BIO:
Besides being intelligent divas who pen kickass prose, Jeanie and her momma are dessert-eating, take-no-shit, tell-it-like-they-feel instead of tell-it-like-people-want-to-hear-it women. They are women who have brains and aren't afraid to use them; feelings and aren't afraid to express them; and, middle fingers which they'll happily use to salute out of line peeps. Independently, both are forces of nature that leave you begging for mercy or begging for more…depending on your level of tolerance. Even better, when they're in cahoots, they transform into the best tag team duo, bound together by the pen.
Jeanie is a shagalicious word slinger, who will be world ruling side-by-side with her momma. As long as her Polar Bear (shhh it's a secret ) does not drink all of her Cokes, all will be well. After gifting her clan with a knee buckling narrative or two, Jeanie intends to relax by throwing on her favorite hoodie and jumping in her chromed-out truck in search of the alpha that is the basis of the heroes in all of her stories.
Her momma, Jayha is a lot closer to the convent than Jeanie, which is ironic considering that she's been accused of being the catalyst for the fall of the Roman Empire and a cult leader with low aspirations. When not indulging her torrid affair with ESPN, she finds time to grace Mr. Me with her presence. Jayha constantly hones her skills, so that when she ascends to her position as world leader, stupid people will be punished and desserts will be easily acquired on every corner. Until that fan-freaking-tastic day arrives, she'll continue to walk among the people rocking her standard outfit of Crocs and a blue t-shirt, composing rapturous reads…all while straightening her crooked halo.
EXCERPT:
Prelude
"F*ck," Mariana muttered upon hearing the song that came on. She so didn't need this sh*t right now. Sighing, tears silently tracked down her face as she listened to Uncle Kracker sing ' Don't Know How (Not to Love You).' The last thing she needed was to hear some guy bearing his soul, crooning his confession in time to a haunting rhythm considering she was still raw from her recent breakup. She didn't need to be reminded that her happily-ever-after had been re-appropriated and that some other woman was now the beneficiary of her fragile hopes and dreams. Some other woman who was everything she was not: white, blond, model-slim. Mariana may not have been blond or model-slim but what she was garnered numerous second and third looks. Simply put, she was built like a brick sh*thouse, having legs heavy with muscle, an impressive bust line and the impressive a*s to match it thanks to her African-American mother and her Samoan father.
Cursing, she wiped away the hot tears that scalded her face as they fell from brown eyes made even darker from pain. Mariana didn't want to feel; she wanted to be able to slip into diva-mode and draw upon the strength that she wore in the face of disappointment, but she couldn't just yet. Perhaps in a few more minutes, a few more months, but not right now. Right now, she still ached for his presence, her ears awaited endearments from his softly-accented voice, her body still cried out for the familiarity of his big, muscled form. She'd loved him -- and had even admitted as much to him. Her ex had been everything she'd ever wanted in a man -- except faithful, except strong enough to be her man. Okay, maybe he wasn't even close to everything that she wanted, but that didn't make her immune to loving him, nor did it make his betrayal any easier to bear.
Ignoring the voice that mocked her for believing in happy endings that involved women like her and men like that, she took a deep breath, centered herself and returned to her packing. Her destination was the beautiful South Pacific, specifically an exclusive resort on an out laying island off of the eastern coast of Tahiti that few people knew about. It was supposed to have been the vacation of her dreams; now it was merely a place where she could nurse her wounds in private without the sympathetic glances of well-meaning friends or choruses of 'I told you so ' from everyone else. Sighing, she dismissed the irony of traveling to one of the world's most romantic destinations as a single woman.
Prelude Two
Samson Ahiga Madeira was a man that garnered second and third glances wherever he went. How could he not? Standing 6'9" and weighing 365 pounds, he sported bronze skin, hypnotic blue eyes, glossy, waist-length blue-black hair, and a body that promised women a thorough and unforgettable f*cking. He was an exotic-looking man thanks to his mixed ancestry. His stature and eye color was a gift from his Portuguese lineage; his rich skin tone and luxuriant hair was a gift from his Navajo lineage.
Though Samson was quick to flash that smile that could be featured in the after pictures of a cosmetic dentistry advertisement, that easy-going manner was merely camouflage. If one but took the time to look into his eyes they would clearly see the caveats advising against f*cking with him or anything that he considered his. The problem was that few could stand to look into his eyes for long. Though mostly blue, his eye color was comprised of an iridescent mix of hues that appeared black when he was passionate or angry. Not one to suffer fools or their bullsh*t, he could go from at-ease to going-to-your-a*s in the blink of an eye. Samson was definitely on the 'do-not-f*ck-with' list yet people often did and as such his past was littered with hordes of scarred, limping imbeciles who'd ignored the caveats and roused the dragon…and then gotten incinerated.
Regardless of his temper and the aura of danger that surrounded him like the rings surrounding Saturn, Samson was a good man. Blending in with the danger was an abundance of integrity that few beings possessed. Though he had a juggernaut contract that granted him the lifestyle of privilege and all of the perks that came with it, he didn't dedicate himself to the usual pursuits of wealthy men. After all, he wasn't accustomed to being privileged, but well-versed in reality.
Samson became well-versed in reality from the cradle. Being the product of a mother who was a citizen of the Navajo Nation and a white father with Portuguese grandparents, he was familiar with injustice, bigotry, and the limitations of good intentions. Regardless of having a family that was financially stable and known to be decent folk, as a child he was often on the outside looking in at a world that rejected him for not only being something more than a white, Anglo Protestant male, but for having the unmitigated gall of being da*n proud of it. To the dismay of his peers, he rejected all efforts to whiten him up, proudly embracing his Navajo heritage instead of letting it fall to the wayside in favor of his European roots. Though he visited his great-grandparents in Portugal and spoke Portuguese fluently, he also made an annual pilgrimage to Diné Bikéyah (Navajoland) and learned Navajo, one of the Athapaskan languages and the language of his mother's people, although he was not yet fluent in it.
Regardless of his circumstances he wasn't friendless. He befriended and ran with the other outcasts. The seats in front of his big screen television were often filled with men who were laws unto themselves. Though many of his friends had gotten into all kinds of sh*t, at heart they were good men who lived by the same rules: you do what you have to do but you don't hurt women or children -- ever.
Samson had a thing about how women were to be treated, which he'd learned from his father and both of his grandfathers. The males from his mother's tribe had taught him the importance of maintaining balance between the individual and all living things while the males of his father's house had instilled one lesson in every boy: love your woman as Jesus loved the Church. Regardless of how well a woman could fight or shoot; regardless of how high the lift-kit on her pickup truck; regardless of the number of degrees she had conferred upon her; regardless of how much money she made; regardless of how messy her past was; regardless of how capable she was at taking care of herself and the world, women were gifts from God and as such were to be treated as such. Full stop.
Samson took those teachings to heart. If a man hurt a woman in his presence, that man was going to be carried away on a gurney. It wasn't merely his father's teachings that made him such a protector of women; it was the things that he saw with his own eyes and one thing that he couldn't help but notice was the fact that women often paid the price of whatever foolishness men engaged in.
A man of strong passions, Samson was a complex man, a good man, an educated man, but right now he was a restless man. At age twenty-eight he'd da*n near finished his wish list of wants. He had the juggernaut bank account and real estate portfolio; he'd earned multiple degrees from prestigious universities; he'd traveled to numerous countries; he'd earned the highest honors in his profession; he'd had many beautiful women.
As blessed and privileged as he was Samson was also tired…and though he was loath to admit it, he was lonely. In spite of being in the company of many beautiful women, he knew that it wasn't him as much as it was his recent privilege that afforded him the opportunity to be photographed with them. In his heart, he knew that none of those women were the stand-by-your-man type, which is why he'd chosen them. He never wanted to hurt a woman's heart and subsequently he never wanted his heart broken so he purposely chose women whose primary goal in life was the amassing of expensive stuff and good times.
He could handle women who wanted the things that his millions could buy and entrance to the places his fame gave them access to. That type of woman was plentiful. Good women, like the old adage went, were da*n hard to find. This is why he traveled so much in the off-season. Not to find a woman, but to escape the reality of what he didn't have: he didn't have the woman that was what his grandmothers were to his grandfathers and what his mama was to his papa. He didn't have his everything.
Chapter One
Emitting a gasp, Samson stopped dead in his tracks and tried to catch his breath. Accustomed to being in the presence of his rowdy teammates, hyped-up fans and adoring women, not much threw him off, but the woman in his line of vision not only shocked him into stillness; she threw off his body functions. His breathing became erratic, his heartbeat double-timed it, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
He hadn't planned to stop in the hotel's five-star restaurant, but then that was before he glimpsed the woman that walked her fine a*s into his line of vision and hypnotized him with the sway of her full hips and spankable a*s. Hungrily, he watched her as she took a seat at one of the outdoor tables. The woman was f*cking stunning. Boasting an exotic look, Samson guessed that a mixture of Polynesian and African blood coursed through her veins. She had the thickness that African-American women were frequently blessed with and the long, thick tresses for which Polynesian women were renown. And of course she carried herself with the innate pride that women of color wore like a second skin.
Her laughter pulled his attention from her body and directed it to her lips. Groaning, he watched the mirth spill from those pouty lips. He caught a glimpse of tongue as she licked her lips. In that moment he envied her lip gloss, hell he envied everything that was touching her. Waiting for her tongue to make another appearance, he swore that her lips whispered an invitation: would you like a taste? He didn't just want a taste; he wanted to make a nine-course meal out of her lips. Several questions flooded his thoughts: How would her lips feel under his? How would she taste on his tongue? How would they look parted in pleasure as she called out his name? The image of him making love to her mouth caused him to groan. Shaking with need, he commandeered the nearest table and took a moment to gather himself.
When he was able to think complete thoughts again, he went back to his perusal. His eyes skimmed a path down the curves of her body. A full-figured woman, her luscious body looked as if it would welcome a man home. Sighing with pleasure, he continued his slow perusal of her body's topography, noting her bountiful cleavage, thick legs, well-developed calves and even her feet when she toed off her dainty sandals. Laughing, he noted she didn't seem to appreciate wearing shoes. From the way she kept discreetly adjusting her dress, he'd bet money that she was a shorts and t-shirt kind of woman. He didn't know who had prompted her to wear that dress, but when he found out, he was going to buy them a drink. Who was he kidding? Considering all of the pleasure he was getting from looking at her in that dress, he'd buy them a whole f*cking distillery.
The dress wore her and highlighted her caramel skin to perfection. A deep red in color, it boasted a side slit. If a man were lucky, he'd be able to catch a glimpse of panty and copious thigh. The Creator must've decided that he was a worthy man, in harmony with nature and the universe -- for just then, she laughed and shifted positions. The shift allowed him to glimpse the sheer black panties she wore underneath. His c*ck went da*n near burst through his pants. He forced his mind to Denver winters in order to bring his body back under control.
PARTY OVER HERE:
jeanieandjayha@gmail.com
--
http://www.jayhaleigh.com/
HOT LIKE FIRE: The Taming and Liberation of Mariana
http://www.lulu.com/content/1295291
The Wild, Wild Mess: Atlanta
http://www.loose-id.net/detail.aspx?ID=416
Jeanie is a shagalicious word slinger, who will be world ruling side-by-side with her momma. As long as her Polar Bear (shhh it's a secret ) does not drink all of her Cokes, all will be well. After gifting her clan with a knee buckling narrative or two, Jeanie intends to relax by throwing on her favorite hoodie and jumping in her chromed-out truck in search of the alpha that is the basis of the heroes in all of her stories.
Her momma, Jayha is a lot closer to the convent than Jeanie, which is ironic considering that she's been accused of being the catalyst for the fall of the Roman Empire and a cult leader with low aspirations. When not indulging her torrid affair with ESPN, she finds time to grace Mr. Me with her presence. Jayha constantly hones her skills, so that when she ascends to her position as world leader, stupid people will be punished and desserts will be easily acquired on every corner. Until that fan-freaking-tastic day arrives, she'll continue to walk among the people rocking her standard outfit of Crocs and a blue t-shirt, composing rapturous reads…all while straightening her crooked halo.
EXCERPT:
Prelude
"F*ck," Mariana muttered upon hearing the song that came on. She so didn't need this sh*t right now. Sighing, tears silently tracked down her face as she listened to Uncle Kracker sing ' Don't Know How (Not to Love You).' The last thing she needed was to hear some guy bearing his soul, crooning his confession in time to a haunting rhythm considering she was still raw from her recent breakup. She didn't need to be reminded that her happily-ever-after had been re-appropriated and that some other woman was now the beneficiary of her fragile hopes and dreams. Some other woman who was everything she was not: white, blond, model-slim. Mariana may not have been blond or model-slim but what she was garnered numerous second and third looks. Simply put, she was built like a brick sh*thouse, having legs heavy with muscle, an impressive bust line and the impressive a*s to match it thanks to her African-American mother and her Samoan father.
Cursing, she wiped away the hot tears that scalded her face as they fell from brown eyes made even darker from pain. Mariana didn't want to feel; she wanted to be able to slip into diva-mode and draw upon the strength that she wore in the face of disappointment, but she couldn't just yet. Perhaps in a few more minutes, a few more months, but not right now. Right now, she still ached for his presence, her ears awaited endearments from his softly-accented voice, her body still cried out for the familiarity of his big, muscled form. She'd loved him -- and had even admitted as much to him. Her ex had been everything she'd ever wanted in a man -- except faithful, except strong enough to be her man. Okay, maybe he wasn't even close to everything that she wanted, but that didn't make her immune to loving him, nor did it make his betrayal any easier to bear.
Ignoring the voice that mocked her for believing in happy endings that involved women like her and men like that, she took a deep breath, centered herself and returned to her packing. Her destination was the beautiful South Pacific, specifically an exclusive resort on an out laying island off of the eastern coast of Tahiti that few people knew about. It was supposed to have been the vacation of her dreams; now it was merely a place where she could nurse her wounds in private without the sympathetic glances of well-meaning friends or choruses of 'I told you so ' from everyone else. Sighing, she dismissed the irony of traveling to one of the world's most romantic destinations as a single woman.
Prelude Two
Samson Ahiga Madeira was a man that garnered second and third glances wherever he went. How could he not? Standing 6'9" and weighing 365 pounds, he sported bronze skin, hypnotic blue eyes, glossy, waist-length blue-black hair, and a body that promised women a thorough and unforgettable f*cking. He was an exotic-looking man thanks to his mixed ancestry. His stature and eye color was a gift from his Portuguese lineage; his rich skin tone and luxuriant hair was a gift from his Navajo lineage.
Though Samson was quick to flash that smile that could be featured in the after pictures of a cosmetic dentistry advertisement, that easy-going manner was merely camouflage. If one but took the time to look into his eyes they would clearly see the caveats advising against f*cking with him or anything that he considered his. The problem was that few could stand to look into his eyes for long. Though mostly blue, his eye color was comprised of an iridescent mix of hues that appeared black when he was passionate or angry. Not one to suffer fools or their bullsh*t, he could go from at-ease to going-to-your-a*s in the blink of an eye. Samson was definitely on the 'do-not-f*ck-with' list yet people often did and as such his past was littered with hordes of scarred, limping imbeciles who'd ignored the caveats and roused the dragon…and then gotten incinerated.
Regardless of his temper and the aura of danger that surrounded him like the rings surrounding Saturn, Samson was a good man. Blending in with the danger was an abundance of integrity that few beings possessed. Though he had a juggernaut contract that granted him the lifestyle of privilege and all of the perks that came with it, he didn't dedicate himself to the usual pursuits of wealthy men. After all, he wasn't accustomed to being privileged, but well-versed in reality.
Samson became well-versed in reality from the cradle. Being the product of a mother who was a citizen of the Navajo Nation and a white father with Portuguese grandparents, he was familiar with injustice, bigotry, and the limitations of good intentions. Regardless of having a family that was financially stable and known to be decent folk, as a child he was often on the outside looking in at a world that rejected him for not only being something more than a white, Anglo Protestant male, but for having the unmitigated gall of being da*n proud of it. To the dismay of his peers, he rejected all efforts to whiten him up, proudly embracing his Navajo heritage instead of letting it fall to the wayside in favor of his European roots. Though he visited his great-grandparents in Portugal and spoke Portuguese fluently, he also made an annual pilgrimage to Diné Bikéyah (Navajoland) and learned Navajo, one of the Athapaskan languages and the language of his mother's people, although he was not yet fluent in it.
Regardless of his circumstances he wasn't friendless. He befriended and ran with the other outcasts. The seats in front of his big screen television were often filled with men who were laws unto themselves. Though many of his friends had gotten into all kinds of sh*t, at heart they were good men who lived by the same rules: you do what you have to do but you don't hurt women or children -- ever.
Samson had a thing about how women were to be treated, which he'd learned from his father and both of his grandfathers. The males from his mother's tribe had taught him the importance of maintaining balance between the individual and all living things while the males of his father's house had instilled one lesson in every boy: love your woman as Jesus loved the Church. Regardless of how well a woman could fight or shoot; regardless of how high the lift-kit on her pickup truck; regardless of the number of degrees she had conferred upon her; regardless of how much money she made; regardless of how messy her past was; regardless of how capable she was at taking care of herself and the world, women were gifts from God and as such were to be treated as such. Full stop.
Samson took those teachings to heart. If a man hurt a woman in his presence, that man was going to be carried away on a gurney. It wasn't merely his father's teachings that made him such a protector of women; it was the things that he saw with his own eyes and one thing that he couldn't help but notice was the fact that women often paid the price of whatever foolishness men engaged in.
A man of strong passions, Samson was a complex man, a good man, an educated man, but right now he was a restless man. At age twenty-eight he'd da*n near finished his wish list of wants. He had the juggernaut bank account and real estate portfolio; he'd earned multiple degrees from prestigious universities; he'd traveled to numerous countries; he'd earned the highest honors in his profession; he'd had many beautiful women.
As blessed and privileged as he was Samson was also tired…and though he was loath to admit it, he was lonely. In spite of being in the company of many beautiful women, he knew that it wasn't him as much as it was his recent privilege that afforded him the opportunity to be photographed with them. In his heart, he knew that none of those women were the stand-by-your-man type, which is why he'd chosen them. He never wanted to hurt a woman's heart and subsequently he never wanted his heart broken so he purposely chose women whose primary goal in life was the amassing of expensive stuff and good times.
He could handle women who wanted the things that his millions could buy and entrance to the places his fame gave them access to. That type of woman was plentiful. Good women, like the old adage went, were da*n hard to find. This is why he traveled so much in the off-season. Not to find a woman, but to escape the reality of what he didn't have: he didn't have the woman that was what his grandmothers were to his grandfathers and what his mama was to his papa. He didn't have his everything.
Chapter One
Emitting a gasp, Samson stopped dead in his tracks and tried to catch his breath. Accustomed to being in the presence of his rowdy teammates, hyped-up fans and adoring women, not much threw him off, but the woman in his line of vision not only shocked him into stillness; she threw off his body functions. His breathing became erratic, his heartbeat double-timed it, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
He hadn't planned to stop in the hotel's five-star restaurant, but then that was before he glimpsed the woman that walked her fine a*s into his line of vision and hypnotized him with the sway of her full hips and spankable a*s. Hungrily, he watched her as she took a seat at one of the outdoor tables. The woman was f*cking stunning. Boasting an exotic look, Samson guessed that a mixture of Polynesian and African blood coursed through her veins. She had the thickness that African-American women were frequently blessed with and the long, thick tresses for which Polynesian women were renown. And of course she carried herself with the innate pride that women of color wore like a second skin.
Her laughter pulled his attention from her body and directed it to her lips. Groaning, he watched the mirth spill from those pouty lips. He caught a glimpse of tongue as she licked her lips. In that moment he envied her lip gloss, hell he envied everything that was touching her. Waiting for her tongue to make another appearance, he swore that her lips whispered an invitation: would you like a taste? He didn't just want a taste; he wanted to make a nine-course meal out of her lips. Several questions flooded his thoughts: How would her lips feel under his? How would she taste on his tongue? How would they look parted in pleasure as she called out his name? The image of him making love to her mouth caused him to groan. Shaking with need, he commandeered the nearest table and took a moment to gather himself.
When he was able to think complete thoughts again, he went back to his perusal. His eyes skimmed a path down the curves of her body. A full-figured woman, her luscious body looked as if it would welcome a man home. Sighing with pleasure, he continued his slow perusal of her body's topography, noting her bountiful cleavage, thick legs, well-developed calves and even her feet when she toed off her dainty sandals. Laughing, he noted she didn't seem to appreciate wearing shoes. From the way she kept discreetly adjusting her dress, he'd bet money that she was a shorts and t-shirt kind of woman. He didn't know who had prompted her to wear that dress, but when he found out, he was going to buy them a drink. Who was he kidding? Considering all of the pleasure he was getting from looking at her in that dress, he'd buy them a whole f*cking distillery.
The dress wore her and highlighted her caramel skin to perfection. A deep red in color, it boasted a side slit. If a man were lucky, he'd be able to catch a glimpse of panty and copious thigh. The Creator must've decided that he was a worthy man, in harmony with nature and the universe -- for just then, she laughed and shifted positions. The shift allowed him to glimpse the sheer black panties she wore underneath. His c*ck went da*n near burst through his pants. He forced his mind to Denver winters in order to bring his body back under control.
PARTY OVER HERE:
jeanieandjayha@gmail.com
--
http://www.jayhaleigh.com/
HOT LIKE FIRE: The Taming and Liberation of Mariana
http://www.lulu.com/content/1295291
The Wild, Wild Mess: Atlanta
http://www.loose-id.net/detail.aspx?ID=416
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