Press and Spice Briefs.

To find out more, please drop by Anya’s website at www.anyarichards.com, follow her on Twitter or like her on Facebook.







Excerpt:

The tenor of the music changes, seems to call to me once more, and I am bound to heed the summons. Turning my head, I squint to see beyond the fire pit in the center of the small room. Through the heat-haze I see a man seated on the floor, the pipes to his lips. Only his face and upper torso are visible above the leaping flames, but looking at him causes a rush of something wild and hot to flood my veins.

There is the impression of a radiant, powerful face, a nose like the blade of a scythe, high, finely wrought cheekbones and black curls falling to almost impossibly broad shoulders. But those attributes are cast into shadow by the dark, sparkling eyes, deep-set and compelling, which meet my gaze and hold it in an unwavering stare. My heart pauses between one beat and the next, then begins to rush. Looking into those eyes is like falling off a cliff or being swept away by a torrent—completely overwhelming.






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