What can you tell my readers about yourself that they might not know from looking on your bio or reading in another interview?
Hmm, well, I’m very short in person. Does this count? I’m 5’ 1” (and a half...), although my husband loves it because he looks quite tall standing next to me.
What do you enjoy doing on your down time?
I really love relaxing out in nature, whether it’s on the beach, the mountainside, or in a garden -- anywhere that lets me feel the breeze on my neck and curl my toes into the earth. That being said, with three kids ages 5 and under, it’s not often that I find myself with much downtime ;)
What is your Favorite part of writing?
The emotional experiences it takes both me and my readers through.
Do you have any certain routines you must follow as you write?
Not especially. I suspect that I would if my kids were older and I found myself in the position to be able to create any routines, but as it is, my life is chaotic and unorganized, and so is my writing routine.
What are some of your Favorite books or Authors in the Urban Fantasy/ Paranormal Genres?
There are many, but I think anything by J.R. Ward or Cassandra Clare makes for an entertaining read.
How would you pitch Touched by Death to someone who has not heard of it before?
Touched by Death is really a story about loss, self-discovery, and strength, and figuring out how to love in ways you might never have thought possible. It delves into the mysteries of life and death, while sprinkling in Lou’s sarcastic nature and the kind of romantic chemistry that gets your heart pounding and your stomach tightening.
Can you tell us a little bit about the world that Touched by Death is set in?
It’s set in today’s world, and despite the paranormal subject matter, it deals with very real issues many of us or those we know and love face.
Do you have a favorite scene in Touched by Death ?
Oh, this is a tough one because each scene contributes something different to the story. But if I had to pick, I’d probably say the magic trick scene and the ring scene (you’ll know when you read them). Not only were they so much fun to write, but I was getting to know Death right alongside our heroine, Lou, and I was loving every second of it.
Which one character out of all your books was your favorite to write about? What about the hardest to write about?
Definitely Lou in Touched by Death has been my favorite to write so far. She’s a very raw and real character, so it was easy for me to bond with her. The hardest to write about would have to be Death himself, since he was such a complex character with a rich and layered past.
What Other Projects can we look forward to reading from you?
I’m currently working on a contemporary romance as well as a dark romance. I’ll be giving out little sneak peeks here and there to email subscribers over time, but otherwise it’s on the hush hush for now ;)
T.L.'s novels tend to involve the things she enjoys most as a reader: relatable and flawed protagonists, unexpected twists, slow burn romances, and a lively cast of secondary characters. (Being that she writes both young adult and new adult titles, please check individual book descriptions for any content warnings.)
T.L. is presently branching out into new adult contemporary romance!
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Find T.L. Martin and her books
Touched by Death
What if Death was more tempting than you had ever imagined?Excerpt:
With Grams's recent passing and a boyfriend who cares more about his next drink than her, Lou Adaire only wants to run. To start over somewhere new — maybe in a town where her family has history.
But when a storm sends Lou’s truck plunging into Tuttle Creek Lake, she discovers exactly what it’s like to fight for your life. To gasp for air only to have your lungs fill with icy water. To die.
What comes next changes everything.
Dark eyes. Consuming presence.
Death. As vague as a dream yet as intense as the lightning flashing above her still heart.
Everything about him calls out to her, tugging at her with the warm vibration of his pull. He’s supposed to take her; they both know it. She wants him to.
When she wakes in the hospital in a new town, she can’t forget what she saw. That impossible sensation of him breathing life back into her, a strong beat playing in her chest and a flutter running down her spine.
Trying to move on with her life in a foreign place is hard enough, but when he comes back for more — his burning touch against her skin, his consuming presence weaving in and out of her life, and his own scars running far deeper than hers — Lou begins to realize there’s more to Death, and to the sleepy Kansas town, than she ever expected to find.
Lou lived. But what if she’s not the only one in need of saving?
*CONTENT WARNING: Contains some profanity, sex, and some child abuse.
My sweater chafes my shoulder blade, and I wince as it irritates the raw, tender skin. I hadn’t thought much about the injury since leaving the hospital, having had other things to focus on—or focus on avoiding—but now the memory resurfaces in my mind: rain smacking against the windshield, trees and darkness spinning around me, the booming crack of my window breaking, and shards of glass flying at me.
I pull my sweater off. Eyes closed, I reach an arm across my chest and over my shoulder, tracing the tips of my fingers along the thick, three-inch cut that hasn’t quite scarred yet. It’s smooth beneath the stitches. Too smooth, and it feels foreign; a piece of my body I don’t recognize. I’ve always thought scars were meant to represent strength; all this one does is remind me that I shouldn’t be alive right now.
That I’m lost.
My eyelids flutter open, and my breath catches at the sudden touch of strong, warm fingers moving over my own. A slow, gentle stroke glides over the wound, but it’s not from me. It can’t be. My hand is stuck, frozen in place over my shoulder blade as though not daring to move. The mirror before me proves I’m alone in the bathroom, and yet, I feel it again, the same presence I felt several nights ago. Heat radiates behind my body as though someone is standing right there.
Another stroke caresses the wound, and it’s even lighter this time, like a feather brushing over me. The feeling of skin against skin is as real as anything. I can almost hear my heartbeat pounding within my chest. The fingers move past my wound, never breaking contact with my skin, and slowly trail upward, toward my neck. Though the texture feels strong and almost rough, the touch itself is impossibly gentle, treating me like something fragile.
No matter how loud my mind screams to fight it, my muscles are relaxing like jelly under the heavy sensation. My uplifted arm drops helplessly to my side. The warm touch strokes the side of my neck, wandering up further still until it’s almost in my hair. It’s light enough to send a shiver to my toes, and my eyelids start to close on their own, my head rolling slightly forward.
The presence behind me inches closer, and I hear breaths again. Just like the other night, they’re deep and controlled, right by my ear.
I have no idea what’s happening to me. Half of me is struck with a pang of fear, unease over the impossible experience. Yet the other half can’t help but be soothed by the calming tingles running through the length of me. There’s a trust I can’t explain, like a gentle, unspoken lullaby, and I know I’m safe. The heat, the masculine touch, the warm breaths soft as a whisper that rise and fall at the nape of my neck. I don’t want to think at all right now. I just want to feel.
The caress slides back down the right side of my neck, almost skimming along my collarbone, when it stops. Draws back. I hear a hitch in the breathing, a tremble for a fleeting moment, the smallest hint of the effort it takes to pull back. Then the touch returns, but only to my scar, traveling down the length of it with incredible slowness, taking its time. As though savoring every moment of contact with me, in a way I’ve never experienced. A sigh pours from my lips, and when my head falls back, it’s caught by the solid warmth behind me. It’s real enough that I could swear I’m pressed up against the presence right now, a presence that sure as hell feels like a man—tall, strong, sturdy. The feeling is so vivid I find myself thinking in terms of him instead of it.
A shake breaks his steady breathing again, another warm tremble in my ear, and I feel the tightness of his body rise and fall with each breath.
I’m letting myself go, relaxing every part of me until the only thing keeping me upright is his body, and as I do, the hard curves of muscle tense against my back.
Something in the air changes, and the presence behind me wavers. It’s completely solid one moment, and in the next it’s fluid, as though nothing more than a strong breeze props me up. Soon it’s not even a breeze, just a puff of air, and I’m grabbing the edge of the counter with both hands to keep from tumbling backward.
My legs wobble, struggling to support the rest of me. When I catch sight of my reflection now, my face is flushed. I let out a loud exhale when I remember how to breathe and command myself to get a grip. I’m still feeling like a sloshy puddle when I slip my sweater back on over my head and drag myself to the front door of my room, unlocking it and yanking it open.
I need fresh air like a drug right now, and I can’t stumble down the stairs fast enough. I hear Claire’s bubbly greeting when I fly past the front desk, but I don’t stop until I’m standing on the sidewalk, bending forward with my hands on my knees and soaking up the crisp winter breeze.
What the hell is happening? This can’t just be in my head. I know I’ve been a little off since Grams’s passing, but there’s no way I’d be able to dream up something so freaking real.
It was here. He was here.
Whoever he is.