Interviewed by Kelly Van Sant


*dusts off the cobwebs*
Hey guys, long time no see. I’m Kayti, the Write Bitch who is awful at blogging.
But now I’m back (from outer space!) and since I’ve been gone I’ve acquired the amazing Kelly Van Sant as an agent and I’m being spotlighted today on her blog.
Check it out ^_^


#TeaserTuesday – AMAL

I posted a little of AMAL, my love story without a title but with a character with a great name, on my blog over at Madhuri Blaylock Writes a while back. It’s my first time writing a regular romance and even though the story has been bouncing around in my head for a hot second, the thought to actually write it down has not. Mostly because I’m a girl who loves her raunch with some magic, but Amal and her men are kind of fun and all kinds of dirty, so as long as they demand my attention, I’m going with the flow and writing their story.

Anyway, I figure today is as good a day as any to share a little more of Amal, Jackson, and Andrew…enjoy.

I saw her long before she saw me, mostly because I was looking, completely incapable of casting my glance anywhere but the door every time it opened. Dax was right, even from across the room, Jackson was a force to be reckoned with, stealing the show the minute he and Amal crossed the threshold. But she was just as brilliant, possibly even more so in her slight hesitance and discomfort with the introductions and salutations. She smiled and laughed and charmed everyone Jackson knew, but here and there her jaw would clench or she would glance around as if somewhat bored by the fuss and in those moments, I knew she was here, at this party, by his side, for him and him alone. That she loved Jackson so much she willingly slogged through the inanity of the bourgeousie because it mattered to him.

I wondered if he knew what a lucky fuck he was?

Maybe he did, but most likely he was past the point of such ruminations. I did my research, Amal and Jackson had been a couple for more than three years, with some slight breaks here and there, but always coming back to one another. So yeah, I’m sure once upon a time he viewed her through the same prism as I, but based upon his body language with the attractive older woman who couldn’t stop touching him and fawning over every word he uttered, I gathered Amal was no longer the center of his everything. Not that Jackson didn’t love her, but he probably loved himself a little more.

Just my two cents.

“Has no one ever told you it’s incredibly rude to gawk at another man’s woman?”

Laughter and a smack on the back brought me face-to-face with one of my oldest friends, Philippe Narcisse, Afro-French beautiful bastard but for the gash running down the side of his face, care of a terrible childhood car accident. We met during a skateboard camp in London the summer we turned twelve and had been thick as thieves ever since. While I was busy learning the ropes at Maynard Brothers, he was running one of the most successful custom tailors in the city. Bespoke was that motherfucker’s middle name.

“Fuck you,” I tossed back the remains of my whiskey and set the glass down on the bar.

“You mean fuck her,” Philippe laughed and ordered a scotch, “and if you don’t, goddamn, I will.”

I raised a brow and shot him a look.

“You’re taken,” I informed as I brought another whiskey to my lips, “and last time I checked, so is she.”

“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard a million times since she walked into the room,” Philippe cast a glance Amal’s way, his eyes resting on her ass because seriously, how could they not, “apparently, she doesn’t do these things. Ever. But she’s here tonight and for some reason it’s a big, fucking deal.”

Philippe laughed mischievously before adding, “I don’t care why she’s here, I’m just glad she is because fuuuuuuck, that ass makes me think some wicked shit. I’m not even an ass man and she’s got me wanting to put my face all up in her shit.”

“All right, all right,” I glared at my friend and he grinned.

“I knew it, Maynard,” Philippe tossed his head in Amal’s direction, “spit it out. I know you, motherfucker, and I know you know her.”

“I don’t know her any more than you do.”

“You cannot bullshit a bullshitter,” Philippe raised a brow in my direction, “I want the story, with all the juicy bits, like how that ass feels when you’ve got your hands all over it.”

“Fucking christ, man,” I shot back, “back off.”

Philippe leaned back on his heels, studied me for a second, then burst into deep peals of laughter, so loud several heads at the bar turned our way, curious as to his amusement. I tossed back my whiskey and ordered another, amusing my friend even further. He smacked me on the back again and kissed my cheek, long and loud and sloppy.

“Come on, man,” I pushed him off me, “control yourself.”

“I believe one Amal Naipaul has gotten under the skin of New York City’s most eligible bachelor,” Philippe grinned, “so as much as it pains me, in respect to you and because I love you like a brother, I shall cease making filthy cracks about her splendid ass.”

“I’m certain the very lovely Sylvie, who last time I checked is your very devoted and stunning girlfriend, would love to hear all the filth escaping your lips concerning a certain derriere.”

Philippe stole another glance at Amal and sucked in his breath, “mais oui, Sylvie would love to hear it and then join in my admiration, being the ass woman that she is.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. He was incorrigible.

“For the record, her name is Amal Warrier Naipaul,” I tipped my drink in his direction and smirked, “and she is the most stunning woman ever created.”

Philippe let my words sink in for a second, took a sip of his drink, and shook his head while shaking a warning finger in my face. I pushed his hand away and waited for whatever advice I knew my friend could not help dispensing.

“Did you fuck her, Andrew?”

“Nah, man,” I shook my head, “not at all.”

He squinted his eyes and waited, as if by doing so he could tell whether or not I was being truthful. “Did you think about fucking her?”

“The second I saw her and every second afterwards,” I admitted to him and myself, “until I learned of Jackson. And then I forgot her.”

“Now you’re lying, Maynard,” Philippe squeezed my shoulder affectionately, “no one forgets an ass like that. But if you didn’t fuck her, what’d you do? Dinner? Drinks? Spill it.”

“Just a chat, and if I’m being honest, it probably didn’t last longer than five minutes.”

“Longest five fucking minutes of your life, my friend,” Philippe noted, “that much’s written all over your face.”

I started to protest when long, lean, arms circled my waist and warm lips pressed to my neck. Sylvie. Only Sylvie could make the simplest hello so goddamned sexy.

Mon cher,” she whispered in my ear as she ran a perfectly manicured hand down Philipp’s arm, “my two sexies…the things we could do together,” she whispered as she slipped between us and settled herself onto Philippe’s lap. He pulled her close and sucked on her ear while Sylvie practically purred in delight. It was sensual and endearing and so very Philippe and Sylvie.

“Get a room,” I groused.

“With Amal’s name on it? Happily,” Philippe joked and immediately pricked Sylvie’s interest, something I knew he intended.

“Amal?” Sylvie’s eyes widened as she played with the rim of her champagne flute, “as in Naipaul? As in Doctors for Hope?”

“As in Jackson Davis’s girlfriend,” Philippe added with a laugh.

Sylvie rolled her eyes as she kissed his cheek, “ignore him, Andrew, he’s a horrible gossip and probably loves the fact you haven’t been able to take your eyes off that woman all night.”

And now it was Sylvie’s turn to look rather impish and incorrigible.

“Fuck both of you,” and they laughed as Sylvie pulled me close for a kiss.

“She is lovely and her behind has me captivated,” Sylvie whispered in my ear, “but she is very taken and he is very tall and incredibly strong and impossibly fuckable. Just please watch your heart,” and she kissed me again before leaning back into Philippe’s embrace.

I touched her furrowed brow as if to smooth it out and smiled, “you have nothing to worry about, Sylvie. My heart is as cold and dead as ever.”

It’s raw and needs some serious editing, but it’s getting there. I love Philippe, just haven’t decided how large a role he’ll play. The way I do things, those kind of details work themselves out as the story progresses, so we shall see. Fingers crossed for Mr. Narcisse.

Also, Andrew is totally David Gandy, mostly because this is my story and Andrew is my character and god, if I don’t LOVE me some David Gandy. Don’t even try and act like you mind…you know you don’t.


Thanks for reading.

Screen Shot 2015-05-10 at 9.38.05 PM


Do You Even NaNo?


It’s November ya’ll and over here in the den of sexy (Too corny? Yes? No? Nah.) two of us shall be participating in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. We’ll be banging out 50,000 word story in 30 days (or in my case, trying to).

Laura, the fabulous badass that she is, will be working on The Devil’s Disease, the second book in her Shades Below trilogy which you should totally read if you haven’t already.

I, on the other hand, will be working on something new, half outlined, mostly pantsed. It’s YA dark fantasy, with demons, revenge and romance (duh). Wish me luck. I’m gonna need it.

Madhuri, won’t be participating this year. Mostly because SHE JUST LANDED AN AGENT and is busy editing the sexiness (aaaaaall, the sexiness) that is DUTCH ❤

If you’re doing NaNoWriMo this year, or are just hearing about it now come join us HERE and HERE





I Want


There is nothing more I want than to touch you

I crave it just like you said I would.

I want to run my hands up your thighs and press my palm against that fucking huge bulge and listen to you moan while my lips press to your throat and I taste the salt of your sweat

I want to climb into your lap and grind my wet pussy against you and wrap my fingers in your hair and kiss you so deeply you lose your breath

I want you to touch my face and lips and throat

and kiss me softly as if I’m delicate and I matter and am not just the girl you slammed into the door and fucked like a whore and I want you to whisper in my ear that you have never seen anyone so beautiful and that I






Something about the floating club reminded him of Wonderland. Not Disney’s Wonderland, either, but Wonderland according to Lewis Carroll: dark, sumptuous. Treacherous. It was the sort of place where anything could happen…and probably did. He had a feeling if a deranged, bloodthirsty monarch suddenly swept in and started demanding people’s heads, no one would bat an eye.

Already, he could feel multiple pairs of eyes fixing on them. Darius kept his face carefully blank and leaned down to Bez’s ear. “Maybe we should get a drink.”

Bez nodded. Her face was blank too, but nervous energy rolled off her in great, uncontrolled swells. “I could definitely use a drink.”

This time, her arm tightened around his. She visibly steeled herself, then led the way deeper into the club.

The further they went, the more sinister the place felt. Music pulsed from speakers hidden in the dark, velvet-lined walls; an unsettling mashup that evoked both Rob Zombie and Thelonious Monk. The lighting was nearly nonexistent. An art deco chandelier gleamed overhead. Darius looked a little closer. It was illuminated purely by candlelight.

The tiny dancing flames were a lovely shade of purple.

“Neat trick, isn’t it?”

Darius jerked in spite of himself, remembered at the last minute to keep a grip on Bez’s arm. He turned. A man stood behind them. His couture suit was impeccably cut, his pale hair slicked back from the sharp lines of his face. He studied them with coolly assessing eyes.

Bez gulped audibly. “Kristof.”

“Bez.” He didn’t take his eyes off Darius. “Perhaps you would care to explain why you brought a mundane to my club.”

Bez coughed. “He’s not a…that is, Darius is a friend.” Her voice caught on the word. “I just thought—”

“Darius.” Kristof’s eyes widened slightly. “Darius deCompostela? Fuck me, is that you?”

Darius cringed, and Bez’s jaw slackened. She turned to him. “D? Is there something you’re not—”

The man snapped his fingers, and the room froze. Bez froze too, her mouth stuck around the not. Her eyes were an unnerving shade of white.

Darius blew out a breath. “Seriously?” He glowered at the other man. “What’s it been, fifteen years? I see your poker face hasn’t improved.”

Kristof met his glower with a sneer. “And I see you’re still turning up where you’re not wanted. Fucking busybody.”

“Two-bit stage magician.”



They glared at each other. Finally, Kristof’s lips twitched. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

He extended a hand. After a moment’s pause, Darius clasped it. “That it has.”

† † †


#WorkInProgress – JUMA



I fell in love with a man tonight
without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

He sat with the weight of the world
on his shoulders
And all I wanted to do
was unburden him

He growled and clawed and hissed
And I moved to the rhythm of those sounds

He needed
but would not dare ask
And I knew this
because I’ve been there before

He stunned with his masculine beauty
which sounds like an impossibility
but is not
And I was drawn to him
like so many before
but knew I was like no other

I fell in love with a man tonight
without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

He bore into me with dark eyes
so full of anguish and hurt
And I smiled
and tried to ease his pain

He suggested all sorts of wickedness
with his carriage and demeanor
And I wanted to be wrapped in him
even if it meant going against my nature

He attempted to disabuse me of any preconceived notions
And when I told him I had none
he laughed

He needed to be touched and kissed and held
but could stand nothing of the sort
And so I let him touch and kiss and hold me
the only way he knew

I fell in love with a man tonight
without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

He claimed a black soul and all kinds of evil
but his voice hinted at the opposite
And I imagined him in his youth
full of light and love and wonder

He wrapped his long fingers and perfect hands
around his glass
And despite his warnings
I foolishly imagined them wrapped around me

He cursed me up and down and sideways
while his eyes begged forgiveness
And I knew
I stilled his heart and captured his breath

He filled me
until I could take no more
but wanted so much
And I surrounded him
with my slick heat
and untamed desire

I fell in love with a man tonight
without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

He smelled of bourbon and death
and his lips were such a tease
of all kinds of danger and mayhem
And I could not resist them
or stay away
no matter his warnings and predictions

He spoke to me of truths
and desires and needs
as if he knew my body without ever knowing me
And my breath hitched
and my lips parted and the heat was unbearable

He grinned but there was no happiness in his eyes
And I wanted to do nothing more than change that

He laughed but there was no happiness in the sound
And I wondered what music he would make if he was light
and I wanted to make him
make that music

I fell in love with a man tonight
without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged

He set me on fire as our bodies slammed into one another
and he swore he would not
but he did
And I exploded
and shuddered
with the simplest of touches

He laughed at my predictability
my commonness
And yet I knew he knew
I was anything but

He tried his best to push me away
And yet he could not leave my side

He begged me to find another
And I laughed at the odds of doing such a thing

He rushed at my body with a burning hunger
And I knew he had never trembled so
or cried out
or yearned

I fell in love with a man tonight
without a word spoken or a kiss exchanged
and can only hope he will not be the death of me.

Monster Snippet

I usually wait till the last minute to share bits of my novel (what if I change things? What if I wind up deleting it? Is it too spoilery? *worry worry worry*)

But not this time!

Today, I just finished writing down a chapter that I absolutely love, that is practically, almost perfect, and deserves a lovely little teaser to titillate all the nice folk (im)patiently waiting for Book 4 of the Outsider Chronicles.





Swish. 😉