Author Archive

Defying death is the ultimate dare. Defying love? Well, that’s just stupid.

A Red Hot Weekend story.

Back-to-back medical degrees took Emily Knox right where she planned to be: treating patients in an alternative cancer clinic. But nothing prepared her for a cocky, cheeky Aussie who strode into her life and dared her to cure him. She told herself it was his challenge she couldn’t resist—not his daredevil charm.

Eight months later, Rob’s out of danger…and Emily’s in trouble. She’s in deep, too deep. Worse, Rob has left the clinic against doctor’s orders. There’s nothing for it but to follow him across eleven thousand miles of land and sea to give him what for—as his doctor, of course.

Rob never expected to survive the brain tumor. Nor did he expect to fall head over heels for his very proper, very English oncologist. The problem? Her Hippocratic Oath hangs between them, keeping her just out of reach. Now, with “cured” on his medical chart and his duty as best man for his best mate calling, he takes off for home to start getting his old life back.

Trouble is, while the good doctor cured his cancer, she seems to have inflicted him with something else—desire he just can’t shake.

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Available At Samhain and Amazon

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Dirty desires, dark secrets…deepest love

Fire, Book 2

Well, this is an unexpected twist. Jenna Brooks is all set to spend the weekend wallowing in misery, repairing the cracks in the façade she’s maintained for twelve years. Instead she’s…tied to a chair. Kidnapped by her own twin brother and her so-called best friend.

It’s for her own good, they say. She’ll thank them later, they say. But when they reveal her partner in captivity, she shores up her emotional barriers. It’s Garreth Halt. The one man for whom she let her guard down. What a fool she was.

For one electrifying moment, Garreth had Jenna naked in his arms, on the edge of losing her legendary control. Could have kept her there forever, too, if he hadn’t felt honor-bound to tell her the truth. Before she’d heard the whole truth, though, she’d retreated behind the fortress around her heart.

Now they’re knee to knee, with no escape. While he’s irritated he let his alleged best friend get the drop on him, a small part of him is thrilled. With one final chance to show her his love is real, Garreth methodically, wickedly, sets out to dismantle her defenses.

One dirty word at a time.

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Available At Samhain and Amazon

Safety in numbers? Depends on what you mean by safe…

Bridget Wilder’s life is shot to hell—literally—when she witnesses the murder of her best friend, Lyle. Protective custody? What a joke. Time after time, someone has leaked her whereabouts, forcing her to run from one safe house to the next.

Tired of cold, lonely beds and living in fear, Bridget convinces her guardian cop she’s safer off the grid, following Lyle’s trail of clues to a missing flash drive that could put the killer behind bars.

It doesn’t take twins Mark and Matt James long to figure out two things. Bridget’s not only in trouble, she is trouble—they both want her. When things get a little hot and heavy one night, though, they’re stunned to discover that they don’t mind sharing. And she loves being shared.

Between the James brothers’ hot, hard bodies, Bridget finally feels safe—and loved. When a hit man tracks her down, the last thing she wants is for them to place those bodies between her and danger. But those cowboys have other ideas. Like keeping her alive long enough to convince her she belongs with them. Forever.

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Product Warnings

Scary times ahead! An evil judge, a car chase, a hit man and more! Luckily, the rough times are soothed by lots and lots of ménage sex with two red-hot alpha cowboys.

Now Available At Samhain or Amazon

Free Read Special Promo for Two Weeks

Red Light Series, Book One

“Through my window, a sea of strangers swirl and retreat like waves in an ocean of humanity. I brush my hair, fix my makeup and flip on the glaring red light in my booth before turning to face my audience on the other side of the glass.”

 

For Star, this is another night on the job, though no two are ever alike. Adaptable and perceptive, she becomes many things in the course of one evening—whore, lover, nurse, psychologist and friend. But above all, she’s still a woman. Join her, through her window.

 

Free At Amazon

Free and B&N

Free at Ellora’s Cave

When Mr. Wrong measures up just right!

College tart Felix McAvoy is used to causing a stir with his conceptual art pranks, but for his final show he’s planning something even more outrageous. In a last ditch attempt to seduce his jaded tutor, Felix plans to wear the canvas in a subversive display. However, if he’s going to do this right he’ll need a tailor-made canvas suit. Fortunately, he knows just the tailor to turn to for the favour—and Felix isn’t shy about offering favours of a very different kind in return.

First year fashion student Andrew Wheeler knows Felix by reputation only—and plans to keep things that way. Andrew’s determined to save himself for the man of his dreams, and Felix couldn’t be more different from his ideal Mr. Right. There’s only one use Andrew will contemplate for Felix’s body: a model for his end of year project. Trouble is, it’s going to involve a lot of close contact with a nearly naked Felix, and Andrew’s never had temptation quite so close at hand!

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Now Available At Amber Allure

Jess Dee has self-published a short story called Visiting Paradise available at Amazon. It’s only .99 cents and definitely worth checking out!

Visiting Paradise: The Blurb

Beth Brown needs a holiday. She’s burnt out, single and madly in love with the man who pays her salary, Joe Bastion. Much as she’d like to act on her feelings, Beth’s learned the hard way not to sleep with the men she works for.  As far as she is concerned, Joe is off limits.

Sometimes, to get what you want, you have to chase hard. And  Joe wants Beth  He’s organized the trip of a lifetime for her. Beth’s about to set sail into paradise, and she has no idea Joe’s the one who’ll be taking her there.

Product warning: This book is filled with sunny blue skies, gorgeous tropical islands and a whole lot of scorching hot loving.

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Buy Visiting Paradise at Amazon

What do you love about being an author?

 

The writing itself. Not having to feel guilty about spending my time on my favourite hobby because there are more important things I should be doing. It’s a very freeing feeling.

 

 

Do you write one story at a time, or do you have multiple stories going at once?

 

One story at a time. I may have more than one plot idea running around in my head, but I never write more than one story at a time. I need to get a feeling for my characters, connect with them, with my world, and the best way to do that is to focus on one world, one set of characters. I can’t hop from story to story, though I admire writers who can.

 

 

How do you develop your plots and your characters? Do you use any set formula?

 

No set formula at all. I go by instinct. I’ll look up possible traits, different elements of the world I’m building, but I write mostly from pure instinct. I tend to leave the research, unless I really can’t ‘wing’ it, to the editing phase. Anything to keep in the flow.

 

 

Does the title of a book you’re writing come to you as you’re writing it, or does it come before you even begin the first sentence?

 

Some stories have a title before I even start writing the first sentence, like The Forester. I never think my first title is the final title, but some of the working titles I’ve come up with seem to stick and will become the title I want to use. With other stories I struggle to get a title that fits. It may be because the story’s essence changed or the title just doesn’t seem to have a nice ring to it. In those cases I often fiddle around or ask friends for input until I’ve got a title I can work with.

 

 

What do you think makes a good story?

 

A story that touches me. A story that, even though I don’t notice it until after I’ve finished the book and am hesitant about putting it down, nestles itself into my heart and stays with me.

 

 

What was the best piece of advice you’ve received with respect to the art of writing? How did you implement it into your work?

 

“Make a note and fix it later” as mentioned by Michael A. Stackpole in one of his podcasts. It seemed such an off hand comment, but it works. It stops me from rewriting the same chapters over and over and lets me just get on with it and finish the story, before turning it into a polished and well-rounded work.

 

If I suddenly find myself realising I did something wrong in chapter one, I don’t go back and rewrite from that point. No, I make a note to remind me to change it in that chapter when I get to the editing phase, and then keep writing, pretending the correction is already done.

 

 

When someone reads one of your books for the first time, what do you hope they gain, feel or experience?

 

Joy, mostly. I want readers to enjoy my stories and be able to dive into a different world for as long as the story lasts. Although, I always hope they’ll gain a sense of hope that one day everyone will realize that diversity is a fact of life, and love doesn’t discriminate.

 

 

Writing is obviously not just how you make your living, but your lifestyle as well. What do you do to keep the creative “spark” alive – both in your work and out of it?

 

I have singing lessons, do Qigong, regularly cycle with a friend. I have some friends I talk to about writing, both mine and theirs, not to mention my husband, even if we mostly end up talking about the kids, his work, and chores that desperately need doing. Other than that, I just hop along, live my life, and even the silliest things will spark an idea. Though, most often, sparks are not related to anything I’m doing at all. I keep saying that inspiration is a bitch with a lousy sense of timing, as grateful as I am to have so much inspiration, I wish she didn’t visit me just after I’ve turned the light off to go to sleep.

 

 

By night, you’re a romance writer. What do you do by day?

 

Actually, I’m a romance writer night and day, whenever the inspiration hits. I dumped my studies last January — I studied to be an English teacher, but lost the motivation somewhere along the way — and decided to focus on my writing (on New Year’s Eve, no less).

 

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be? Is that what you wanted to be when you were a kid?

 

A Singer. Although these professions aren’t mutually exclusive I love to sing, I love evoking emotions in people, though I can’t help but feel embarrassed when someone comes up to me to tell me I caused them goose bumps.

 

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I was a kid. I remember thinking up stories about being a famous singer/musician and riding horses and having famous uncles — I so wanted to be McGyver’s niece. The clearest memory of mentioning any set occupation was answering ‘shop assistant’ when asked in primary school. Even today I have no idea how I came up with that idea.

 

 

What was the very first romance you ever read? How old were you? Were you being naughty and sneaking it off the shelf before you really even know what sex was? Or were you more of a late-bloomer when it comes to romance books?

 

I think I may have been thirteen or so. My mother read them. I was very addicted to them for a while, and read everything, even Barbara Cartland — what can I say? I liked the idea of handsome highway men — until I discovered detective stories when I was about fifteen or so. Much more action, fewer big misunderstandings.

 

I was a late bloomer to discover romance novels that included sex scenes. Actually, I discovered slash fic first.

 

 

What’s the sexiest feature on a man to you? How about on a woman?

 

Oh … err, I’ve always been an eyes and smile type, though deep voices hit me like a ton of bricks as well. On a woman?  I wouldn’t know. I don’t look at women that way at all. I can only say that breasts are so not my thing.

 

 

If you were doomed to spend the rest of your life on an island with only one book, one person, one food (coconuts and fish aside), and one object from the modern world (computer, deodorant, vibrator, etc.), what would they be?

 

One book? That’s a tough one. I’d go with my complete works of Jane Austen in that case, but only because there is no complete works of Josh Lanyon yet. The person would have to be my husband. Pears for food (so versatile). As for object from the modern world. My first instinct would be to say laptop, but I fear it’ll be useless when the battery runs out, so I’ll go with pen and paper. Those are technically two objects, but one just doesn’t go without the other.

 

 

Without getting up, can you tell us what’s under your bed? (Just for fun!)

 

Dust, most likely, a couple of lost earrings, no doubt, and other stuff that has a tendency to drop off my night table.

 

 

If you came with your own personal warning label, what would it say?

 

Very tactile and a perpetual hugger. Will try to keep you from leaving after a visit.

 

 

If you could meet a paranormal being or character of your choice with no safeguards, what/who would you choose and why?

 

Oh … can Snape be called a paranormal character?  If yes. I’d love to meet him. He’s been one of the most intriguing characters I’ve ever read. Not to mention that I have this thing for the underdog, the less loved. I can’t help it, I just want to grab hold of them and care for them. Someone has to.

 

 

What has been one of the most surprising things you’ve learned while writing your books?

 

That I’m surprisingly level-headed during edits. I may kick and scream when I first open edits, but then I’ll let them rest, and when I go back, I can see how the comments make sense and are right. And if I feel they’re not, I usually have a good motivation to go with it.

 

 

What does your significant other and/or family think of your writing career? Who is your biggest supporter?

 

My husband is my biggest supporter. My genre is so not his cup of tea, but he’s confident in my abilities and doesn’t care who I tell what I write. He’s a keeper, that one. My boys have faith in me, and my family is quietly supportive, boggled, at times, but with a very ‘to each their own’ attitude.

 

 

When it comes to the covers of your books, what do you like or dislike about them?

 

I love them, so far. I love the colour schemes, love the way both artists interpreted the settings, and

both have done a very good job of bringing my characters to life.

 

 

If you could pick anyone in the world to be the cover model(s) on your next release, who would it be?

 

That would depend on what my next release would be, and I’m not counting The Fifth Son, since that already has a cover. Choosing is difficult, because my mind’s immediately running through all the actors/performers that I’ve fancied over the years. You know, I think I’ll go with Christian Kane. His hair fits my fantasy settings, and he does have that drool factor. Well, to me he has, anyway.

 

 

Do you have any suggestions for other beginning writers? If so, what are they?

 

Finish your story. You can talk about wanting to write, yearning to be published all you want, but you need to have a finished work to do that. And don’t get stuck on trying to make your first scene the most perfect scene you can. Finish the story first, and then you can worry about making it look polished.

Also, research the publishers and take their submission guidelines seriously. Better have your manuscript look wrong with their awful font than be rejected because you didn’t follow the guidelines.

 

 

What are your current works in progress?

 

I wrote a trans* story for NaNoWriMo, that I’m letting rest a bit before editing/rewriting and polishing. It’s about an investigator who finds out that his boyfriend was the female suspect in a murder case he’s working on.

 

Right now I’m writing a story about a mute, magical baker with a penchant for scarification, set in the same universe as the Forester, though different village/tribe and location. I feel so comfortable writing that world that I couldn’t resist writing another story. No reappearance of old character’s though, at least, not yet. I do have some tentative plans to revisit Kelnaht’s village. I also have a first draft in need of editing and rewriting about a blind curse breaker fighting for his right to do the job he’s good at.

 

Who are your books published with?

 

Storm Moon Press.  http://www.stormmoonpress.com/

 

 

Can you tell us a bit about your latest release?

 

The Forester, released on December 22nd by Storm Moon Press, is about Kelnaht, a cloud elf and Truth Seeker, who is caught between love and faith. He tries to solve a murder committed ten days before Solstice that reveals an illicit affair between two tree elves he desires more than he can admit: Kelnaht’s former lover Ianys, who once betrayed him, and the shunned forester named Taruif, who is not allowed to talk to anyone but The Guide, their spiritual pathfinder. When Taruif turns out to be the only witness for the crime, Kelnaht has to keep Ianys from sacrificing himself and losing his daughter, while at the same time realizing he’d gladly sacrifice himself to end Taruif’s loneliness.

 

 

Where can readers find you and your most recent work? How about your next release? Tell your fans how to find you!

 

You can find my website at: http://blainedarden.com

Twitter:  @BlaineDArden (http://twitter.com/BlaineDArden)

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/BlaineDArden

Goodreads: Http://www.goodreads.com/BlaineDArden

email: blaine@blainedarden.com

 

My next release, The Fifth Son about Llyskel, the fifth son of a King who is the only one unable to perform even the smallest magic-based tasks in a world where everyone possesses magic to some degree or other, will be released on March 9th and can be found here: http://stormmoonpress.com/books/The-Fifth-Son.aspx

 

Thank you for having me! It’s been fun!

Red Light Series, Book Four

 

After a courtship filled with nights steamy enough to thaw the lingering winter chill, Sarah is finally beginning to believe she might have found the one man who can support her career as a sex worker in Amsterdam’s Red Light district. But when she asks around, it’s clear Rick isn’t taking advantage of the freedom their open relationship offers. None of the sexiest girls in the district have serviced him for months.

 

Afraid of losing the star of her extra-naughty dreams, Sarah confronts her boyfriend about his change of heart. Rick confesses he’s no longer interested in wild times without her. Instead, he’d like to try experimenting with multiple partners, show off his sexy woman and revel in the company of like-minded hedonists. Fortunately, he knows just the place for a debauched experience wicked enough to make even an experienced hooker blush.

 

A sexual free for all is on the menu at one of Amsterdam’s infamous swinger’s clubs, and by the end of the night, Sarah is going to get the surprise of her life.

 

Buy Now At Ellora’s Cave

Party Games, Book 2

Daring to tell the truth will change the rules of this game forever.

When her friend deserts her at an exclusive Sydney house party, Miki Drummond retreats to a corner to observe the insanity. Watching life go by is something she does well, especially after the hell her marriage put her through.

She never dreamed she’d reconnect with not one but two blasts from her high school past. And she never expected their heated gazes to bring her body so easily back to life.

Grant Rogers and Dayne Pierce never forgot Miki. Ever. Past experience tells them to tread slowly and carefully, but that plan flies out the window when they’re all dragged into a game of Truth or Dare. Something’s up, because Miki repeatedly chooses to take a shot rather than reveal her obvious pain. Time after time.

Waking up hungover in a strange bedroom, Miki is caught in an electrically charged moment with two men who offer her unimaginable pleasure, who seem determined to keep her suspended in sweet torment—permanently.

One night of pure fantasy is all Miki dares to take, but come morning the hard truth is that walking away isn’t an option.

Warning: The author cannot be held responsible for any truth you may tell or dare you make take after reading this story. And if you find yourself sandwiched between two hunky men…take the dare.

Available At Samhain

And Amazon

 

Sequel To Night and Day

One year after the battle between the sun sprites and vampires, Ben Volio finds a vampire on the brink of death alongside the road. With no other help available to him, and no knowledge of vampire medicine, Ben takes him to the home of his friends, where he hopes they can heal the severely injured stranger.

However, this is no ordinary vampire. Seth Sampson was a former guard employed by the vampire Lord Veturious, and ever since his betrayal of the family, he has been held captive and tortured as punishment, and now he’s being hunted down until he’s returned to his prison.

His very presence endangers Ben’s friends, who are also in hiding from the vampires and sun sprites. Should Ben trust that Seth will not give away their secret as a trade-off? Or will becoming close to him prove to be the worst mistake of both their lives?
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Available Now At Siren Publishing

Book one in the Undone Lovers series.

When amateur fetish model and rockabilly princess Adelita “Addie” Sanchez is asked to model for an instructional BDSM book, she turns the offer down—she’s not a porn star. Then she meets the three male Dominants behind the project, including Lane Therres, who convinces her the book is more art than porn, and she’ll be safe in his hands.

 

The rules of the photo sessions are clear—there’s no sex, and Addie can call a halt to anything she’s uncomfortable with. But self-reliant, strong-willed Addie doesn’t count on liking what the powerful Doms do to her body with their ropes, chains and toys. Enjoying Emory’s touch after falling for Lane, Addie turns away from both men, scared of what they’re making her feel. She’s worried that a relationship built on a BDSM contract can never be anything but whips and chains.

 

Lane will exchange Dom leather for shining armor to prove to his rockabilly princess that even the most gallant knights sometimes prefer dungeons.

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Buy Undone Rebel Available at Ellora’s Cave

Book one in the Semper Fi Series

Hoorah! Take no prisoners.

The military is Marine Colonel Joe “Magnus” Rivers’ reason for being. Protecting the United States of America from all threats is his sole purpose in life. His world is turned upside down when a woman is assigned to his team of elite Marines and his attraction to her threatens his career.

NCIS Special Agent Emily Patterson’s orders: infiltrate Colonel Rivers’ team and find the culprits behind a rash of kidnappings connected to a sex slave ring. Her mission parameters didn’t include an attraction for Colonel Rivers but nothing in Emily’s career could have prepared her for Magnus. Her job becomes more difficult as she gets to know the man behind the uniform and Emily finds herself wanting to prove herself to him, potentially exposing her identity before she clears Magnus.

Magnus and Emily struggle against their growing feelings for one another, both knowing the consequences of giving in to lust. Magnus is Emily’s team leader and fraternising is against the rules. Emily is investigating Magnus and his team; getting involved with him could ruin her investigation and her career.

Reader Advisory: This book contains some violence and lots of swearing and sexual assault.

Publisher’s Note: This book was previously released at another publisher. It has been revised and re-edited for release with Total-E-Bound.

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Buy Magnus Available At Total-e-Bound

Hi, I’m Lee Brazil, back out and about peddling my wares again. *sips coffee and lounges back in the chair* For those of you I haven’t met, I’m a writer of m/m romance with Breathless Press and The Story Orgy. Hey y’all, to those familiar faces there, and there. *waves*  Help yourself to the coffee, it’s an eternal addiction of mine, much like writing.

Writing fiction that is. I’m not much good at this blogging thing, but it’s a necessity, I hear, when you’re an author of e-books.  Blogs are readers’ chief source of information about you, your style, and your work. Well, I’m a member of quite a few writer’s groups, and it might surprise you to know, that for people who make our living with words, a lot of us never have a clue what to say in these things. Do you talk about yourself? Your book? Some random topic of current interest? It’s a dilemma of epic proportions, because of course you always want to turn it around to your books, and get in that little plug, and if you choose the wrong topic, well…then it’s awkward.

Then there’s the concern about how long it should be. Do you write one page? Two? *sips coffee*  Just how much do people want to read of my rambling before we get to the point? See what I mean? *rubs head* It’s why writing fiction is easier.

My latest release was last Friday, January 6^th.  It’s called The Librarian, and there’s this amazing cover that Staci Perkins designed for it.  I’m completely in love with the guy on that cover.  His hair curls forward in a sexy little demure wisp that just makes my heart go pitter patter.

The idea for this story came to me through some obscure and unfathomable thought process that began with a conversation with my significant other over what “types” we found sexy.  In other words, we were fighting over whether Johnny Depp or Sean Connery was hotter. *sighs, smiles*

Somehow we pulled ourselves away from the specific to address the general, and I had to confess that I have long found intelligence an extremely sexy character trait in a man.

As discussions do, this one drifted- turned into careers that an intelligent man might pursue. Some of those careers are pretty common in romance novels, even m/m ones.  Law enforcement, medicine, and legal fields were top of the list.

This is where my warped childhood comes into play.  Long ago, my father, a wonderful man, collected Playboy magazines. Then he married, had children, and boxed up his collection to store in the attic away from young eyes.

Attics are alluring places for young adventurers to play on rainy days, and on one such afternoon I discovered my father’s stash. * Sigh*  I don’t remember details…Just a feature on libraries and librarians…oh my.

So, when my SO challenged me to come up with an intelligent hero who was neither a doctor, a lawyer, nor a cop, I immediately bypassed nuclear scientist and told him I’d be writing a sweet, sexy romance about a librarian.

And here it is.

The Librarian

Available at http://www.breathlesspress.com/librarian

 

Blurb

 

Valentine Michaels has just taken a vow of celibacy. Adrian Grey intends to take full advantage of that vow to re-create his relationship with Val.

Val is at a crossroads in his life. A college dropout, he’s gone as far as he can in his career as a cosmetologist, owning his own style salon. He no longer finds satisfaction in it, though he’s put years into proving to his bigoted parents that a college degree and the veneer of straightness aren’t the only roads to success. They’d turned their backs on him, and he proved he didn’t need them to make it.

His love life is no better than his working life. His relationships always start with a bang and fizzle into boredom, or worse, anger.

Adrian has his own agenda for helping Val: he’s been in love with Val since they were freshmen. The intervening years of listening to Val’s gossip about his lovers and relationships have taught Adrian just what it was he did wrong all those years ago, and he thinks this time around he now knows exactly how to get—and keep—his man.

 

Excerpt
Adrian writing in purple ink stunned him more than the idea that Adrian had a crush on him. After all, they’d been down that road once before. Purple ink was so not Adrian. Black. Or Blue. Traditional. Classic. That was Adrian.

“Yeah, did you like it? Here, grab a cup of coffee and a pastry and let’s take a walk.” The other man turned and walked out the door, apparently assuming that Val would follow.

Val grabbed a coffee and hurried to catch up with Adrian. Jeez. Now what would he do? He had to let Adrian down gently. No sense ruining what had been a perfectly good friendship. No way could he ask Adrian to help with the redecorating project now. Distance, not closeness, was called for.

“Listen, Adrian, we have to talk. I really meant it when I said I’m not interested in men right now and honestly,” he touched the other man’s arm sympathetically, “you’re just not my type, you know? So, much as I appreciate all the little gestures, I just feel friendship for you, okay?”

The other man’s blue eyes sparkled at him, in apparent—amusement? “Are you done, Val?”

“Well, yeah, that’s what I wanted to say. No hard feelings, right?”

“Right, Val. Let me set you straight on a few things before we talk about feelings, okay? First of all, I noticed you were down Friday, so I sent you the flower, yeah. I love those bird of paradise flowers. The colors are so sunny and cheerful. Then this morning, I wanted to talk to you about something, and sorry, but the coffee and pastries were as much because I knew I’d be hungry as for you. Yeah, you’re hot as hell, but I know I’m not your type. And you know I know it, too. That’s why you’ve been ramming tales about your wild and crazy love life down my throat for the past ten years, isn’t it? I’ve heard about every new man as soon as you’ve met him, and every break up when it inevitably comes along. Why do you do that, Val? It’s not for your own benefit, you know? You’ve been making sure that I knew that you weren’t interested in hooking up with me all these years. I fucking get it, okay? You don’t seem to see that I’m not the same man today as ten years ago. And that’s your loss, not mine. I’ve done things, experienced things in the last few years that have helped me define who and what I am, in and out of bed, Val. Too bad you can’t say the same.”

Val swallowed and pulled his hand back. He shook his head as his brain whirled trying to keep up, to comprehend all the data Adrian threw at him in one long speech. “Whoa. Sorry. I just talk while I’m working, you know? I… Shit…sorry.”

 

Author Bio & Contact Information

I’m an avid reader and former teacher of grammar and composition who believes that falling in love is the grandest adventure anyone can have.  In a nutshell, that’s every story I have to tell.

Relocating from the crazy pace of life in Southern California’s Orange County to the beautiful and leisurely atmosphere of the Illinois countryside has given me the time to indulge the desire to write that I set aside when I started teaching fourteen years ago. Readers can find out more about me and my writing by visiting me at my blog, Lee’s Musings or finding me on Facebook.  Feel free to drop me a line at lee.brazil@ymail.com

Will his boyfriend’s girlfriend become his girlfriend too?

Powertools, Book 4

James has watched each of the crew fall in love, one by one, until only he and his life partner Neil remain “unattached”. So, when he sees the way his bisexual boyfriend is checking out their new apprentice, he’s sure he’s doomed to lose the man of his dreams.

His love is strong enough that he would let go to ensure Neil’s happiness. Instead, sparks fly between the three of them—along with the rest of the crew—and he realizes he might not have to surrender because his boyfriend’s girlfriend is becoming his girlfriend too.

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Hi everyone sorry things got a little crazy with the holidays and I sort of forgot to choose the winners so please forgive me, I do have them now though. I will be contacting the winners as soon as I post this, so if you see your name look for an e-mail from me either in your inbox or spam folder or you can contact me.

The Winners are…

Peter Hansen’s Winner is Emma

Kari Gregg’s Winner is Aiga

Cat Grant’s Winner is Regina R.

L.A. Witt’s Winner is Anastasia

Damon Suede’s Winner is Tracey D.

 

Congrats on winning and will be contacting you each individually to get the information I need from you.

 

EVEN ON CHRISTMAS A LITTLE EYE CANDY IS NICE

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM EVERYONE HERE AT EBOOK ADDICT REVIEWS

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Riptide Publishing is back sharing some of their new releases with us. remember that all comments enter you in their grand prize drawings for a Nook, Kindle, iPad and other check out the Riptide Publishing site for more information I understand there is a web hunt that starts today.

Do you want to live? In the darkness of a WWI battlefield, young Legionnaire Edouard Montreuil lies dying. As teeth nibble his flesh, a voice whispers in his ear, Do you want to live? Frightened and desperate, Edouard bargains his freedom for a second chance.

Aboard the Flèche, a grim submarine captained by the nightmare who granted Edouard new life, Edouard pays the price for his survival. Each night, he gives his body to his captain as the bells sound first watch. But surviving is not living, and as the days stretch into months beneath the waves, Edouard grows desperate for escape.

Can Edouard’s old comrade Farid Ruiz help him break this devil’s bargain, or will Ruiz fall to the same fate, trapped beneath the waves at the mercy of a monster whose hunger knows no bounds? Edouard and Ruiz served together once before, and slept together too, but courage and passion failed to save them from the eldritch beasts who roamed the night. This time, the cost of failure is nothing so clean or simple as death, and the spoils of victory are not just life, but love.

Chapter One

The dog watch shaded into the first watch, and at the eighth bell, Edouard Montreuil put aside his pen and rose from his bunk. He locked his letter carefully in his sea chest, then buttoned his shirt collar up against his throat. A useless gesture, he knew—it’d be undone for him within the first moments—but he took pride in small signs of resistance.

The other men on first watch went to their stations at the observation deck or the con, and the night crew of engineers went aft to spell the men in the engine room. Edouard walked with them, as he always did, and they ignored him, as they always did. They, too, had their reasons for serving on the Flèche; better not to ask what debts a fellow crewman was repaying beneath the waves.

They’d been submerged for three days now, and the air was thick and hot and stale. The engine room hummed faintly. Behind their tight steel cages, the electric lights gleamed white and steady.

An assistant engineer on dog watch gave Edouard a worried look, and he raised his chin at the pity in it. “Go to your bunk, Valancourt,” he said. If he didn’t have the rank to enforce the order, neither did Valancourt have the will to stay. The crew knew why he passed through the engine room to the captain’s cabin night after night. If they didn’t, it was only willful ignorance.

He ducked his head and slid through the aft portal sideways, like a long-limbed crab. Stork, Ruiz had called him back in la Légion, when they’d all been looking for new names. All long legs. For a moment, Edouard stood in the narrow passage between the officers’ quarters and the engine room, remembering the way the sun had beat down on his brow in Algeria and the way Ruiz had laughed. He passed the alcove where the officers bunked, and rapped on the door of the captain’s cabin.

“Come in,” said a voice from inside—inside the cabin, or inside his own head, he’d never been able to say. It made his ears ache; it made his blood heat and his heart thrum in time with the engines until he thought his skin would burst.

He turned the handle and swung the door open, then shut it behind him. Closed away the light of the engine room, and closed himself into the darkness.

“Sir,” he said, and swallowed against the constriction of his collar. “Reporting for duty.”

“Good,” said the captain, and a limb like a wet cable fell cool and slick upon Edouard’s wrist. His lips found Edouard’s throat, sharp teeth catching there as he undid those carefully-closed shirt buttons.

A second mouth brushed over Edouard’s ribs, tongue wet with a viscous fluid that chilled his skin. A third latched at his hip, needle-teeth scraping, seizing. “Very good,” said the captain, against his throat and chest and hip, as his boneless fingers wrapped slowly over Edouard’s cock and coaxed it hard. Edouard’s skin crawled, but he willed himself still.

Two of those hungry mouths smiled, and the third whispered, “Then let us begin.”

My dear Farid Ruiz,

I cannot say how many times I have begun this letter and failed to send it. At first I thought I would charm you in French, but I have nothing charming to say, so I beseech you plainly in this formal Spanish: Come to Tarifa with all speed. My letters may be read, so I will say only that it is an urgent matter requiring your utmost discretion.

I will be waiting for you in a restaurant known as El Pobrecito, and there I shall remain at six o’clock every night until I am forced to depart.Yours sincerely,

Edouard Montreuil.

Tarifa, Spain

3 July, 1926.

A flash of lightning illuminated Edouard’s cup, casting a stark shadow along the curve of the rim. He brought it to his lips, sipping only sparingly at the coffee. They made it black here, and bitter; Edouard had never much cared for coffee, but they hadn’t any tea, and he needed his head clear.

Beside him, the wind dashed braids of rain against the windowpane. He tilted his chair back, letting it rest on the rearmost legs as he raised his arms in a stretch. He glanced out the window as he cracked his neck from one side to the other, but the rain was too thick for him to make out the far side of the street. Come on, Ruiz, he thought, as though it would bring the man running with the lightning at his back. Come out of the rain.

He would have counted the seconds before the thunder came, but the peal rolled in on the lightning’s heels and rattled the glasses behind the bar. In the relative dimness after the flash, he finished his coffee and frowned at the dregs.

“More coffee?” asked the young serving woman, and he raised his cup for her to fill anew. She spoke Spanish with an accent he couldn’t place; it wasn’t Castilian or Catalan, and it certainly wasn’t from the former colonies. He ought to have found it unremarkable, in a port city like Tarifa, but his hackles were already up—and she must have seen that he was giving her a hawkish look, because as she poured his coffee, she said, “If I can help you with anything . . .”

“I’ve been trying to place your charming accent,” said Edouard, and his own native French colored every consonant. “You’re a long way from home, I suspect.”

“Asturias,” she said. Her eyes crinkled a little at the question; she looked so delighted to have been asked he felt his suspicions evaporate. “I followed my husband from there when he was called to serve. He’s a lieutenant—”

The door crashed against the wall and sent the hatstand spinning, and the serving-woman startled at the clamor—she canted the coffee pot up too quickly, spilling a long line of tepid coffee across Edouard’s sleeve. The storm swept across the threshold, and with it, a man in a black Mackintosh coat. He drew off his hat, shaking his head like a long-haired pup and scattering drops of water over the nearest

patrons. “Where’s Montreuil?” he demanded. “Edouard Montreuil, where is he? I’m here to meet with him.”

Edouard rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. He hasn’t changed a bit. “Farid Ruiz,” he said with a rather fixed smile. “When I tell you that I’ve an urgent matter requiring your utmost discretion—”

“I nearly didn’t get your letter,” said Ruiz, his wet boots squeaking on the polished wood as he crossed from the doorway. “If it had come even a day later, I’d have been on the next flight for the Canary Islands, and then you’d have been drinking alone—and so much for your urgent matter! So much for your utmost discretion! Buy me a glass of good beer, Montreuil; I’m soaked to the skin.” He dropped into the seat across from Edouard’s, propping up his elbows on the table. He was indeed soaked to the skin, and the rain slicking his black Mackintosh had already begun to puddle beneath his chair. The Asturian serving woman smothered a laugh with her hand and brought him a cup and saucer, but he only gave her a tragic look when she began to fill it with coffee.

“Not a drop of beer?” he asked, and he fluttered his long, dark lashes at her. “Not a drop of rum? It’s not proper coffee without a drop of rum in it.”

“Not a drop,” said Edouard firmly. “We’ve business to discuss, and we’ll drink once we’ve concluded it.”

“Then on to your business, you old stork.” Ruiz downed the coffee in a long gulp, grimacing at the bitterness. “There, I’ve fortified myself. I assume it’s something to do with la Légion, if you wrote me about it?”

“Something like that,” replied Edouard, voice lowered—he didn’t particularly expect Ruiz to take the hint, but at least his own half of the conversation might be quiet. “Do you remember Algeria?”

“I’ll never forget Algeria. Mosquitoes everywhere, skirmishes with the locals, damn Belaire with his Carthagum delendum esta.”

“Carthago delenda est,” Edouard corrected absently. “And you remember what you did, when your colonel took that little Algerian boy and—”

Ruiz’s hand tightened on the coffee cup until the delicate handle cracked free. A shard of porcelain must have scored his skin, because

a drop of blood fell to the saucer. “That bastard,” said Ruiz, and now his voice was as soft as Edouard might have wished. “He deserved what he got.”

“And la Légion went on functioning just as it should. No snags in the business; no pauses for the damn courts-martial to decide whether he’d disqualified himself for duty; the men decided the sentence and carried it out. Everyone was happy with it.”

“As happy as you can be, when you’ve killed one of your own,” said Ruiz. Behind him, the serving woman was turning up the gaslamps against the oncoming darkness; the occasional flash from the window was blue and sharp with sea-lightning. Pobrecito, indeed. Too poor to have been electrified.

Ruiz sucked the blood from his thumb, then rested his chin on his fist. “If you dragged me here to bring up the worst parts of my service, I’m putting my hat back on and going to find a drink.”

“I’ve dragged you here,” said Edouard, “because my captain is a monster, and we go to sea as soon as we’ve a full crew.”

Ruiz tilted his head at that, his dark brows going up. He had strong features, only very faintly Spaniard—Edouard imagined he was the scion of conversos and morenos, simmering for generations under the Spanish thumb. Small wonder Fernando Ruiz had changed his name and joined la Légion. And small wonder he’d put a gun to his colonel’s head and blown him away.

Edouard’s hands were shaking. If he were to put his cup down on the saucer, the rattle would give him away.

“By the time we reach port in Tartous,” said Edouard, “I want him floating belly-up the Mediterranean. I want the crew to come out of it thanking me for killing him.”

“And following your orders? That’s what you’re after, yeah?”

“I don’t like your tone, Ruiz.” He took a long drink of coffee, giving himself time to calm his nerves, then set the cup very deliberately down. “I can live with another man’s command. If he’s a good man.”

“You don’t get many of those,” said Ruiz, bracing his chin on his hand. “I thought I could kill all of the bastards, and then the good men would rise to the top. But all I got were more bastards.” He raised his empty cup, and that toast said, To the revolution that never was.

Edouard raised his cup in answer, letting it click against Ruiz’s before tossing back the last of his coffee.

Outside, lightning cut across the street. Three seconds later, thunder rolled in behind it. “Promise me,” said Ruiz. “Promise me you have good reason to want your captain dead.”

A dozen clinging mouths, a long limb like a rope, wrapping around his throat and squeezing until he saw stars . . .

For a moment, Edouard’s throat closed. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Ruiz’s eyes. “If I thought there was any other way to do this, I’d have done it,” he said, still thick-tongued and aching. “If I thought for a second I could just kill him myself, or even walk away—”

“You can’t walk away from a monster,” agreed Ruiz.

To purchase First Watch, go to Riptide Publishing.

To learn more about Peter Hansen’s writing, visit his website.

 

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Riptide Publishing is back sharing some of their new releases with us. remember that all comments enter you in their grand prize drawings for a Nook, Kindle, iPad and other check out the Riptide Publishing site for more information I understand there is a web hunt that starts today.

Trans-Global IT director Connor Witt is a rare and prized anomaly: the aggression centers in his brain have been suppressed rather than stimulated by the mutated crops that so recently took over the world’s food supply. Bewildered by his physical changes and terrified of a world growing more and more predatory, Connor risks harassment and worse until Trans-Global CEO David Martin collars Connor to protect him against men like security consultant Emmett Drake. Men who stalk Connor as sweet, sexy prey. Men to whom the newly submissive Connor feels irresistibly drawn.

But David can’t be Connor’s master; David’s straight. He promises to find a worthy man, though. One willing to court and appreciate Connor as more than just some rich man’s toy.

While the world adapts to the biological disaster and new laws strip away Connor’s rights, David’s resolve to protect his boy slowly grows into something more. But can his new desires keep pace with Emmett’s determination to claim Connor?

One man offers safety; the other is a safer bet. Problem is, Connor’s never sure which is which. The one thing he does know? He wants them both.

 

Chapter One excerpt

 

Pleasantly buzzing from the cocktails his friends had pressed on him, Connor re-knotted the tie required at Trans-Global while he waited for the elevator in the lobby.

Work had been a nightmare since the CDC, the FDA and plenty of other alphabets had made their announcements about the genetic engineering disaster last year. First, the crush of investors scrambling to flee agriculture businesses had stressed Trans-Global’s stable of analysts.

Then symptoms emerged in the general population.

Nerves strung tight, Connor fidgeted with his tie. Frustrated investment brokers and technology did not mix. The increasing aggression the mutation provoked had taken a steady toll on the analysts—and the investment firm’s computer equipment. As Director of IT, Connor fixed what they fouled, replaced what they broke, and kept his head down.

Way down.

The less attention he drew to himself, the better. Intense, focused awareness followed him no matter where he went or what he did now—when he couldn’t hold a challenging stare, every time he yielded to the near-constant invasion of his personal space, whenever they touched him. And they always touched him. Fingers rustled his hair. A proprietary palm smoothed over the base of his spine when he walked. A heavy hand clasped his shoulder as he showed an analyst how he’d messed up his email. Again.chapter oneP

They were breaking their computers to get to him.

Connor didn’t know what to do. So when his friends had demanded the extra hour at lunch, he’d caved. He’d needed the break from the hungry stares at the office and saying no to the drinks his friends poured down him hadn’t been an option. Not really.

His friends had grown as predatory as the brokers. Connor’s nerves were shot. His stomach knotted when he felt heat at his back, a towering body that edged too close behind him. Didn’t matter how often one of them moved on him. It always made him shake.

“The elevator’s arrived. Unless you planned to wait for another?”

His muscles tensed. God, that voice. Connor darted a glance behind him and tried not to gulp at the full lips that curved into a sexy smile inches away. So near, Connor only needed to lean to bring that mouth to his. Part of him wanted to sway against him. The guy was tall, thick with muscle, and the confident glitter in his dark eyes promised there was little he couldn’t handle. Including Connor. Especially Connor.

He’d been fantasizing about that mouth for months. And he didn’t even know the man’s name.

“Come on, pet.” The dark-haired stranger chuckled, his fingers settling at Connor’s waist to nudge him forward. “I’ll take you upstairs where you belong.”

Heart thudding, Connor let the man guide him into the elevator. He wedged himself into a corner, though there was plenty of room for the two of them.

“Seventeenth floor, right?”

He jerked his head for a brief nod and kept his gaze glued to

the tile floor, unsurprised when the stranger growled a warning to an office worker rushing forward as the doors slid shut, sealing them inside. Alone.

Jesus, the guy smelled good—musky aftershave, the wispy scent of soap and, underneath it, the earthy aroma of aroused man. Connor’s mouth watered. A wave of lust heated his skin from the tips of his toes to the face he knew must be pink with embarrassment.

“You should wear your collar or your ID bracelet before you go out again. Something that identifies your master.” The man crowded him, raising an arm to prop it against the wall next to Connor’s lowered head. “Or have you slipped your leash?”

He swallowed. The shaming desire to press against the stranger’s long body churned Connor’s gut. He unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I didn’t sneak away,” he mumbled.

Technically true. He had no one to sneak away from.

“Then he’s a fool for letting you wander.” The stranger bent, his chin brushing aside the hair at Connor’s temple. The man sucked in a deep breath. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Connor trembled, both wanting and fearing that want all at the same time.

“He’ll lose you.” A finger traced the line of Connor’s jaw. “It’s not safe for you to walk the streets without a master’s protection. I’m tempted to take you myself.” He pushed Connor’s chin up, forcing Connor to meet his gaze despite Connor’s quiet whimper of protest. “Tell me. Is he careless? Besotted? Or stupid?”

“Mr. Witt?”

Connor startled at his name, then bodily sagged, never so relieved to see the receptionist, even if she was gaping at him. Barb had grown

possessive of him, in her way. She’d rescue him.

“Connor? Are you okay?”

The body caging his stepped aside. “He’s all right.”

No, he wasn’t. He was turned on, scared, and his heart was trying to gallop out of his chest. None of that remotely resembled “all right.” He slid bonelessly to the elevator floor.

“Just a lesson for the pet. And David Martin.”

Barb hurried forward, alternately screeching at the stranger and clucking over Connor like a mother hen. For once, Connor welcomed the attention. The receptionist’s firm grip on him as she shouldered him upright steadied him and his knees wobbled only a little when she guided him from the elevator. He could almost breathe.

He jumped when the stranger grabbed his hand. “My card.” He shoved it into Connor’s palm. “If David Martin is half the man I believe he is, he’ll contact my firm to protect you immediately. And if not . . .” The man arched an eyebrow. “My personal number’s on the back. Don’t let the other wolves have you, sweetheart. Come to me.”

Word traveled fast.

As Connor escaped Barb and the front lobby, his cell vibrated in his pocket in time with the insistent chirping of his office landline. He’d meant to hide in IT. Shut the door. Try to forget the incident had ever happened. He’d climb seventeen floors every day before he’d set foot in the elevator again. To hell with the fact that he hadn’t dared the isolated stairwells between Trans-Global’s three floors in months. He just couldn’t . . . He couldn’t be near that man again. He

smelled too good. And he’d treated Connor like a . . . a . . . thing. A toy. Like a choice morsel of meat.

Connor shivered. He had to steer clear of the stranger. Before he did something stupid like angle his cheek into the man’s palm, before he curled against his body. Before he grabbed the man with both hands and begged him to never let him go.

He needed a few minutes to stop his head from spinning. Trans-Global’s staff had decided an upset Connor was a weakened Connor, though, and a weak Connor was fair game. Especially now that Scott was out of the picture.

That all of them swooping down on him might rattle him never entered their aggression-doped heads.

Connor couldn’t think. They always crowded around him, offering bottled water and juice from the vending machines, a shot from a flask, chocolate to boost his blood sugar. He didn’t know whose hands rubbed his shoulders. He didn’t know who’d taken off his shoes. Somehow, this time, his tie ended up trailing from his collar, and his shirt was untucked, the first two buttons unfastened.

They meant well. These people had been friends and colleagues before the world had turned upside down. They still cared about him. None of them meant to scare the shit out of him. They were stripping him, though, and how badly he’d wanted to throw himself at the man in the elevator rocked him to the core. No matter how many people circled him, concerned and in their way trying to be helpful, Connor had never felt so vulnerable or alone.

Richardson, from accounting, shoved a box of tissues into his shaking hands.

When, for God’s sake, had he started crying?

“That’s enough.”

Oh fuck.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Mr. Martin, Trans-Global’s CEO, and wasn’t that perfect? When Connor knew the guy had probably been racking his brain for grounds to fire him all week? Given the escalation of unnecessary repairs the staff had rushed through IT to court him, Connor had been expecting the call for days. It was just that this afternoon, he couldn’t take it. He buried his face in a tissue and sobbed.

Mr. Martin threaded his fingers through the hair at the crown of Connor’s head, and that comforting stroke, the affection Connor craved, made it a million times worse.

“Back to work, everyone. I’ll handle this.”

Connor scrubbed at his leaking eyes, swiped at his dripping nose with a balled tissue. The last year had cost him everything and now it looked like it was finally going to rob him of his job, too, but he had some pride left. Not much. But a little. “I’m sorry, M-Mr. Martin. I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” One corner of the CEO’s mouth kicked up. “Follow me.”

Connor gaped as his boss pivoted and strode from the office. Then he scrambled to catch up. Had to leave his shoes behind, but at least he had Richardson’s tissues, which was good because the cursed tears started up again when he felt every eye track their progress to the exit in the lobby.

“I think you’ve had your fill of elevators today, don’t you?” Mr. Martin opened the stairwell door for him.

Connor’s toes curled on the cold, gritty cement under his socked

feet while the CEO led him up three flights and onto the executive floor. More eyes on him. Curious eyes. Hot stares.

Of course, he was parading around Trans-Global half-naked. Well, maybe not literally, but it sure felt that way. With his shoes gone, tie loosened, and shirttails flapping, Connor must have looked like he’d been caught necking in the backseat past curfew on Homecoming Night. He glued his stare to the dignified line of Mr. Martin’s shoulders in his discreetly elegant suit and sighed in shuddering relief when they reached his office.

“Hold all visitors and calls, Gretchen.”

The door shut with a quiet snick.

Mr. Martin walked to a sofa flanked by two wingback chairs off to one side of the spacious executive suite, rather than to his desk. Settling at one end, he waved at Connor. “Sit.”

Connor hurried to the sofa, back ramrod stiff as he perched on the edge of a cushion.

“You have a business card for me?”

He blinked at the soggy rectangle still in his palm. Eyes wide, he passed it to his boss.

Mr. Martin glanced at the card. “Ah. Integrated Security, four floors up. I thought so. Excellent reputation.” He flipped the card over and chuckled. “The man himself.” His gaze flashed to Connor. “You told Emmett Drake that you belong to me.”

Drake. The name of the man in the elevator was Emmett Drake. Alarm streaked through him like electric current, tensing already rigid muscles to iron. Connor fidgeted. “He assumed.”

The CEO laughed. “He would.”

Connor squared his shoulders. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you,

sir.”

“David.”

Connor’s head whipped up.

His boss stared at him, black eyes cool and clinically assessing. “You may as well call me David.”

Connor’s heart seized. “W-what?”

“You didn’t embarrass me. And if you wish, you need never speak to Emmett Drake again.” Mr. Martin—David—slipped the card into his suit pocket. “You’ve been with Trans-Global how long?”

Connor couldn’t think beyond the roaring of his pulse in his head. “Six years.”

David nodded. “Seven, counting your college internship. You came into the firm the same year I was recruited. I kept my eye on you.” He steepled his fingers. “Even before the disaster, you were popular and highly respected. You demand a lot of your team, but no more than you demand of yourself. Your dedication to Trans-Global has been exemplary. We—I—won’t reward that loyalty by abandoning you when you need us most.”

Connor pressed his lips shut, heat rising in his already flushed cheeks.

“You don’t have any family nearby.”

He stared at the plush beige carpet. “They’re in Sandusky.”

“They haven’t called you home?”

Return to Ohio? He shuddered. “They’ve tried.”

David patted Connor’s knee. He quivered under the touch. “It must be safer for you there.”

“When I told my parents I was gay, my dad threw me out. I was seventeen.” His shoulders hunched. “Now my father thinks he can

exploit . . . my problem . . . to cure me of my deviancy.”

David frowned. “Got a nice girl picked out for you?”

Connor’s balls shriveled to raisins. “I won’t go back to that. He can’t make me.” He dared a glance up through his lashes. “You can’t make me. Anything would be better.”

“All right.” His boss’s lips thinned. “What about your friends?”

He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to answer these questions, but David’s loose grasp on his knee didn’t fool Connor. If he tried to leave . . . Well, he couldn’t. His boss wouldn’t allow it, so Connor swallowed what little remained of his pride and tried for succinct. “My friends think I should reconcile with Scott.”

“Like everyone else, I assumed he was your master. Then you surprised us all by kicking him out, which no boy would ever do.” David’s eyebrow quirked. “What happened?”

“Scott wouldn’t give me his protection until he said I’d earned it. And . . . and . . .” Could this get any worse? Probably not. “You saw what he did to me.” His stare bored holes in the carpet between his socked feet, but he resisted the urge to touch where bruises had colored his jaw and ringed his eyes. “Everyone saw what he did. What I let him do.” Connor shrugged a stiff shoulder. “I kept telling myself that Scott was struggling with the changes like everyone else and once his aggression leveled, he’d stop hurting me. But he liked hurting me.” He gulped, tried again. “If I wore Scott’s collar, who would protect me from him?”

Nobody. That had terrified Connor most of all.

“I’m sorry. I truly am.” David blew out a sharp breath. “I was willing to let you and your boyfriend sort your relationship out at your own speed, but I can’t allow you to continue at Trans-Global

without a protector. This afternoon clearly illustrates why that would be unwise.”

 

To purchase Collared, visit Riptide Publishing

To learn more about Kari Gregg and her writing, visit her website.

 

LEAVE A COMMENT AND BE ENTERED TO WIN NOT ONLY ONE OF THE GRAND PRIZES AT RIPTIDE PUBLISHING BUT ONE WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE ONE BOOK OF THEIR CHOICE FROM KARI’S BACKLIST. WINNERS WILL BE CHOSEN AT THE END OF THE WEEK.

Riptide Publishing is back sharing some of their new releases with us. remember that all comments enter you in their grand prize drawings for a Nook, Kindle, iPad and other check out the Riptide Publishing site for more information I understand there is a web hunt that starts today.

Discharged under Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, former Marine major Cole Hammond is struggling to find a new identity. But PTSD casts a pall on everything, and his hard-nosed, homophobic father can’t even bear to look him in the eye. To top it all off, he’s pretty sure he’s flunking out of law school.

Marc Sullivan is a kind, sensitive romance author-slash-waiter with a thing for men in uniform. Cole’s not wearing his anymore, but there’s no mistaking the warrior Marc meets in the diner one rainy afternoon. Cole’s sexy smile and Carolina drawl prove irresistible, but Marc’s played this game before, and he always loses. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and if there’s one thing Marc knows about such men, it’s that they all leave him in the end. It doesn’t help that Cole’s practically closeted in public, or that he refuses to seek treatment for his PTSD.

But like any good Marine, Cole’s willing to fight for what matters. And like the characters in Marc’s stories, he’s certain that if only they try hard enough, together they can find their own happily ever after.

Chapter 1

November, 2009

The second he walked into the diner, I nearly dropped the stack of plates I was carrying. Six foot three at least, with long, long legs encased in jeans worn almost white across the front of his well-muscled thighs. Dripping wet from the freezing November downpour, he unzipped his rain jacket and pushed back the hood. Oh, holy Christ. Lush lips, strong chin, cheekbones that could slice through a rare steak. Nordic-god blond hair in a military buzz cut that instantly made the crotch of my jeans tight. Good thing I had my apron on. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and kept staring.

I wasn’t the only one. Terry’s hand froze momentarily over the cash register as our new arrival gave her a quick nod, grabbed the sports section from the front counter, and headed for the nearest empty table. He didn’t seem to notice us both gaping at him, or maybe he just didn’t care. Drop-dead gorgeous guys like him were probably used to it.

“That’s what I call a tall, cool drink of water.” Terry handed her customer his change and shut the register with a bump of her ample hip. “And lucky you—he just sat down in your section. Unless you want to take your break now?” She flashed me a toothy grin.

“Nice try,” I fired back with a wink. I put my armload of dirty dishes in a tub under the counter and grabbed a mug and a pot of coffee before making a beeline back to Mr. Tall-and-Hunky’s table. The shitty weather had scared away most of the usual Sunday morning crowd, so for once I didn’t get waylaid refilling cups.

Tall-and-Hunky glanced up as I approached. He looked about thirty, with nice eyes—pale blue, but not the least bit icy. Smiling, I

gestured toward him with the mug. “Hi, I’m Marc. Would you like some coffee?” He nodded. “Did you want some juice this morning as well, or maybe some water?”

“Coffee’s fine, thanks.” For a second I could’ve sworn I detected the soft lilt of a southern accent. And now I definitely recognized the haircut—shaved nearly bare on the back and sides, flat on top. The traditional “high and tight” cut worn by most Marines. Sweet, seedy memories of falling to my knees in the back room of an adult bookstore in Oceanside raced through my brain as I watched him stir raw sugar into his coffee and take his first tentative sip.

Then those big blue eyes locked on mine, jolting me back to the present. “Um, do you need a couple more minutes to make up your mind?”

He snagged a menu and gave it a quick once-over, the side with “Blue Windmill Café” printed on it flipped toward me. “I’ll have two eggs over easy with hash browns and a side of bacon.”

There it was, and no doubt this time—that unmistakable slow-as-honey Carolina drawl. Just like Rob, I realized with a pang, tugging my pad and pen from my apron to scribble down his order. “What kind of toast?”

“You got biscuits?” he asked shyly, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Afraid not. How about an English muffin?”

“That’ll do. Thanks.” He took another sip of his coffee and turned his attention back to the sports section.

“Looked like you were having a nice conversation,” Terry commented archly as I came back around the counter and stuck my order in the queue for Fernando. The smell of burnt toast and bacon grease floated forth from the kitchen, punctuated by the clatter of Fernando’s teenage son Pedro none-too-gently loading dirty dishes into the washer. “Did you notice him checking out your butt?”

“Yeah, right.” Six months ago, she might’ve had me going. Terry loved yanking my chain. Good-natured yanking, but still.

“For once I’m not kidding. He looked right at those cute little buns of yours when you turned around.”

I tossed a nonchalant glance in Military Guy’s direction. He had

his phone out now, and was punching at its tiny keyboard with mad double-thumb action. It looked like a toy nestled in his huge, long-fingered hands. Oh, dear God. If there was one thing I went crazy for, it was a guy with nice hands.

“Just my luck.” Terry shook her head, brunette ponytail swinging to and fro. “All the hot ones play for your team.”

“I think the jury’s still out on that.”

“Why don’t we put it to the test?” She snapped up a coffee pot from a burner. “Let’s see if he needs a warm-up.”

Of course, crotchety old Mr. Faber had to choose that moment to hobble up to the register to pay his bill. I rang him up while trying to peer over his shoulder to see what Terry was doing.

She could flirt with the best of them, I’d give her that. Hand resting seductively on her cocked hip, she gave Military Guy a big smile and batted her lashes. He smiled back, his gaze lingering on her impressive bust line. Didn’t mean anything one way or the other—hell, I stared at Terry’s tits too, mostly because they seemed to defy gravity. They exchanged words, but I couldn’t hear what either of them said. Finally, she topped off his mug and sashayed back to the counter.

“His mama raised him right,” she announced with a rapturous sigh. “Such lovely manners. He actually called me ma’am!”

I snickered. “Probably because you remind him of his mom.”

“Watch it, buster. I’m only thirty-five.”

According to Fernando, Terry’d just celebrated the sixth anniversary of her thirty-fifth birthday. But since I didn’t want to get kicked in the shin, I figured I’d better not mention it. Besides, my order was up.

I stacked both plates along my left arm like a seasoned greasy-spoon pro, grabbed a bottle of ketchup, and motored back to Military Guy’s table. He folded his paper and sat back, giving me room to set everything down. The plate with the bacon and eggs nearly slipped from my hand when he shrugged out of his slicker. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt underneath. A really tight plain black t-shirt stretched over every hard, smooth muscle in his chest and shoulders, showing off a spectacular set of guns. It was all I could do to keep

from drooling.

“A-anything else I can get you?” Coffee? Tea? Me?

“This’ll do for now, thanks.” His right sleeve hiked up when he reached for his fork, revealing a small tattoo of a bulldog with “USMC” emblazoned under it. Growing up in San Diego, I’d seen my fair share of Marine Corps tats. Most of them looked garish and trashy, but this one was actually kind of cute. So was this guy a real Marine, or just a wannabe?

One way to find out. “We don’t get too many devil dogs in this neighborhood. You here to protect Berkeley from the scourge of all us bleeding-heart liberals?”

His smile immediately faded. “I think I’m a little late for that. Besides, I’m not on active duty.”

Ouch. Now I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. “Well, let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“Will do.”

Before long, the rain slowed to a trickle and business started to pick up. Within half an hour, the place was packed, and Terry and I were running our butts off. Pedro even had to come out front to help bus tables and ring up customers. I got so busy I didn’t notice when Military Guy got up to leave. The next time I looked over at his table, he was gone.

Royally bummed, I went to clear off his dirty dishes—and there was his phone, under the discarded sports section he’d been reading. It was one of those pocket-sized prepaid models. People left them here all the time. They were so cheap he’d probably rather buy another one than retrace his steps to find it. Oh well. I’d toss it in the lost and found anyway.

He’d left a generous tip: five bucks on a breakfast that cost less than ten. A kind gesture, especially since I’d forgotten to come back and check on him. Not only damn cute, but a gentleman to boot—and with my luck, probably straight as a steel ruler. Best to put him out of my mind right now. I shoved the phone in my pocket, added his dirty plates to my ever-growing stack, and toted it all back to the front counter.

The sun started poking through the remaining cloud cover by

the time I got off shift at three. I headed down the block toward the bus stop, zipping up my jacket against the lingering chill. Typical Bay Area weather—cold, wet, and gloomy from now until March. The air tasted good, though, scrubbed fresh and clean by the rain.

Bus service ran slow on Sundays, so I ducked inside the shelter to wait, burying my hands in my jeans pockets. My fingers closed over something small and plastic. Shit, the Marine’s phone! A twinge of guilt plucked at me as I yanked it from my pocket and flicked it on. What was the harm in finding out his name? It wasn’t like I was planning to stalk him. One quick look, then I’d put the damn thing in the lost and found tomorrow.

Cole Hammond. A good, strong name with a touch of country twang. It suited him. His address was right below. It was only about three blocks north. Huh. Wonder why I’d never seen him in the diner before today?

Ten minutes crawled by, and still no sign of the bus. Fuck it—I might as well walk. Except my apartment lay south while my legs insisted on carrying me in the opposite direction, toward Cole Hammond’s place.

It was your usual depressing gray concrete apartment building on Channing, within easy walking distance of the UC Berkeley campus. I’d lived in one of the residence halls not far from here during my undergrad days. So was this Cole guy a student? He looked a little old to be getting his bachelor’s, but grad school was a possibility. Maybe he was studying for an advanced science or engineering degree on the government’s dime. He certainly seemed better-spoken than the average grunt. Of course, if Uncle Sam was forking out the money to send him here, he was probably an officer.

I found his name on the complex’s directory, then started to waver big-time. This was nuts. What the fuck was I thinking? I should just drop the phone in his mailbox and get out of here before one of the other residents saw me loitering and called the cops. Except it wouldn’t fit in the mailbox—the slats weren’t wide enough. And if I left it on the table in the foyer, it’d end up getting stolen.

I could bring it up to his apartment. Leave it outside his door, knock, then take off before anybody saw me. Like leaving a bag of

burning dog shit on someone’s stoop at Halloween, only slightly more considerate. Might as well do it and get it over with. I’d already come this far.

His apartment was on the third floor. I decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator. The place was a labyrinth of hallways, but finally I found the right one. As I rounded the corner, I saw someone else approaching from the other end of the corridor.

Oh, God, it was him!

He was carrying a Whole Foods bag in one arm, a six-pack of beer tucked under the other. Fat Tire, from the look of it. Funny, but I would’ve pegged him as a Bud or Michelob man. Those big blue eyes of his widened the moment he recognized me, and he stopped dead right in the middle of the hallway.

I held up his phone and forced a shaky smile. Didn’t want him thinking I’d shown up to mug him, though the mere idea of that was pretty fucking hilarious. He could probably flatten me with a flick of his pinkie. “You forgot something.”

“Holy shit.” Shoulders relaxing, he set down his groceries and started checking his pockets. Guess he just wanted to make sure. “I didn’t even know it was missing. Thanks, man. I appreciate you goin’ out of your way.”

The drawl was back, even stronger this time. “It was the least I could do after that nice tip you left me.”

“No problem. I waited tables every summer during high school. It’s a tough job.” He jerked his chin toward his apartment. “I was gonna crack open a cold one and watch the game. Wanna join me?”

Nothing like Southern hospitality. I smiled and said, “Sure, why not?” then followed him inside.

It was a one-bedroom unit overlooking a tiny green patch of courtyard and another apartment building across the way. Cramped living room just big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and a small flat-screen TV. Galley-style kitchen. A short hallway on the right-hand side of the living room led—presumably—to the bedroom and bathroom.

The place looked like an army of maids had just swept through, except for a laptop computer sitting open on the coffee table,

surrounded by several books and piles of papers. One thick volume had “Contract Law” stamped on its spine in bold silver type.

“Law school, huh? You enrolled at Boalt Hall?”

He looked up from putting his groceries away and nodded. “Yup. Just started this term.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s okay. A lot harder than I expected, though.” He snagged a couple bottles, twisted them open and brought them over. At his nod, we both sat down, the couch springs creaking under our weight. A little lumpy, but not too uncomfortable for something he’d probably bought at a thrift store. Scooping up the remote, he flicked on the TV. It was on a commercial, so he muted the sound.

“So you’ve been in town since, what?” I asked. “Last August? And today’s the first time you dropped by the diner?”

“I meant to stop in before. I pass the place every day when I’m out running. I don’t have a whole lot of money to spend on restaurants, but today I decided to treat myself and celebrate a belated birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday!” I leaned over to clink bottles, but he put up a hand to stop me. “You don’t want to drink to it?”

“It’s not mine. It’s the USMC’s. Or it was, last week. November 10^th.”

Oh, yeah. Rob and all his buddies used to make such a big deal out of it, going around slapping each other on the back and wishing each other happy birthday as if every damn Marine on the planet had been born on the same day.

“You’re not on active duty anymore, but you still celebrate?”

“Just upholding tradition,” he replied with a shrug, then flicked the TV’s sound back on.

Football wasn’t my favorite sport. I didn’t even recognize which teams were playing. After a few minutes, my attention started to wander. I glanced around the room, struck by the starkness of its bare white walls. No diplomas, no citations, no photographs. No reminders of home or family. Seemed a bit odd.

We’d finished our beers by the time the next commercial came on, so he got up to get us a second round.

“Don’t you get bored with nothing to look at except that little

garden outside your window?” I asked.

He chuckled. “I don’t have time to get bored. School keeps me hoppin’. ’Sides, I’d rather look at four empty walls than miles and miles of fuckin’ sand.”

“You were in Iraq?”

“Yup. Five tours.” Mouth tightening, he handed me a fresh bottle and sat back down.

 

To purchase Once a Marine, go to Riptide Publishing.

To learn more about Cat Grant and her writing, visit her website.

 

LEAVE A COMMENT AND BE ENTERED TO WIN NOT ONLY ONE OF THE GRAND PRIZES AT RIPTIDE PUBLISHING BUT ONE WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE ONE BOOK OF THEIR CHOICE FROM CAT’S BACKLIST.  WINNERS WILL BE CHOSEN AT THE END OF THE WEEK.

Riptide Publishing is back sharing some of their new releases with us. remember that all comments enter you in their grand prize drawings for a Nook, Kindle, iPad and other check out the Riptide Publishing site for more information I understand there is a web hunt that starts today.

“Contract killer” is a fitting job for a vampire, and it suits Liam just fine. Cast down from the wealth and status of the Sky for taking a human lover, Liam lurks in the poor and pollution-choked Gutter, killing to survive. Between his natural strengths and his Cybernetix mods, no mark has ever escaped him.

Liam’s ex-lover Daniel is the heir to Cybernetix—and its greatest threat. Horrified by people less man than machine and the exploitation of Gutter factory workers, he’d rather destroy Cybernetix than inherit it . . . if his father doesn’t destroy him first.

Years of anger and a heap of mods have kept Daniel and Liam apart. When Liam is hired to slaughter a man in his glass Sky tower, he walks right into a Daniel-shaped trap. Daniel’s father has betrayed them both, and only by working together can Daniel and Liam survive the coming day. They have no reason to trust each other, but as the dawn looms, a bargain that began with the simple urge to live soon reminds them of the love they once shared. Can they find each other again, or will the Cybernetix assassins find them first?

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Why is my son still alive, Liam?” The irritation in Richard Harding’s voice set my teeth on edge. “I’m running out of patience.”

“Do you want it done quickly, or do you want it done right?” I muttered as I adjusted my cell phone’s earpiece. “Choice is yours, but it’s one or the other.”

“I want it done. You’re not getting sentimental about this job, are you?”

I stopped dead in my tracks, my boot scuffing on the sidewalk. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a valid question, don’t you think? Given your . . . history with Daniel.”

I nearly gave into the urge to grind my teeth. “That was a long time ago. This is business.”

“Then get it done. This is taking entirely too long.”

I started walking again, taking longer, faster strides. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my duster and nestled my face into the high collar to keep from choking on the downdraft of thick, acrid pollution. “For the record, that UV-resistant mod that’s been ‘in development’ since the dawn of time would have sped up this process considerably.”

“That mod is still in the experimental phase,” he said. “You know that.”

“Then this will take some time. If you wanted it done faster, you might have lit a fire under the asses of the people who could give me the ability to move around in daylight.”

He huffed. “Just get it done. I’m a patient man, but—”

“Has the money been transferred?”

“Yes.”“W

I stepped up to the curb and gestured for a cab. “All of it?”

“Yes. All of it. Now get it done, Liam.”

I laughed. “Or what?”

Silence. Long, telling silence: Harding was desperate. He had to be. Men didn’t put themselves on my radar unless they had no other options. For Harding to contact me and offer up so much money, he had to be beyond desperate. Pity for him he didn’t realize I’d have done the job for a fraction of the price. Had I ever crossed paths with Daniel Harding again, I’d have put a few bullets in him for free.

But when a man offers you $10 million to take out his own son, you don’t argue.

And neither, apparently, did he, because his end of the line was still silent.

I laughed. “That’s what I thought.” As a cab nosed toward me and slowed down, I added, “Your son will be taken care of.” Before Harding could say anything more, I disconnected the call.

I opened the cab’s door and slid into the backseat. The first taste of the air in there made my eyes water; there were disadvantages to an enhanced sense of smell, and enclosing myself in the capsule of filth and sweat that was a taxicab was one of them.

“The microchip factory on Fourth Street,” I said, trying not to let on that I was gagging.

The driver grunted an affirmative and pulled out into traffic.

I could walk to the factory in twenty minutes, but the sidewalks between here and there were a gauntlet of thieves. Though muggers didn’t scare me in the least, they were an inconvenience. A delay. And every minute wasted was a minute closer to sunrise.

Streetlights glowed halfheartedly along the roadside, yellow clouds of mist swarming around each burning bulb. Passing cars sliced hazy bands of amber and gold into the fog, some with headlamps so dim and old they were barely functional. Even with the horrendous visibility down here, workers could only spend so much of their pittance of a salary on anything they couldn’t eat.

There was a time when artificial lights, even this foggy darkness,

necessitated a pair of sunglasses to keep from burning my eyes. These days, the caustic air stung, but my most recent optical mod included a self-adjusting tint that kept out even the most brutal fluorescents and mercury vapors. Now if the cybernetic companies could just do something about my skin, I’d be happy. But of course, they’d have to spend less time creating super-soldiers and sex goddesses if they actually wanted to outfit the city’s vampires with a mod to keep us from bursting into flames on contact with the daylight.

But of course that was, and probably forever would be, “still in development.”

While the cabbie drove, I took off my earpiece and dropped it in my pocket. It was just a decoy device, something to tell passersby and anti-mod activists that no, I was not speaking to someone using a communications implant. What they didn’t know wouldn’t inconvenience me.

With my left hand, I pressed the tiny nodule between the middle and third knuckles on my right hand. Everything in my field of vision darkened except the glowing blue-green displays visible only to me. I moved my hand until the nodule—now glowing the same color—lined up with the option for “display account.” I logged in and pulled up the transaction history.

As promised, Harding had made the deposit. I transferred the money to another account, then split it between four others. Harding hadn’t been thrilled about having to pay in full upfront, but he wanted me and no one else for this hit, so he’d grudgingly agreed to my terms. I wanted to be damn sure he didn’t pull a fast one and try to withdraw the money between now and when the hit was complete.

I couldn’t blame him if he did. $10 million was a lot of money, even for a cybernetics tycoon. For me, it was a fortune and then some. After this hit, I’d be out of the Gutter and out of this Godawful line of work.

I closed the display and deactivated the nodule, returning my vision to normal. Through the cab’s dingy window, I watched rundown people going about their business beside the line of decrepit cars in

front of filthy, vandalized buildings. Third shift employees shuffled into factories, looking just as exhausted and haggard as the second shift shuffling out. This was the part of town where the destitute built the mods that bettered the lives of the wealthy.

I sighed and pulled my gaze away.

The cab lurched to a halt at the base of a brick-front building covered in a spiderweb of graffiti. The buildings in the Gutter were nearly indistinguishable from one to the next, but this was the right place. I’d been here enough times; I knew.

I paid the driver, then stepped out and immediately buried my face in my jacket collar again. Here in the industrial heart of the city, the pollution was even thicker and more acrid. My eyes watered, and on top of the lingering aftertaste of the rancid air inside the cab, every whiff turned my stomach. There were mods on the market now that filtered better than my zipped-up jacket collar, but those compromised senses on which I relied, so I dealt with it.

I looked up at the factory. High above me, the feeble glow of the sixth-floor windows was just barely visible in the haze. The seventh floor wasn’t visible at all, but I’d done enough recon to—

Footsteps. Behind me. Three meters to the rear and half a step to the left. All my senses immediately shifted, homing in on the approaching individual. Faulty attempt at stealth. Rapidly decreasing intervals between footfalls. Ambush.

I rolled my eyes. I don’t have time for this.

I spun, and my would-be attacker skidded to a startled halt, lip curled into a snarl and knife in the air.

“Just gimme your cash, man.” His voice shook in spite of his aggressive stance. “I don’t want no harm, just—”

“Put that knife away before you hurt yourself. You don’t know who you’re fucking with.” With that, I turned on my heel and started toward the side of the factory. Damned Gutter rat couldn’t hurt a vampire if he wanted to.

“Hey! Hey!” The mugger lunged at me, and I spun around again. We collided and the blade bit into my palm, but a swift kick

to the idiot’s side sent the knife clattering to the pavement and its owner flying into the wall. He hit hard, grunting as his face met brick beneath a yellow spray-painted “Sky Must Fall” slogan. Groaning, he crumpled to his knees on the sidewalk.

I glared at the thin, shallow wound on my hand. What the fuck? Times really were getting dangerous when petty thieves carried weapons that could penetrate a vampire’s flesh. My arm tingled as nanobots scrambled through my system to take care of the damage. I shuddered and rolled my shoulder; the microscopic machines had saved my life numerous times, but I never could get used to that skin-crawling sensation when they were on the move. My palm burned, and I flexed and straightened my fingers as the tissue fused back together.

While the nanobots did their job, I turned to go, leaving my would-be assailant to figure out what had just happened.

I made it three or four steps, then stopped and looked back. The mugger wasn’t seriously injured, but he was still disoriented. He’d probably have a hell of a headache, but as soon as he was steady on his feet, he’d accost the next passerby. On the other hand, as long as he was down, he was vulnerable to the next thief.

I chewed my lip. I was no stranger to the desperation that drove men to crime, especially down here in the Gutter. This was the cruelest part of a cruel world—a place that had driven me to make my living committing murder—and theft probably wasn’t just a hobby for a man with ragged, mismatched sneakers barely held together by fraying laces.

I had no qualms about laying waste to the wealthy assholes who forced the rest of us to live like this, but the Gutter rats were like kin to me. It was us against them, so although I couldn’t afford the delay, I backtracked toward the mugger.

When I picked up the knife, his eyes widened. He stared up at me, holding his head in one hand and showing his other palm.

“Don’t . . . please . . .” He whimpered, drawing back and cringing like he was looking into the face of death.

 

To purchase A Chip in His Shoulder, go to Riptide Publishing

To learn more about L. A. Witt and her writing, visit her website.

LEAVE A COMMENT AND BE ENTERED TO WIN NOT ONLY ONE OF THE GRAND PRIZES AT RIPTIDE PUBLISHING BUT ONE WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE ONE BOOK OF THEIR CHOICE FROM L.A. WITT’S BACKLIST. WINNERS WILL BE CHOSEN AT THE END OF THE WEEK.

Riptide Publishing is back sharing some of their new releases with us. remember that all comments enter you in their grand prize drawings for a Nook, Kindle, iPad and other check out the Riptide Publishing site for more information I understand there is a web hunt that starts today.

Every future has dirty roots.

 

Marooned in the galactic backwaters of the HardCell company, colonist Runt struggles to eke out an existence on a newly-terraformed tropical planetoid. Since his clone-wife died on entry, he’s been doing the work of two on his failing protein farm. Overworked and undersized, Runt’s dwindling hope of earning corporate citizenship has turned to fear of violent “retirement.”

 

When an overdue crate of provisions crashes on his beach, Runt searches frantically for a replacement wife among the tools and food. Instead he gets Ox, a mute hulk who seems more like a corporate assassin than a simple offworld farmer.

 

Shackwacky and near-starving, Runt has no choice but to work with his silent partner despite his mounting paranoia and the unsettling appeal of Ox’s genetically altered pheromones. Ox plays the part of the gentle giant well, but Runt’s still not convinced he hasn’t arrived with murder in mind.

 

Between brutal desire and the seeds of a relationship, Runt’s fears and Ox’s inhuman past collide on a fertile world where hope and love just might have room to grow.

 

Excerpt from Grown Men:

Transport delivered his murderer at sundown.

Runt had been semi-starving for three weeks when he returned to his habitat and found the huge cargo container in a shallow crater in the sand.

Hallelujah!

He might have missed it ’til morning, but coming back from the eelbeds, he almost stepped on a bold crab scuttling toward the turquoise water and dragging a shiny mealpak in its claw. Runt gave a whoop of relief and rescued the food from the startled, spiny thief.

Without even rinsing off the day’s grit, Runt popped the recovered mealpak and sucked the nutrient paste. Wasn’t like anyone could see him out here except the eels offshore and the insects yattering in the palm trees. Facing the broiling suns on the horizon, he turned to jog up the beach in search of the fresh provisions.

Runt’s prefab habitat sat tucked under a steep rock wall in view of the cove that provided some windbreak; the cargo had been dumped about twelve meters away on the slope down to the cove. The long crater around the container indicated the drop-ship hadn’t even slowed as it passed.

“Thank you!” His shout echoed off the pumice cliff. Knobjobs.

The container itself had split at one corner, but the contents remained intact thanks to the impact-foam. Runt had gone hungry too many weeks to complain. If he couldn’t get this bitch open any other way, he’d hack in with the submachete.

Food. Real food and gear. Runt almost passed out in relief.

At least he’d brought an industrial weapon with him. He stabbed the sand with the submachete and left the blade there, freeing his hands to dig out the treasure buried inside this overdue shipment. And her?

Runt bent over the keypad on the undamaged end of the cargo, and with a calloused finger, he tapped in his farm code. Hisssss—a meter-long panel sighed open on the container’s side and fell into the hot sand.

Please let her be pleasant to look at.

Dispatch had wedged mealpaks and canisters and paraphernalia into every centimeter of the container and braced them in impact-foam for interstellar transport.

Hands shaking, Runt dug his calloused fingers into the dense padding and peeled off a thick strip. Reaching inside, he grabbed a handle and hefted out a tank of phytoplankton.

I’m saved. She saved me.

At a meter and a half high, the container stood almost as tall as he did and so jam-packed Runt had to haul out a few crates to gauge the contents. Atop a barrel of acid, a folded smart-net sat ready for action. Throw that in the ocean and it would go find dinner for him! So much cargo . . . Since when did the HardCell suits take pity on anyone?

He tunneled back through padding and packages with hope in his heart. His stomach hummed pleasantly around the rich meal after being empty so long, but food wasn’t what he was looking for.

C’mon, c’mon! Where is she?

Dispatch always tossed in a few pretend-we-give-a-shit extras: candy and dice and lubricant, shiny gewgaws to keep the terraformers from getting shackwacky.

Something glowed faintly and he barked in relief, wrenching fistfuls of transport foam free to expose a tray of specimen tubes that just might save his ass.

Bee-moths! The new design!

His heart hammered. These little beauties had made it all the way to this crappy system in Andromeda from HardCell’s labs. The biodesigners spliced moths with bumblebee DNA to groom and pollinate vegetation, but rarely replaced them. Freed of the packing and woken by the tropical warmth, striped caterpillars glowed pale

lavender in the shadows of the container. His crops would be saved in time!

As if handling lace coral, Runt extracted the tube trays in slow motion and set them in the shade until he could take them to the hive for hatching by the digital queen.

He knew it was foolish, but the fresh moths planted hope in him. Again he tunneled into the provisions looking for the woman and found more mealpaks, food tanks.

He shook his head in wonder. All this had to be a mistake at the depot. Schmuck’s luck. At least he wouldn’t starve this season.

Runt peeled away the cushion of impact-foam that had cradled the phosphorescent grubs and a tub of biotic lotion. Beneath, he found a bigger surprise from Dispatch: an old oversized life-support duffel big enough to hold a cow. For one moment he expected to discover his new mate, but when he unzipped the case a few centimeters, he found a lumpy four-meter roll of mirror-bright flex-canvas to wrap his habitat against tsunami and scavengers. Help had finally arrived.

Hope made him stupid. He should have unpacked and unrolled it first thing, but in his eagerness he skipped it. HardCell must’ve sent the tarp as a wedding present.

Maybe someone loves me. Maybe this is a dowry.

HardCell, the conglomerate that owned Runt’s contract, had marooned him here in the middle of an alien ocean a year and a bit ago, long enough that his bare feet had leather soles, and his skin didn’t burn anymore. His bosses had shipped him to terraform remote planetoid HD10307-E in Andromeda almost as soon as they’d extracted their seismologists and genetic engineers. They’d altered its orbit to increase daylight, melted its ice into freshwater oceans, and dumped a few patented life forms into them to fight and fuck.

Like the ads blared: HardCell means business!

Runt’s farmstead covered a small patch of a hundred-acre volcanic landmass that looked like a disk with a wide bite taken out of it. Almost a month ago, a storm had ravaged the island’s little cove,

and he still hadn’t finished repairing the devastation. A fuck-awful night, that: ground lightning striking the curdled sky and his walls split in two places.

Worse, the sky had thrown back a bolt of charged ions and obliterated Runt’s hive-shed; for two nights after the tempest, thousands of bright bee-moths drifted on the tides as they tried and failed to fight their way back to the farmstead. The air had smelled like burnt ozone for a week.

Some genius goofs, grunts pay the price. Business as usual.

Once HardCell finished fine-tuning the climate, the storms would cease and the planetoid would stabilize like every other corporate combine: islands of fertile dirt and brackish oceans, perfect for eel-ranching and irrigation. In the meantime, Runt had patched his habitat as best he could and hunkered down. Losing the moths had ruined his meager harvest and he’d started rationing to be safe.

Then—blam—this loaded container: twelve cubic meters of salvation. With his shitty harvest stats, Runt knew he should feel grateful, and yet . . . Stepping over that big rolled tarp, he cleared a path through the supplies to the back of the container.

A few of his requests were missing like always, but he’d gotten his essentials and more: eight crates of spirulina pellets, six barrels of desiccated vegetable cubes, clean worksuits, a case of bright pink Soyshimi, fresh medkits, new tools, two pairs of sea boots twice his size, even some fresh holo-porn from the company’s sex resorts.

Thank fuck.

 

Author biography

Damon Suede grew up out-n-proud deep in the anus of right-wing America, and escaped as soon as it was legal. He has lived all over: Houston, New York, London, Prague, with a few long stretches in New Orleans and Vienna. Along the way, he’s earned his crust as a model, a messenger, a promoter, a programmer, a sculptor, a singer, a stripper, a bookkeeper, a bartender, a techie, a teacher, a director… but writing has ever been his bread and butter. He has been happily partnered for nearly a decade with the most loving, handsome, shrewd, hilarious, noble man to walk this planet.

Cravings: sweetness that isn’t sentimental, wit that isn’t bitter, strength that isn’t cruel. Loathings: professional victims, half-assery, clichés. Damon is a proud member of the Romance Writers of America and the Rainbow Romance Writers.

Though new to M/M, Damon has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades, which is both more and less glamorous than you might imagine. He’s won some awards, but his blessings are more numerous: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year.

Damon would love to hear from you… you can get in touch with him here or at any of the following social media hubs:

• Goodreads
• Google+
• Amazon
• Facebook
• Manic Readers
• GLBT Bookshelf

 

LEAVE A COMMENT AND BE ENTERED TO WIN NOT ONLY ONE OF THE GRAND PRIZES AT RIPTIDE PUBLISHING BUT ONE WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN TO RECEIVE ONE BOOK OF THEIR CHOICE FROM DAMON’S BACKLIST. WINNERS WILL BE CHOSEN AT THE END OF THE WEEK.

What do you love about being authors?

Heidi: My Richard Castle-esque lifestyle of high society parties and my fancy New York apartment, of course! Truly, though? All the people I collaborate with throughout this process, from Violetta to our beta readers to publishers and editors and cover artists right through to the readers who put so much of themselves into interpreting, investing emotionally in, and responding to what we write.

Violetta: I love having a valid excuse to do the most bizarre sort of research to dig up the little details that make a story come alive. One of my favorites was the time we had a burning need to find out whether or not someone could ride a horse through a bog. In medieval Ireland. Through the process of answering that question, I learned a ridiculous amount about things like the formation of sod. I love plenty of other aspects of writing—having a craft to continually practice, the community of other writers and readers—but the weird tangents make me smile so often.

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What do you think makes a good story?
Heidi: A compelling conflict that I genuinely can’t see the characters getting through. I love when characters face seemingly impossible odds or insurmountable challenges. Narratives that take surprising twists and turns. Characters I care about and empathize with, even if I’m nothing like them.

Violetta: Anything that has a pleasing symmetry and beauty. Anything that hurts you on purpose.

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Where do you get your inspiration?

Heidi: World folklore and mythology. Characters, settings, creatures, even aspects of the stories themselves. There are so many amazing stories in this world, and reading or hearing them totally invigorates the creative parts of me.

Violetta: From other stories I read. From my real life, and people I’ve met (although I always alter these characters so much that I hope no one would ever recognize themselves). I’m very visual, so I get a lot of ideas for scenes from paintings and movies.

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As a writing pair, do you write one story at a time, or do you have multiple stories going at once? Do you have solo pieces you write on the side?
Heidi: Multiple, generally, although we usually have one main project that we dedicate the bulk of our time to and then a couple of smaller tie-in pieces we chip away at when we need a break from the big one. Right now we’re working on a novella and also plotting a larger full-length novel as well as tossing around a couple of ideas for shorts and freebies. We do try to dedicate the bulk of our time to that one main project though because obviously if you don’t finish anything, you don’t have anything to publish!

As for solo works, technically yes? Haha. I’ve got a Canadiana novella plotted out and an M/M/M erotica being released with Dreamspinner next spring, but honestly the solo stuff always seems to be the first thing to get pushed aside. I like writing on my own (especially having sole control, mwa-ha-ha!) but I can’t deny the sheer energy and inspiration that come from working with Violetta. I totally prefer it.

Violetta: Pretty much the same! Having a good relationship with a writing partner makes everything ten times easier, not just two times easier.

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How do you develop your plots and your characters? Do you use any set formula?
Violetta: We brainstorm and try to link everything organically. It might start with a character, but then that character lives in a certain setting, and setting is always very important for us. Characters don’t come alive for me unless I know where they come from, where they are, and where they’re going (at least where they think they’re going). In “The Saturnalia Effect,” the characters are in a maximum-security prison, both facing long sentences, so that’s already a major source of conflict, although certainly not the only one. And then the conflict drives the characters and changes them and pulls them apart and pushes them together. That’s as close as we get to a formula.

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What drew you to the romance genre?
Heidi: I’ve been reading romance since I was a teenager. I do like general fiction and some of my favourite books are miserably depressing, but there’s nothing quite as satisfying as a romance. I like going in knowing that when I finish it’s going to end on a high note. I like knowing the stand-by plots and characters. And when a story somehow subverts my expectations while still giving me the happy ending I crave, I just fall in love. Mainly, when I have a shitty day or a long semester in school or I’m miserable with the world, romance is there for me right when I need it. I want to give other people that same feeling.

Violetta: I sneaked a few of my grandmother’s bodice-rippers back in the 80s, but otherwise, I’d never been a romance reader. I discovered it much later—not until a few years ago. I love how it crosses over with so many other genres. And I love the sex, of course. I’ve read a lot of great science fiction and fantasy and thriller and mystery and literary books where sex and love are prominent elements, but the way sex is written is so often badly handled outside romance, so often cursory or abstract.

Heidi: Or just outright laughable.

Violetta: Check the Bad Sex Awards for 2011… and this frou-frou money shot. Oh boy.

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When someone reads one of your books for the first time, what do you hope they gain, feel or experience?

Heidi: I want them to come away caring about the characters as much as I do. There’s this thing Violetta and I say, “Poor Sean!”, that comes from a character in our first novel. We put the poor guy through the wringer, and every time we did, we felt terribly sad and guilty and would message each other back and forth saying “Poor Sean!” I’d love to know that we inspired that same feeling in our readers, that they don’t feel like they’re being manipulated or roll their eyes, but instead feel genuinely connected and invested in our characters’ struggles.

Of course, this will be a bit tougher to get across in “The Saturnalia Effect” than in our other works, namely because while Sean I think starts from a sympathetic position, Troy and Daniel from TSE are both convicts and not everybody in this world is jumping at the chance to feel sorry for or sympathize with criminals. That’s a part of the journey though, and it’s a mental and emotional adjustment that Troy himself takes as he gets to know Daniel who—I won’t mince words—isn’t exactly a good guy.
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What was the best piece of advice you’ve received with respect to the art of writing? How did you implement it into your work?

Heidi: I met Larissa Lai, an author I really admire, when I was in university. I was telling her how I could never finish anything, how I was constantly rewriting and reevaluating and starting new projects. I was paralyzed by fear that what I was writing wasn’t going to be the Next Great Novel and it wasn’t going to be Important enough and she just said “Stop trying. Write something you’re proud of and be satisfied with that.” So that’s where I am now. I write about things I’m passionate about, characters I think need their stories told, and in a genre I love and am proud to be a part of. After I send it out into the world, well, I hope it’s beloved and speaks to people, but I just need to focus on getting the story out. I can’t dictate readers’ responses, and if I get focused on trying to do that, I’m not gonna write anything at all. It’s very empowering and freeing to let go of that expectation for myself. So I really appreciate Ms. Lai for prompting me to give myself permission to do this and be this person.
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When it comes to the covers of your books, what do you like or dislike about them?
Heidi: Well, since Violetta and I are debut authors, I can’t really comment on cover(s), but as to the cover for “The Saturnalia Effect”, I’m super chuffed with it! The artist Storm Moon Press hired for us, Sylwia, did an amazing job really capturing the characters and the setting. That grimy shower just gives me such a shudder, and that’s exactly how Troy feels about Westgate prison: it’s a dirty, horrible, crumbling place that a person on the outside wouldn’t want to touch without latex gloves, and that’s where Troy lives. I love how explicit and in your face it is with the positioning and characters, too. No euphemisms here! This book is pretty explicit and there’s a fair dose of gritty realism and the cover promises exactly that. However, we specifically asked for expressions of tenderness and adoration between the characters because despite the setting and subject matter, there’s that, too. This is a love story… in its way.

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What kind of books do you like to read?
Heidi: All sorts! As long as it has good characters and functional style, I’m usually all in, although I have a hard time gelling with high fantasy (but it didn’t stop me from devouring David Eddings books as a teenager!)

Violetta: I read pretty widely, although my reading dropped off big time when I started writing. There’s just not enough hours in the day. I love popular science nonfiction, science fiction, urban fantasy, New Weird authors, books about immigration and cultural hybridity. I used to read a lot of Latin American literature in the original Spanish, and a book called “El Beso de la Mujer Araña / Kiss of the Spider Woman ” about love in prison during the Argentine military dictatorship turned into an influence for “The Saturnalia Effect”.
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Do you have any suggestions for other beginning writers? If so, what are they?
Heidi: Write what you love. Write something you’re proud of. Respect your readers. Be nice to industry professionals. Accept rejection gracefully (and then do as I do and cry in your mom/SO/BFF/etc.’s lap). Be authentic and genuine in everything you put out, from first draft to promotion. Challenge yourself to try something new.

Violetta: My father is Japanese, and I grew up with him trying to transmit a pretty hardcore work ethic. Whenever he’d call me on the phone, and we finished talking, I’d say “Bye, love you dad!” and in response he’d yell “WORK WORK WORK” and hang up. I’d be left shaking my head. But sometimes when I’m tired and feel like just vegging out instead of writing a hard scene, I’ll think WORK WORK WORK at myself. I’m naturally a very lazy person, so it really does help. I’d say… write what you love, but turn that love into a motivation to always keep pushing yourself.

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If each of you came with a warning label, what would the labels say?
Heidi: Warning, potty mouth! Seriously, I really do need to watch my language. I swear so reflexively, although I’ve gotten tamer since teaching school.

Violetta: Warning, contains highly flammable opinions.

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What are your current projects?
Heidi: Right now we’re working on a tearjerker love story that takes place in Hawaii and is centered around native Hawaiian folklore. It’s a familiar story of two men who never got up the guts to be together, and now circumstances seem like they’ll never have a chance to make it right. So it’s a story of regret, but also a story of just how far a person is willing to go to carve out a second chance to be with the person they love. But you know, with a uniquely Hawaiian flavor and sensibility.

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Can you tell us a bit about your latest release?
Violetta: “The Saturnalia Effect” grew out of a simple “let’s write a story about Christmas… in prison!” idea into something very twisty and intense, although it still ends on a note that’s entirely appropriate for the season. The story starts off with a man facing a long prison sentence. He’s young, vulnerable, and way better looking than is good for him. He’s made some bad choices to get where he is, although he’s not a murderer. If he wants to survive, he has to kill… but the man who’s supposed to be his victim could also become his greatest protector, and more than that, his lover. There are some really grim elements to this story, including grievous physical harm and the looming threat of rape; the dark setting makes the acts of kindness and love and grace stand out all the more.

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Where can readers find you and your most recent work?
Heidi: I’ve got a blog that also functions as a website, Heidi Below Zero , with all kinds of goodies related to my books (sort of like DVD bonus features but with more manlove!). I’m also on twitter as @HeidiBelleau  (@ me and say hello! I’m pretty chatty) and, of course, an author account on goodreads .

Violetta: I blog at Violetta Vane’s Imaginarium  (go ahead and stick my feed in your reader! Um, wait a second, that sounded odd) and I hang out on Twitter at @ViolettaVane  and at Google+ as +ViolettaVane .

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“The Saturnalia Effect” will be available December 20th, 2011, via Storm Moon Press HERE.

This Thanksgiving comes with all the fixings…and something extra hot.

Blackwater, Book 1

Sam Jennings promised his father he’d always take care of the woman who yanked him and his four brothers out of foster care. When his adoptive mom has a near-fatal heart attack, Sam knows it’s past time to live up to his word.

As he sets out to put the Blackwater Diner back on its feet, he runs into his first snag. Waitress Julie Rose’s sweet curves and long legs are driving Sam to distraction. Even his brothers aren’t immune to her kind heart. But Sam is determined to be the only man in her bed.

Julie doesn’t regret the years she lost caring for her grandmom, but now, between business classes and her job, she’s left with very little time and energy for dating. Then there’s her policy about never getting mixed up with the boss’s son. But Sam’s hard body and wicked ideas have Julie forgetting all about annoying things like rules, and she accepts his invitation to show her all she’s been missing.

Sam is more than willing to take things slow as he teaches her all about the pleasures of the flesh. Luckily for him, Julie is a darned good student…

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Buy Sam’s Promise

Book three in the Alliance Series

Who knew being bad could be so good?

Voss Potter ran from his life. He wasn’t wanted and was sick of being used as a pawn by his uncle. He thought he would explore the world as a stow away on an old friends ship. The only thing he wasn’t counting on? Maverick Sayers. The sexy first officer he’d lusted after for years.

Maverick Sayers loved his job. Nothing was better than traveling the world with good friends. One order changes his life forever. Protect Voss Potter. Now they are fleeing across the galaxy one step ahead of a money hungry family and a disease that could kill planets.

Can following orders leave to true love?

Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of violence and forced blood play.

 

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When his matchmaking services are acquired by a vampire, Dane finds himself embroiled in a world he’d vowed to never get involved in.

Dane Sanders is one of the most talented matchmakers in the city…and without any hesitation he turns down the City Vampire Master’s business. After all, a vampire killed his family and he vowed to never have anything to do with them. However, when the sexy Master keeps a promise, Dane reluctantly finds himself the exclusive matchmaker of the undead.

Reader Advisory: This is book contains a M/M/M ménage scene.

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Let the games begin…

Party Games, Book 1

Talent agent Frankie Winchester is a hellion. Her motto is all a girl needs is a fun time, a fast car and an awesome masseur on speed dial. There’s only one person who could beat her at anything. Alec. Bane of her high-school existence, a kid whose parents were as working class and loving as hers were rich and distant.

When celebrity landscape architect Alec Harris spots Frankie at an exclusive Sydney house party, everything comes rushing back. The memory of being the “cheap-money” kid, trying and failing to prove himself—and impress his dream girl, Frankie Winchester.

Unexpectedly partnered in a wildly sexy game, the delicious friction ignites a scorching sexual tension. But there’s more than a playing card trapped between them. Frankie refuses to admit that kiss shook her to the core. Alec wants nothing less than her full surrender.

Game on!

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