The erotically experienced and tantalisingly talented Portia Da Costa graces the blog this week, as we discover more about her amazing works of sexual fiction through the Erotic Author’s Spotlight Series right here at carasutra.com.
With new addition to the Accidental Trilogy just launched, The Accidental Bride, you will be excited to learn that there is a free excerpt waiting below to whet your appetite and get you in the mood. I reviewed The Accidental Call Girl here, so why not read my thoughts. That’s not all, however. Portia Da Costa has many other erotic books just waiting to be ravaged by your eyes and imagination, one of which has another free excerpt waiting below for you: In Sebastian’s Hands.
I think you’ll all agree we’ve been thoroughly spoilt by the wonderful Portia this week. I know you’re going to enjoy reading about her wanton works and lascivious life as an erotic author as much as I did.
– Cara Sutra
About Portia Da Costa
Portia Da Costa is a SUNDAY TIMES best-selling British author of romance, erotic romance and erotica, whose short stories and novels have been published in the UK and elsewhere since 1991. She loves creating stories about sexy, likeable people in steamy, scandalous situations, and has written for various publishers over the years, including Black Lace, HQN, Spice Briefs, Samhain Publishing, Carina Press and a good many others. Though her best known titles are mainly contemporary erotic romance, she also enjoys writing super hot Victorian historical romance, and erotic paranormals. She’s even turned her hand to a bit of erotic sci-fi and horror on occasion.
Portia’s long association with Black Lace Books began in 1993 with GEMINI HEAT and continues to this day, through eighteen full-length novels and numerous short stories and novellas in anthologies. Her latest releases are the ‘Accidental’ trilogy of THE ACCIDENTAL CALL GIRL, THE ACCIDENTAL MISTRESS and THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE, and a Christmas title THE GIFT, out in December 2013.
In 2012, her Black Lace contemporary erotic romance IN TOO DEEP, reached Number #5 in the Sunday Times paperback fiction chart, with only books by E L James and Sylvia Day outselling her! Sadly, she hasn’t reached such dizzy heights again since, but she continues to live in hope.
Portia also self publishes and has released a raft of short hot works for those who like a quicker read. She designs her own covers for these and you can see the pretty results on the ‘self published’ of her web site. Her favourites amongst her self published titles are her BDSM love story in three acts, IN SEBASTIAN’S HANDS, the vintage LESSONS AND LOVERS, and her hot ménage novella, TEMPTED BY TWO, the latter set in a picturesque English village where you never know who’ll be sitting at the next table in the Bluebell Café…
When Portia isn’t writing she’s usually to be found loafing around watching the television, mostly an eclectic mix of The Mentalist, Marple, Poirot, Time Team and the Barefoot Contessa cooking show. If not goggling at the box, she might be online, or reading the works of Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Stephen King and John Le Carré. Sometimes several of them at once, which can get confusing. She lives in the heart of West Yorkshire in the UK, with her long suffering husband aka ‘himself’ and their four beloved cats: brother and sister Mork and Mindy, cranky but lovable Felix, and Monsieur le Prince, a rescue cat from France.
Brand new addition to The Accidental Trilogy:
The Accidental Bride
THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE – Portia Da Costa
From Call Girl to Mistress to…
Previously, in THE ACCIDENTAL CALL GIRL and THE ACCIDENTAL MISTRESS
When Lizzie Aitchison first met John Smith in the Lawns Bar of the Waverley Grange Hotel he mistakenly thought she was an escort in search of a client. The chemistry between them was dynamite from the outset, and Lizzie couldn’t resist the allure of John’s fallen angel face and the way his lean body looked in a sharp business suit. In a daring leap, she decided to play along with his misapprehension, and become ‘Bettie’, the high class call girl, if only for one night.
John was captivated too. Shaken out of a state of gathering ennui, he experienced an unstoppable urge to possess this beautiful young woman whose combination of a distinctive vintage style, and a bold yet strangely vulnerable personality was the ultimate call to his senses.
They embarked on an intense, kinky affair, initially for just the duration of John’s stay in the area on business, but the two quickly became a couple, both realising they wanted more than a temporary relationship. But each had issues to overcome, and a troubled history. John’s need to control and Lizzie’s feisty independence were a volatile mix, both in the bedroom and out of it, stirred to flash-point by John’s insistence that they live together.
But when a dark shadow from John’s past falls over their happiness, Lizzie realises that she has a dangerous rival…
John has asked Lizzie to marry him, and when she accepts, they celebrate in their customary fashion… with a delicious sexual roleplay.
It was like sinking into a delicious familiar space. Warm, safe, known; but still dangerous and exciting in its own way.
The next big step had been taken. Now it was time to celebrate. John’s hand settled on her waist, her hip, reacquainting itself. It had been a long afternoon, and his touch was like fire after all those hours of having to behave for company at the pool party. His cock had been behaving itself for company too, but not now. It was hard and insistent, jabbing against her as he lay over her, kissing and kissing and kissing.
‘So, Milady Lizzie of Dalethwaite Manor, are you up for it?’ John growled, sneaking his hand under her t-shirt and cupping her breast imperiously, ‘It’s been bloody agony all today, keeping this rogue in check…’ he swirled his hips, ‘while watching you swan about looking like a sex goddess. It makes life very difficult for us lower orders who adore you.’
Ah, it was like that, was it? As he kissed her again, Lizzie smiled inside, remembering a game they’d once played, not all that long ago, in this very room.
‘You’re a very vulgar and forward ruffian, you are. Getting above your station, my lad,’ she reproved him, laughing as she reached down and took a less than ladylike hold on his cock. God, it was like iron. She was amazed he’d managed to keep it under control for so long, but then he did have special powers. ‘And as for this?’ She gave him a little squeeze. ‘Rubbing this disgusting object against me, what are you thinking? Have you no respect for your betters?’ She tightened her hold, infinitesimally, prompting a happy moan.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help myself. I’ve been checking out your tits and your bum and your sumptuous thighs for hours.’ He rocked his hips, pushing himself against her hand. ‘It tends to have this effect on me. I don’t know why.’
He closed his finger and thumb on her nipple, rolling it, taunting it.
‘Uh oh, behave yourself!’ she said sharply. The authoritarian effect wavered a bit though, and she gasped when he did it again, her own fingers releasing his erection. ‘Paws off, underling!’
‘But, ma’am, I thought you were enjoying it?’
‘I shall enjoy what I want to enjoy, and in my own good time. Now strip off and show me the goods, you insolent pleb!’ She needed breathing space, or she’d be throwing open her legs to him without any preliminaries, and surely an engagement – of sorts – deserved a little more than that to mark it!
And one should never waste the opportunity to make John undress for her.
‘Of course, milady.’ His grin was facetious. Adorable.
John sat up in bed and unbuttoned his pyjama jacket, making quite a performance of each button, and of the way he slowly parted the panels and slid the thing off his shoulders. Lizzie’s fingers tingled with the urge to grab at him, he was such a feast. Body lean, yet strong, lightly golden. Mm, that little dusting of sandy hair on his chest. Mm, mm, mm, that enormous tent in the cotton fabric of his pyjama bottoms.
‘Come on. Move it! Stop teasing,’ she instructed, clenching her fist, out of his sight‑line, aching to reach for him again.
‘Are you sure? It’s not really the sort of thing for a refined lady’s eyes, you know?’ Slowly, slowly, John ran his tongue over his lower lip, making Lizzie nearly launch herself bodily at him.
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘Very well, milady. If you’re quite sure.’ His eyes were dancing. His long fingers splayed across his crotch, highlighting the offending object, not masking it.
‘I’m very sure. Now stop shilly-shallying about.’ She tried to give him a haughty look, but it came out as a grin. A grin and a leer of female hunger.
With a sinuous grace that Lizzie genuinely envied, John unknotted the cord of his pyjamas, lifted his bottom from the bed, and slid the garment down. The action made his cock bounce up as it was released, swinging in pure temptation.
‘Good grief, man! Have you no control over that thing?’
‘None whatsoever, ma’am. It gets that way every time I’m anywhere near you. I have to nearly hypnotise myself to make it go down.’ His gaze locked on hers, and he laid his fingers on himself, slowly stroking, and fondling. Showcasing. Proud of his body.
He was raw temptation. Like a male odalisque, presenting himself to her, nominally passive and yet infinitely powerful. She’d never quite control this fabulous man, no matter what game they played, and she didn’t want to. His dominance was perfect to her, based as it was in infinite kindness and humanity.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to touch it, ma’am?’ His grin was wicked, as irresistible as the sturdy reddened flesh in his grip. ‘A bit of noblesse oblige for the poor randy serf?’
Tweaking her shawl around her as if she were trembling in horror, Lizzie gave him a stern look, while at the same time extending an experimental finger. ‘I really don’t know. It looks a bit of a monster, to be honest. You country types always have whoppers. I can’t imagine how you could possibly get that … um … thing, where it’s supposed to go. It looks far too large for purpose.’
John’s cock was as hard as tropical wood. Hot. Full of intense male energy, even though he still held it so lightly. He let it rest in his palm, as if he were indeed her feudal underling offering his tribute to her. Lizzie ran her fingertip up its length, right to the sticky tip. Pre‑come bathed the rounded head, colourless silk making it shine.
‘Ah, but even a delicate lady like you should be able to accommodate it, ma’am. It might be worth a try, if you were so inclined to sample it.’ John’s long dark eyelashes fluttered as she flicked her fingertip around the under-groove.
‘It’s so large and crude.’ She folded her fingers around him in a firm grip again, loving the bareness where before there’d been cotton cloth. ‘I really don’t know why you think I’d subject myself to it, you impudent peasant.’
‘Because you ladies of the manor are all alike.’ His fingers closed around hers, taking control of the grip. ‘You flounce about acting all refined, and complaining about men being crude and animal … but really you love it! You can’t get enough. You’re insatiable.’ Their gazes locked. Lizzie’s heart revved up. Desire ground like a stone wheel in her belly. ‘It’s no wonder your husbands have to take the whip to you sometimes, or spank you.’ His tongue snaked out again, sly, and provoking. ‘Fiancés too. If they’ve any sense, they’ll start as they mean to go on. Lay the law down before their womenfolk get too bossy. Or too randy.’
‘I don’t know… That sounds barbaric!’ God, he was getting stiffer by the moment. His entire body was a column of heat and strength, radiant. She had him in the palm of her hand, but in the greater sense, he had her in his. Exactly where he wanted her.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t think you think that at all, milady.’ John’s eyes glittered. His whole demeanour was sultry, but tricky. ‘I think you like a strong man to sort you out. Someone to take you in hand.’
‘No. Truth,’ he purred, his voice soft yet rough. He reached down and unwound her fingers from around him, then, swift and confident, he caught both her hands in both of his and pressed her back against the pillows, holding her arms above her head by the wrists. Imposing himself upon her, he used his lean form as a full body caress, nipping at her throat, her jaw and her ear as he massaged his bare cock against her still-covered thighs.
‘You like that, don’t you milady?’ he sighed into her ear, still rocking, ‘you like having some poor, besotted man do all the work for you, half out of his mind with lust?’
‘Yes. I do,’ she gasped back at him, her hips rocking against his.
‘I thought so.’ John laughed, a low happy sound, and with a last nip at her ear, he sat up. Lizzie made as if to sit up, and wriggle out of her clothes – she was wearing far too many – but he admonished her, ‘Oh no you don’t, Miss High and Mighty. Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a muscle.’
‘But nothing.’ He silenced her with another fierce, possessive kiss, and a hard thrust of his tongue, then sat up and cast around for his pyjama bottoms. What was he up to? Of course, they were the classic, English gentleman’s kind, and she watched him unthread the cord from the waistband, then pull it taut before her eyes as if exhibiting its sturdy, unsnappable quality.
Lizzie quivered, tingling goose-bumps of anticipation popping up over her skin.
He was going to bind her. Her servant-lover had become her lord and master in the blink of an eye, and he was going to secure her. So she couldn’t touch him, but he could make free with her. Handle her. Pleasure her.
Quickly, deftly, he looped the cord loosely around her wrists, and threaded it through the brass bed-rails. Smiling and triumphant, he knelt at her side, a figure both divinely beautiful and obscene with his ruddy, jutting erection poking up from his groin. Lizzie’s mouth watered, longing for a taste of him, yearning for the chance to worship him with her lips and tongue.
His glance followed hers. ‘I might let you. If you’re a good girl.’ Slowly, insolently, he fondled his cock, his head falling back as he worked himself and savoured the pleasure of his own touch.
The words were breathy. What was she asking for? For him to touch her? To let her suck him? For him to fuck her? All of those, probably, but the anticipation was suddenly agony. She needed … everything.
– Portia Da Costa
In Sebastian’s Hands – Free Excerpt
Escaping a boring fancy dress party, in the garb of Little Bo Peep, Megan Chambers follows the enigmatic Sebastian Holmwood to his flat. She knows there’s something different, intriguing and very sexy about him… and she can’t wait to discover exactly what it is.
Sebastian’s flat was just the opposite of the chaos we’d left, just as spacious, but elegant, spare and silently and beautifully tranquil. The room we ended up in was as much an office, or library as it was a sitting room, with a leather-upholstered settee, a desk, and quite a lot of well-stocked book cases. The air seemed to hum with knowledge, and with a quiet, civilized peace. As I crept around, awestruck, examining prints and the spines of his books, Sebastian fixed drinks and put on some music; a light, but very stately piece by Mozart.
I didn’t drink neat whisky as a rule, but after a moment, I found myself enjoying it. Not to mention needing it. Sebastian had picked up my crook from where I’d left it on his desk, and he was twirling it slowly in his fingers.
It gave me a very peculiar feeling in my stomach to see him almost caressing the thing like that. His hands were very pale, yet they looked strong. The word “capable” sprang to mind. The weirdest thoughts began to pass through my imagination, and when he swished the crook through the air, then smacked it against his palm, the hairs on the nape of my neck seemed to stand up one after another, a phenomenon I’d never actually experienced before, and always believed was just an old wives’ tale.
Blushing furiously, I looked away, then sat down on the settee and picked up a book from his coffee table. I flipped a few pages, attempting to cover my nervousness, and then realized I’d made a huge mistake.
Sebastian’s beautiful coffee table volume was full of pictures of people being punished. Women being beaten, their bare white bottoms lifted up and offered to a variety of different implements and techniques. As I stared down at a woman being thrashed across a table with a cane, a huge light bulb came on in the space behind my eyes… and I finally understood about life, the universe and Sebastian.
“Those people, downstairs at the party… You realize how very little they know, don’t you?” he said, a heartbeat later, as if my revelation had been flashed up on a screen.
“I… I think so… I’m not sure.” I looked down at the caned woman in the picture, then across at my crook, its length revolving slowly between Sebastian’s pale fingers, its true nature not at all hidden by that absurd blue ribbon.
Anxiety must have shown in my face, because Sebastian laughed, very quietly and very kindly.
“Oh no, not with this,” he said, taking a step towards me, still twirling the cane. “I would never start a girl off with a cane. And this,” He paused, that look of distaste resurfacing on his stark, rather aristocratic features, “This ‘thing’, is quite unsuitable anyway.” With a swift, ruthless gesture, he snapped my faux crook in two pieces, and then dropped it into the waste-bin beside his desk.
“A girl’s education should always begin with the hand,” he observed, making a steeple of both his hands before him at waist level, and then raising them to touch the very tips of his fingers to his lips. “The hand is intimate. The contact is skin to skin. There’s no better way to gauge the effect of a smack, and thus modify the force of the next one.” He looked at me evenly, his pale eyes unblinking and slightly narrowed, then he nodded infinitesimally. Like an android, I rose to my feet.
Mozart played on softly, but all of a sudden I was in a new and surreal dimension. Sebastian Holmwood could control me with the very slightest gesture, and as he walked smoothly towards the settee, then sat down just a yard or so away from me, I turned to face him, my head meekly bowed. He was lower than me, seated whilst I was standing, but in all things he had the upper hand.
“So, Megan Chambers, do you want to understand? Our friends downstairs are woefully ignorant. You know that, don’t you?” He reached out, took hold of both of my hands, and then held them in one of his. He let his free hand slide lightly down my hip, tracing its approximate shape through my costume’s fluffy petticoats. Sensing that he required it, I looked up and met his eyes, realizing he was a little older, and far wiser, than I’d originally thought he was. I nodded, knowing instinctively what I’d let myself in for, and feeling both fear and curiosity in equal parts.
“Good,” he said with a thoughtful smile, then let his hand slip beneath my skirt and petticoats. “Are you wearing anything beneath these?” He plucked at the long, lace trimmed mock Victorian pantaloons that peeked out from beneath my hem, then flattened his hand, slipped it upwards, and cupped the rounded cheek of my bottom.
– Portia Da Costa