Jennifer Fales/ J. A. Fales is a diverse Southern California-based author and freelance writer. She possesses a vivid imagination, an adventurous spirit, and a thorough love of yarns, tales, and silly, sexy stories offering hints of otherworldliness and magic.You can find her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/JenniferFalesCA. Or check out her author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Jennifer-Fales/e/B00636YTK2.
Let’s Get To Know J. A. Fales
Q: If you could go back in time before you published your first book, what advice would you give yourself about publishing?
A: I would tell myself to hose the prose—flowery language worked well for Shakespeare, but nobody has the time to weed through a rose garden in search of a story these days—and it isn’t finished until it’s finished (don’t rush the process).
Q: Pick a super-power and tell us what you’d do with it.
A: I would love to be able to create wormholes/portals to get me from Point A to Point B. It would save so much time—I’d never be early or late for anything—and I’d always make a grand entrance.
Q: What’s your favorite AND least favorite thing about being a writer/author?
A: My favorite thing about being a writer/ author is the creative process—I have a wild imagination, and it’s so much fun to play around with ideas. My least favorite would probably be all the work it takes getting to that final draft. It’s an intensive process—snapping my fingers and saying “alakazam” or “poof” and having a lovely, polished book in my hands would be so nice.
About Chasing Wren’s Tale by J. A. Fales
A steamy modern fairytale with humor and an unexpected twist:
Stubborn, limber yoga instructor Wren Cavanaugh’s once upon a time has been riddled with bad luck since her adoptive mother died ten years ago. Most recently, her worthless fiancé drained her savings and ran off with a woman whose “nom de stripper” came straight from a can of soda. The only positives in her life are swearing off men, owning Wren’s Namaste Nest, her best friend Daisy, and her vibrator Mongo.
Stubborn, Immortal Werewolf and gym magnate Gunnolf Fenric’s life is stellar in comparison. The only negatives are a murder he has yet to commit on Odin’s behalf, his brother’s blatant immaturity, and the fact the yoga instructor next door told his lawyer she refused to sell her studio, AND that Gunnolf could jump off the side of the mountain.
When Heavy Metal-loving Gunnolf holds a loud after-hours party at the gym to annoy Wren, these two control freaks finally meet, and sparks–both the good kind and the bad kind–fly between them. Wren resolves to avoid their insane sexual chemistry at all costs. Gunnolf wants more and isn’t above using unconventional means to change her mind. Especially not after discovering Odin may want him to kill Wren, but Odin’s wife, Freya, wants them to make a baby.
Mine, his wolf growled possessively as his tongue dove inside her quivering channel. The smell of Wren, the taste of her was ambrosia. He would need to bite her soon, marking her permanently to cement the bond that Freya had predestined in the eyes of the rest of the Supernatural world.
The only question was whether he should do so before of after explaining the need for offspring.
He replaced his tongue with a finger, pumping it gently in and out and adding a second, soon after. Scattering delicate butterfly kisses, ever so lightly, across her mons, he used his lips to draft a roadmap of desire.
“Now,” he flicked a moistened tongue against the skin his mouth had been caressing, asking her, “Would you like to cum for me, mit hjerte?”
“Yes,” she shuddered in reply, her pupils dilating.
“Good girl,” he responded.
“Woman,” she managed to gasp as his tongue found the bundle of nerves for which it had been searching.
“Good woman,” he echoed, not bothering to look up from where his thumb pressed the skin of her pubic mound upward, exposing the lovely pink button for him.
He could have argued that, compared to the numerous lives he had experienced, she was a girl. Just about all of the women he had known would have taken the term as a compliment, had they even considered it, at all. Then again, she was the daughter of a giant-slayer and the only female he had ever encountered who did not believe her tears a tool for emotional blackmail.
Besides, arguments served no valid purpose among naked, sexy people.
He plunged his fingers in and out of her honeyed opening, angling them to rub at the small patch of spongy flesh running along the inside wall of her pelvis. His tongue flicked relentlessly at her clitoris as she thrashed and moaned for him. Plying her secret spot in tandem, he sent her spiraling closer and closer to that final point, where she surrendered her will and her nerve-endings exploded in a rush of sensation.
When he knew she was almost there, he commanded, “Cum for me, now—say my name.”
She gasped and thrashed at the intensity of the sensations crashing over her. Her body gave in to the inevitable spasms, but her mouth sent a different message, loud and clear.
She shouted asshole in place of his name.
“That,” Gunnolf raised his head, along with an eyebrow, more amused with her than angry as he spoke, “is not my name, mit hjerte.”
“That,” she rasped the words, rolling her head to one side and waving a boneless hand in the air at him, “is a matter of opinion.”
So, she was back to insulting him again, like she had when she was standing outside of his door at the gym. He pressed a kiss to the sweat-drenched skin over one hipbone and chuckled, “You are a saucy little thing—I like that.”
“Saucy?” she grumbled. “You make me sound like a packet of gravy.”
“One I would gladly pour all over me,” he responded, wagging his eyebrows and looming over her as he bracketed her body between his hands on the bed.
“No,” she said, firmly, while slapping at his forearms because she wasn’t strong enough to move them on her own. “You just got what you asked for—there will be no more pouring until you explain this whole Freya-child thing.”
“Just one kiss,” he insisted.
“You’re not getting a kiss.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You just had your mouth all over my vagina,” she said. “Why in the hell is a kiss such a big deal?”
“Because you don’t want me to have it,” he smiled, easing down into the bottom of a push-up to brush his lips against hers. He hovered over her with ease, taking his time as he snaked his tongue into the warmth of her mouth to parry with her own. After finishing, he gave her a peck on the cheek and said, “And because you need to know how delicious you are.”
“You have serious issues,” she answered, grabbing for the discarded t-shirt, in the name of modesty, once he’d rolled off her.
My favorite quote from Chasing Wren’s Tale is:
“So much foreboding, she thought, shaking her head. The beast probably had a gigantic, snarling penis in his pants, too.”