Hi, you have just arrived at my blogsite. I'm Artemis Hunt, author, harried employee, long-suffering wife, multi-tasker, Pomeranian lover, stepmother to two grown-up stepkids. I'm going to blog about subjects I feel passionately about. Please browse, and maybe you'll find something you feel passionately about too. For darker adult stories, I write under the name of A.R. Hunt. For straight erotica and erotic romances with mild BDSM (a la Fifty Shades), I write under the name of multiple Amazon and Barnes and Noble bestselling erotica author, Aphrodite Hunt.

Friday, November 23, 2012

200,000 sales! Thank you, dear readers!

I have reached my 200,000th sale! Thank you, dear readers, for making this possible!!

Hugs! I hope I can continue to write stories that will entertain you and make you feel.

Monday, November 19, 2012

The Pretend Boyfriend 2


Perky Samantha Fox and the gorgeous lothario with a secret heart of gold, Brian Morton, are now lovers and best friends - except for the unspoken love and lack of commitment between them. Brian considers it 'hanging out'. Sam has to take what she can get, because she's about to tackle something bigger - if she doesn't do what her new boss demands, she will lose her precious job.

Enter a mysterious woman. She is hell bent to destroy Brian for his past transgressions.

When a series of strange circumstances leads Brian to invite a woman into his apartment, he wakes up the next morning - dazed and confused, with no memory of what occurred the previous night. The police barge in and arrest him. Brian is accused . . . of rape.

Sam and Brian are about to lose everything they hold dear unless they can find a way to brave the coming storm together.

THE PRETEND BOYFRIEND 2 is a 26,000-word erotic romance short novel.


The Pretend Boyfriend
The Pretend Boyfriend 2


There's a pounding in his head that he can't get away from. Someone is hammering nails into the base of his skull. A splitting headache like a hundred hangovers rolled into one comes charging through the noise, breaking through the barriers of murkiness and haze and dreams filled with shadowy figures that are wraiths and yet not wraiths.

He claws through the murk and tries to open his sleep-encrusted eyes. Shapes swim into being. A vivid red and gold pattern assails his vision, and he realizes that he is face down on his own lounge carpet. To be precise, his one hundred thousand Persian weave. The house-warming present from his billionaire uncle's wife.

He raises his head. There is a persistent knocking on his front door. He groans. His body feels as though a steamroller has flattened it. He raises himself to his elbows.

The door bursts open and feet clatter into his apartment. Black boots, regulation style.

"Mr. Morton?" says an unfamiliar voice.

Brian squints into the light, dazed. Outside, the sun is streaming through the ceiling-to-floor glass windows. He holds a hand up to block out the light. He thought he had drawn the fucking curtains.


"You are under arrest."

The rest of his Miranda rights are lost in the drone of the officer's voice as hands jerk his naked body up, and his wrists are cuffed behind his back. Brian stares in horror at the ruins of the evening. Broken glass coffee table. Scattered shards of glass everywhere. Smashed three thousand dollar lampstand. Torn curtains.

His clothes strewn all over the floor.

And a torn silken bathrobe crumpled in a heap beside them.

What? What? What? What? A ship is plowing through the mists of his brain - a flotsam of memories struggling to come to the surface, like a shipwreck victim clawing for air. And failing miserably to ascend.

Something cuts through his bare feet. He lifts his right leg up and stares at his sole.


Embedded glass fragments.

And that's not the only damage to his body. The bloody trails of four fingernails have been raked and imprinted upon his chest.

What the fuck happened here?