Dec 23

New Release Blitz: Forbidden Bond by Lee Colgin (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Forbidden Bond

Series: They Bite, Book One

Author: Lee Colgin

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 23, 2019

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 54100

Genre: Paranormal, LGBT, vampire, werewolf, paranormal, supernatural, slow burn, alpha, college, interspecies

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Synopsis

Vampires and werewolves are historical enemies. When the Peace Accord that imposes an uncomfortable armistice between the species is threatened, the entire supernatural community must respond.

Young vampire heir Sinclair Davis successfully petitions the council for permission to attend a werewolf dominated university. Surrounded by a pack of unwelcoming wolves, Sinclair’s first meeting with their alpha doesn’t go well. The handsome wolf hates him.

Alpha wolf Mitchel Edgehill is furious when the university sends a vampire to be housed among his pack, even if he is cute. But there’s nothing he can do since the paperwork has been signed. They’ll have to find a way to coexist.

As tension rises within supernatural society and violence escalates between vampires and werewolves, an uneasy truce develops between Sinclair and Mitchel. The pair attend a peace conference in hopes of preventing war, but when a rogue group of humans attacks, Sinclair is kidnapped and held for ransom. Can the alpha wolf work with vampires to save Sinclair, or will war break out after all?

Excerpt

Forbidden Bond
Lee Colgin © 2019
All Rights Reserved

SINCLAIR

Sinclair stood outside his father’s door, collecting his thoughts. This wouldn’t be easy. To get what he wanted, he’d have to remain calm and focus on the part of his plan most likely to benefit the Vampire Council, over which his father, Luther Davis, presided. Sinclair could do this; he just had to stand his ground. One last deep breath, a polite knock, and he stepped inside.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Sinclair.” His father welcomed him with a nod. Seated behind a large desk cluttered with papers, he looked busy as usual. Having been Turned and preserved at the young age of twenty-two, the fair-haired, sharp-featured vampire could be mistaken for Sinclair’s younger brother, not his father. Sinclair was twenty-six, but only twenty-six. His father had centuries on him, not that you could tell by looking. “What brings you by this evening?”

Okay, here it goes. You can do this. “Dad, I’ve decided to attend Borson University for my PhD this semester,” he said in a rush. Slow down, Sinclair. “I know you weren’t expecting this, but Borson is the best school for Historical Supernatural Studies. I was accepted last fall and I’ve already registered. No other vampire in the council has this degree; I would be the first.”

Sinclair prepared to continue, but his father spoke first. “Son, that’s a werewolf school.” His golden brows drew together. “It’s too dangerous. What’s the degree even worth, coming from Borson?” His stern voice matched his expression.

“I understand your concern, but it’s safer than you realize. I’ll be part of an exchange program. It’ll be good for the council to have a delegate at Borson. It’s a quality academy with a fine reputation, werewolves notwithstanding.” Sinclair talked to fast when he felt nervous.

Luther stood. At nearly six feet, he stood taller than his son by several inches. “The answer is no, Sinclair.” His father approached. “You’ll attend Moore as planned, and I do not appreciate you addressing this at the last minute either. Did you think that by waiting until now, you’d stand a better chance?”

“Um, yes, actually,” Sinclair responded, a stubborn edge to his voice. “Dad, I’m an adult; I don’t need your permission. I need the council’s permission, and I think they’ll grant it. I told you first as a courtesy, the petition has already been submitted, so the discussion will happen at tonight’s meeting. Moore doesn’t offer the courses I require, and the council doesn’t need another finance major; it needs a historian.” His point made, some of the tension drained away.

With an irritated sigh, his father’s gaze drifted to the window. “You’d do this to your mother? You know she will worry. At least accept the transition first, so you won’t be vulnerable. Let us Turn you. You’ve delayed too long. There are no other Living vampires your age.”

Their eyes met. Sinclair felt both guilty and defensive. Guilty because he didn’t want to worry his mother. Defensive because he wasn’t ready to die for immortality. He liked his living, breathing body, eating food, and little things like not burning to ash in the sunlight. He’d hold on to it as long as he could, thank you very much. Being a Living vampire had its advantages, even if his father was too ancient to grasp them.

Sinclair ignored the tired issue. “I’ll keep in close touch with Mom, I promise. I won’t let her worry. Look, Dad, this is a rare opportunity. Vampires don’t get accepted to Borson. Think of how much I’ll learn. It would be impossible without the exchange program. Only four students are selected. It’s an honor.”

When his dad didn’t respond, he continued, “I have to go. I’ve already accepted. There’s no alternate to take my place, and it would be rude to refuse now.”

“So you have me in a corner then, don’t you?” His dad’s gaze settled on him. Sinclair fought not to flinch. His father was not a harsh man, but everyone had their limits, and the head of the Vampire Council didn’t tolerate werewolves lightly. “Why bother to ask at all?”

“I was hoping you’d come to a different conclusion. I thought maybe you’d be proud.” Sinclair’s gaze dropped to his feet.

His dad came closer and took Sinclair by the shoulders, giving him a small shake. “You frustrating boy, of course I’m proud, but this is an unnecessary risk. I wish you’d reconsider.”

“I’m going to go, and it’s going to be fine. I promise.” Sinclair accepted the cool embrace with relief.

“We’ll see what the council has to say,” his dad conceded and ruffled his hair.

Some hours later, the Vampire Council voted unanimously to let Sinclair attend Borson.

Sinclair knew that, in the end, this meant even his father approved. Ultimately, a Doctor of Philosophy in Historical Supernatural Studies would be beneficial to the species. In a society full of forward thinkers and finance managers, Sinclair alone would be studying the past. He’d learn what had brought them to war, what mistakes had been made, and he’d prevent them from repeating those blunders.

There were supernaturals, even now, whispering the beginnings of another war. Sinclair’s work among the werewolves would be crucial.

Purchase

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Meet the Author

Lee Colgin has loved vampires since she read Dracula on a hot sunny beach at 13 years old. She lives in North Carolina with lots of dogs and her husband. No, he’s not a vampire, but she loves him anyway. Lee likes to workout so she can eat the maximum amount of cookies with her pizza. Ask her how much she can bench press.

If you enjoyed this book, pick up Lee’s debut novel Slay My Love to find out what happens when you’re attracted to the very person who want to kill you an enemies to lovers 56,000k novel available now.

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Dec 23

New Release Blitz: A Husband for Santa by Doreen Heron (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  A Husband for Santa

Author: Doreen Heron

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 23, 2019

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 20600

Genre: Holiday, LGBT, Folklore, magic, elves, Christmas, romance, fantasy

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Synopsis

Father Christmas knows his time delivering presents is coming to an end, and his son is more than ready to take his place at the helm of the sleigh. But family tradition stands in Turk’s way.

He must find a Mrs. Claus to help share the burden. Unfortunately for tradition, he would rather a husband than a wife, and he doesn’t have time to meet anyone anyway.

At the same time, Christmasologist and PhD candidate Symeon Golightly finds himself sad and alone over the holidays.

Maybe a chance encounter and a Christmas wish will bring them together.

Excerpt

A Husband for Santa
Doreen Heron © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
“Prepare the landing bay to receive the sleigh. I repeat, prepare the landing bay to receive the sleigh. We expect the mission to be terminated in fifteen minutes. I repeat, the sleigh is fifteen minutes away.”

The elves began to scramble, thousands of them getting to their feet and running from dormitories and lounges, through the glistening silver ice corridors and into the straw-lined landing bay. With nimble fingers, trained through years of constructing toys and preparing lists, they padded out stables with fresh straw and hay. They filled troughs with water and bowls with cereals and carrots. They swept the solid snow that had drifted in when the sleigh left and dried up the pools of water where the snow had warmed enough to melt. The elf children, too young to have any real responsibilities yet but old enough to graduate over the year and take on jobs for the following Christmas, took a break from observing and making notes and leapt to the gas lamps, lighting them to give the reindeer a cozy environment to come home to.

“We expect the mission to be terminated in ten minutes. I repeat, the sleigh is ten minutes away.”

Some of the older elves, particularly those celebrating their final Christmases, jumped as Turk’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. They hadn’t enjoyed this particular “innovation” and much preferred when his father had been in training and instead came to each of them in turn to make the announcements personally. They were glad to be retiring to let the younger generations—who didn’t seem to be quite as attached to the traditional ways—take the reins. En masse, the elves retreated to the back of the room, where they surveyed their work. It looked nice. Cozy. They wanted nothing more than for the reindeer to be able to rest as soon as they arrived home, and for Father Christmas himself to feel the wave of relaxation hit him after finishing his deliveries for another year. The younger generations waited with bated breath as Inger—the oldest elf and Chieftain of their little tribe—surveyed the room. She pointed to a corner where one last errant cobweb was stubbornly clinging to a beam, and one of the children leapt to a broom and scurried to clear it away.

“We expect the mission to be terminated in five minutes. I repeat, the sleigh is five minutes away.”

Inger surveyed the room again and smiled as she was satisfied with what she saw. Her team had served her well, this final Christmas. She nodded to the corner, where an elf stood alone. He was easily two heads taller than the others, almost the size of one of the human children for whom they made presents and was well muscled. At Inger’s nod, he turned to the wheel at his side and began to crank it. A creaking sound boomed from the timber roof, as it began to part. At once, the elderly elves started their chant, an ancient elven magic to protect the stable against the elements. The snow itself obeyed them, falling to settle on the roof and avoiding the hole that was emerging. When it was wide enough for the sleigh to fit, the muscled elf stopped cranking. But the elderly continued to sing, keeping the heat generated by the gas lamps inside the room, and keeping out the snow that was falling so violently.

“The sleigh has been sighted over the Crystalline Falls. I am on my way. I repeat, Turk is en route.”

The elderly elves rankled at the announcement. Never before had a Santa-in-Training ever felt the need to oversee the landing. It had always been a privilege afforded to the elves as a reward for their hard work. But times were changing, and all new Father Christmases had to put their own mark on the role.

Turk’s mark, it seemed to the elves, was micromanagement.

But they continued to chant, regardless. One slip in their song and winter would get into the landing bay, undoing all their work and discomforting Father Christmas and his eight faithful deer who had fit an entire year of work into a single night. And not one of them was prepared to let that happen.

The chanting could be heard across the palace. Turk emerged from the control room and stopped for a second to listen.

The sound of the elves was the sound of his life. Of hours waiting for his father to come home from work and tell stories of all the children to whom he had delivered gifts. Of those he thought Turk might like to be friends with if it were ever possible to leave Polynya. Those who had grown older and who chose not to believe in him anymore, just because their parents had chosen not to believe. Those who ignored all the evidence right in front of them that proved he existed, and instead put blind faith in parents who had no evidence other than what their parents had told them, who relied only on what their parents had told them before. Those were the stories that saddened Turk the most, particularly when he entered his teenage years and the children who he had considered peers and friends stopped believing.

They no longer wanted him to exist.

It was a happy song and a sad song. A song of hope and joy and obligation and loss. And in that moment, as he finally allowed himself a break in his work to take stock, he felt the loss of his own father about to retire and the joy of his own life about to begin.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. He couldn’t allow the elves to see his moment of weakness. Yes, they may have raised him and bathed him and changed his diapers, but as of the moment his father touched down in the sleigh, he was Father Christmas, and he had to lead them as a general leads his troops.

He had a family legacy to live up to.

He set his jaw, strong and stubbled, and took a moment to wipe the tears from his icy blue eyes. He pulled himself upright, towering over the elves at six feet and two inches and straightened his back. He’d read a book that said good posture commanded respected, and he needed his elves to respect him.

The echo of his black leather jackboots clattered through the ice corridors as he strode to the landing bay. Another tip from his book. Walk with a heavy step and make your presence known before you arrive so people know you’re there. He wasn’t entirely sure if that one applied to working from his own home, but he figured the author knew what he was talking about and was quite determined to follow all the advice on offer.

The torches lining the walls lit as he approached and extinguished as he walked by—lit long enough so that he could see, but not so long that they would begin to melt the walls. He moved deftly through the maze-like corridors and hallways, following the shortcut he’d figured out when he was a child and wanted to trick the elves into thinking his magic had developed. The truth was it would have been easier for him to teleport into the Landing Bay, but that didn’t quite make as much of an impact on the sound of his boots on the ice floors.

And it was all about the impact.

The elves scrambled out of the way as the two solid pine doors to the landing bay swung open, and Turk strode in. Quickly, they pulled themselves back together and stood to attention as he had taught them. The elderly elves objected to this, finding the position highly uncomfortable, and their hearts were glad they were required to carry on chanting.

“At ease,” he commanded, and the elves moved fluidly into position. Even the children, keen to impress their future boss, joined in and tried hard not to giggle as Turk walked back and forth past them, looking them over. “You are well presented, in spite of tonight’s working conditions. I’m glad I’m finally getting through to you.”

Inger chaffed at his words and closed her eyes to drown out what he was saying so she could focus on the ancient and magical words of her people.

“The loading bay is acceptable,” he continued, striding around the bay and peering into each hay-filled stall. “I feel we will have much work to do over the coming year to modernize this space and maximize efficiency, but that will come on December 26. For now, this is acceptable.”

A single snowflake fell through the opening in the roof as Inger let her guard slip. The Landing Bay had never been merely “acceptable” on her watch. Nor on her mother’s. Nor on her grandmother’s. She and the Matriarchs took their role seriously, and they worked hard to ensure that everything was done to perfection. Thankfully, the flake melted long before it was noticed by anyone other than her. She felt it fall as she felt her concentration lapse, and she certainly wouldn’t allow herself to do anything that he would merely consider to be “acceptable.”

She was so looking forward to retirement.

She felt for her daughter, who would need to take the reins and put up with Turk’s peculiar brand of nonsense.

A roar of wind and snow occurred overhead, and the children became antsy in anticipation of what was about to happen. Turk looked up and nodded, happy the elements were being kept out of the landing bay and satisfied the roof was open enough to allow the sleigh in so it could land. He squinted and saw a very faint red light in the distance.

“Showtime, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. The elves scrambled once again, lining up along the walls and the stall doors, leaving as much floor space as possible free for the sleigh to come in and land. While still chanting, the elderly elves walked to the far north wall, against which was set a raised platform. They walked up onto the platform and stood, choirlike, continuing their chant for the last few moments of their careers.

They were ready.

Turk joined them on the stage, running his hand through his dirty blond hair and smoothing down his wine-red suit. This was his moment. The moment he had spent his whole life preparing for. From the moment his father landed the sleigh, he would take charge, and the next Christmas would be his. His book had said to “make sure one presents oneself properly” from the very beginning of the job.

He was ready.

The red pinpoint of light grew bigger and bigger as the distant sound of sleigh bells began to chime. Turk took a deep breath and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He would never admit he was nervous and was almost positive the churning in his stomach was caused by the questionable reindeer meat in the curry which his mother had served the night before. But as he straightened his red tie for the fifth time that minute, the elves could see he was nervous. A couple of the children sniggered and pointed, but the others had sympathy for him. They knew his dad was a popular Father Christmas, and so he had a lot to live up to.

And if some of them were honest with themselves, they weren’t sure he would.

The sound of the sleigh bells grew louder and louder until finally the sleigh itself hovered overhead. The deer were well rehearsed by now and hovered in place until they were given the order to descend. It was a silent command, given by a Father Christmas who had spent two centuries working with each family line. He allowed for a delicate lowering of deer and sleigh alike until its wooden rails and thirty-two hooves set down on the landing bay’s tiled floor. At once, the elves scrambled into action and the bay became a hive of interaction. The elves turned the wheel, and the roof closed. The elves standing by the stall gates unlatched them, and then headed to their own deer, unhooking them and leading them over to their stall. First Rudolph, then Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, and so on until all nine were safely locked away and gratefully lapping their water.

As they were working hurriedly, Inger and the other elderly elves made their way to the sleigh and helped Father Christmas. He was wobbly on his feet as he stood but was able to make his way down to the landing bay floor entirely unaided.

“Turk,” he called, his voice booming through the Bay. “Please see to it that the sack is returned to its rightful spot.”

“Of course, Papa,” Turk replied. He turned to an elf, the only elf currently unemployed, and gave the command. “You heard him. Take the sack to the—”

“No, Turk.” His father stopped by the pine doors. “I asked you to please take the sack and put it away.”

“But Papa. This is what the elves are—”

“The elves are not your slaves, Turk. They work for the children, not for you. Now, please put the sack away and then meet me in the Lounge.”

“The Debriefing Room,” Turk corrected his father under his breath as he made his way to the sleigh and pulled the large, empty, hessian sack from the back seat. It looked so different with the enchantments faded and the magic gone for another year. Now, it was loose and malleable and normal.

He didn’t like it.

Carefully, he laid it out on the floor, careful to ensure no elf trampled over it and folded it in half, and then half again, and then half again. There was no ceremony to the sack any more, and that made him a little sad. He very much enjoyed being a child and watching his father and Inger fold it carefully and then carry it solemnly to its room to be put away. He looked at Inger, who was observing him carefully, and was certain he saw a tear in her holly-green eye. It was a shame, he thought, that she so disliked him that she refused to even help him with the sack ceremony.

“At least there will be new Elders next year,” he mused, picking up the sack and carefully making his way out of the landing bay along the twisting corridors toward the Toy Room. “Maybe the new Matriarch will want to do the ceremony with me.” The Toy Room doors slid open, and he walked amongst the empty shelves to the illuminated glass box where the sack resided during the off-season. Gently, he opened the box and placed the sack inside. As it hit the bottom of the glass, it began to shine in gentle hues of red and green and gold, its magic immediately beginning to replenish and rejuvenate. “I’ll see you next year,” Turk whispered to it before he turned around and tiptoed to the Debriefing Room.

He saw no need to announce his presence to his own father.

Purchase

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Meet the Author

Doreen Heron is a writer who is finally living her dream in Cornwall, England. She is lucky to live in the county she loves, and to be using her writing to entertain her readers.

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Dec 17

Book Blitz: Stick to the Script by Lane Hayes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Stick to the Script

Series: Ace’s Wild #13

Author: Lane Hayes

Publisher: Lane Hayes

Release Date: Dec. 17, 2019

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 31k

Genre: Romance, Bisexual, Holiday, Age Gap, Weekend Romance, Gay Romance

Synopsis

Jamie is a wedding photographer in need of a break, and a sexy freelance assignment on the East Coast sounds like an intriguing getaway. He makes his flight to Vintage Ridge just before an epic storm wreaks havoc on holiday travel. But when his friend is delayed, Jamie finds himself alone at the bed-and-breakfast for the night with the owners’ son…a hunky contractor with a wicked smile and a commanding presence. Not a problem. Jamie can handle light conversation with a ruggedly handsome man for a few hours. Maybe. If all else fails, he can read the script.

Wyatt loves remodeling old homes like his parents’ B and B. Spending an evening entertaining their guest while he finishes up his project doesn’t seem like a big deal, but Wyatt can tell there’s something special about the nervous younger man. He suggests reading the racy script that accompanies Jamie’s assignment to get his mind off the weather, but neither is prepared for what happens next. Their explosive attraction encourages them to bend the rules and stick to their own script…together.

PLEASE NOTE: For the first 90 days of this title’s publication, all sales and page reads will be donated to PFLAG.

Excerpt

“Hmm. How do you begin?” I asked.

“Like I said, this is the lead-in scene. I’ll probably set it in front of the fireplace. Those windows provide great natural light, and if it’s cloudy tomorrow that’s even better.”

“Are they going to sit or stand?”

James jumped up abruptly and moved behind me with his hands spread like he was framing a scene. “Stand, definitely. I’ll want the chairs out of the way.”

I set my wineglass down then pushed the chairs and the small table aside for him. “How’s that?”

“Good. That should work. Would you mind being a stand-in for a second?” He motioned for me to step toward the fireplace. “Move to your right. A little more. That’s perfect. Damien is muscular like you. He’ll probably wear jeans and a T-shirt.”

“I can take my sweater off,” I suggested.

“That’s not necessary. I can—”

I slipped the garment over my head and tossed it over the back of the chair. “Does this help?”

James licked his lips and stared at my chest for a long moment without speaking. “Um…yes. Could you put your hand on the mantel?”

I struck a casual pose. “Like this?”

He closed the space between us and gently adjusted my elbow. “Yes.”

“Where will Mark be?” I asked softly.

His Adam’s apple slid theatrically in his throat as he inched closer. “Here.”

The scene was set. Two long-term lovers had agreed to something they hoped would strengthen their bond. They’d introduced a new set of rules with a twist.

I didn’t give a fuck about Damien and Mark, but James fascinated me. His quirky intensity appealed to me on a level I didn’t really understand. Or maybe it was the implied element of danger. A sexy stranger didn’t turn up on my doorstep in a storm every day. This felt bigger than us somehow. Like an opportunity we were supposed to take. And the hungry look in his eyes and the furtive glance at my crotch made it clear he felt this too.

“Then what happens?”

He cleared his throat before studying the page again. “I’ll take a few pics to show Damien, um…taking control.”

“How do you show that without words?”

“It’s in the look. I might ask Damien to raise his hand, like he’s beckoning Mark closer.”

“Like this?” I hooked my finger, pleased when James closed the distance until we stood toe to toe.

“Yes. I’ll probably take a few photos of him unbuttoning Mark’s shirt and…”

“Like this?” I held his gaze as I undid the first few buttons on his oxford shirt.

Okay, I’d officially crossed a line. This was where he’d tell me to fuck off and back the hell up. I didn’t think he would, though. He was wound so tight with need, he practically vibrated. The urge to pull him against me and stick my tongue down his throat was strong. But he had to give me the reins. I held my breath and waited for him to decide what came next.

James nodded. “Y-yes. But then he stops.”

I stopped. I raised my hands, noting his unsteady breath when he opened his mouth and closed it…twice.

“Good call. If it were me, I’d tell him to undress himself. Slowly,” I said in a huskier than normal voice.

“You would?”

“Yeah. It’s a balance of power. It’s given freely…with trust. He wants to please his lover and himself at the same time. Am I right?”

He licked his lips. “Yes. That’s it. He’ll tell him to take his clothes off. One piece at a time. He’ll demand it.”

I pulled the script from his hands, fixing him with a no-nonsense look before inclining my head meaningfully. “Unbutton your shirt, James.”

“Me? What are you—what are we doing?”

“What do you want to do?” I countered. “Be honest.”

“I…I…uh.”

“Okay. I’ll go first.” I dropped the script on the side table, then brushed my thumb over his stubbled chin. “I want you.”

“But you don’t know me.”

I flashed a pirate’s smile. “You’re right. That doesn’t change anything.”

Purchase at Amazon

Stick to the Script is part of a multi-author series of books that take place in the same fictional town. Each story can be read in any order. The connecting element in the Ace’s Wild series is an adult store owned by Ace and Wilder. The main characters from each book will make at least one visit to Ace’s Wild, where they’ll buy a toy to use in their story! The only characters who crossover to each book are Ace and Wilder. And with various heat levels, there’s sure to be something for everyone!

Ace’s Wild Series

Meet the Author

Lane Hayes is grateful to finally be doing what she loves best. Writing full-time! It’s no secret Lane loves a good romance novel. An avid reader from an early age, she has always been drawn to well-told love story with beautifully written characters. These days she prefers the leading roles to both be men. Lane discovered the M/M genre a few years ago and was instantly hooked. Her debut novel was a 2013 Rainbow Award finalist and subsequent books have received Honorable Mentions, and were winners in the 2016, 2017, and 2018-2019 Rainbow Awards. She loves red wine, chocolate and travel (in no particular order). Lane lives in Southern California with her amazing husband in a newly empty nest.

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Dec 16

Book Blitz: Rialto by Jocelynn Drake & Rinda Elliott (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Rialto

Series: Unbreakable Bonds Series #8

Author: Jocelynn Drake & Rinda Elliott

Publisher: Drake & Elliott LLC

Release Date: December 16, 2019

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 74,000

Genre: Romance, Thriller/Suspense,

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Synopsis

Someone has it out for Rialto.

Ian Banner is loving his hectic life. He’s newly married, ready to start a family, and opening a new restaurant. All his dreams are coming true.

The last thing he needs is a problem with his restaurant.

But when one attack after another comes, he grows convinced he has another enemy.

Ian tries to handle things by himself, but his friends are soon drawn in when the attacks become violent. That’s when Ian realizes the target isn’t Rialto. It’s him.

Rialto is the final installment in the Unbreakable Bonds series and features sexy times, Daciana snuggles, overprotective family, fire, and of course, code names.

Excerpt

Ian sighed and stretched his legs out, putting his sock-covered feet onto the coffee table. He’d kicked off his shoes when they’d come in. “I’m still reeling over that damn raid. Someone had to have called it in, and I can’t figure out who would do such a thing. It’s driving me crazy worrying about it.”

“Everything’s fine. Even Sarah told you there’s nothing to worry about now.”

“Still, it shouldn’t have happened, and having those dogs in the kitchen?” He growled softly. “I just hope we don’t get any disgruntled reviews from the people we had to reschedule.”

“Bad reviews happen, you know that.”

“But over something like this? Something completely out of my control?” He sat up and faced Hollis. “I can’t get it out of my head that someone actually turned us in. And all that stuff about drugs?  Drugs, Hollis! The last thing Rialto needs is a rumor like that. We had people in that restaurant who heard all that when they first came in.”

He stood and started pacing the room. Hollis watched his slim, agitated form as he moved, noting that his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“Rumors of drugs could hurt our chances of becoming foster parents, too!” he nearly yelled. He reached up and ran both hands through his hair, leaving the brown strands sticking up all over the place.

He’d worked himself into a frenzy again. Hollis stood and walked to him. He placed his hands on Ian’s shoulders, feeling the fine bones beneath his palms before sliding his hands down Ian’s back to pull the man into his body.

Ian slumped against him, wrapping his arms tight around him. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Hollis asked.

“For the hug. For knowing I needed one.” He tilted his head and stared into Hollis’s face. “You always know how to calm me down.”

“I don’t want you worrying about drug rumors. The fact that your restaurant only lost one night to the raid before opening up again will squelch any of those. Rialto will be fine. And this isn’t going to hurt our chances at being foster parents. We’ve already gone through the background checks and everything else. It’s all good.”

Ian had worried incessantly about the background inspection, but his past with Jagger had never been public knowledge. It also didn’t hurt that Ian had Rowe’s tech specialist, Gidget, run a check, making sure that there was nothing from Ian’s past that might throw up red flags. Gidget had confirmed that other than Jagger’s attack on Ian at Union Terminal three years ago, there was nothing linking Ian to Jagger.

“I just want it so much,” Ian mumbled against his chest as he leaned close again.

“I know, baby. I do, too.”

Ian lifted his head. “Yeah?”

“You know I do,” Hollis said as he bent down to kiss Ian. Ian’s arms slid up around his neck and he stood on his toes to press harder into Hollis’s mouth. That warm body felt too good against Hollis. He pulled away from Ian and stared at him, taking in the already blown pupils with a smile. “Enough of this worrying. I have a better idea. Stay right here.”

He walked to the front door to set the security alarm, then flipped off the lights. The automatic night-light on the stairs came on, but he knew where Ian was. He walked to his husband and lifted him. Ian’s legs automatically wrapped around his waist as Ian chuckled. Hollis knew he was laughing at being carried, but Hollis fucking loved carting Ian around.

“I bet I know what your idea is,” Ian murmured, kissing Hollis’s jaw.

“If it’s stripping you naked and having my way with you, you get a cookie.” He carried him up the stairs and into their bedroom, not setting him down until they were beside their bed.

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Meet the Author

Jocelynn Drake and Rinda Elliott have teamed up to combine their evil genius to create intense gay romantic suspense stories that have car chases, shoot outs, explosions, scorching hot love scenes, and tender, tear-jerking moments. Their first joint books are in the Unbreakable Bonds series.

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Dec 16

New Release Blitz: Wounded Martyr by Courtney Maguire (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Wounded Martyr

Author: Courtney Maguire

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 16, 2019

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 54300

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, Contemporary, gay, rock star, musicians, tour, drug/alcohol use, addiction, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort

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Synopsis

Ice is an asshole, but he’s working on it. He’s two years sober, no small feat when you front a heavy metal band facing waning popularity and dismal ticket sales. But the pieces of a life torn apart by alcoholism are finally coming back together. His band, Wounded Martyr, has written a great album with the potential to launch them back into relevancy. And Ricky, probably the biggest, most important piece, has finally forgiven him for the wreck he made of their relationship. There’s only one problem.

Ashton.

It was to be expected. As his best friend and bandmate for almost twenty years, it’s only natural they should find each other in the loneliness of the road. Ricky knows about their one night together, but he doesn’t know that Ice can’t stop thinking about it, about his long body and whiskey-flavored lips, and the guilt of it has him on the brink of backslide. Now that Wounded Martyr is poised for a long tour, Ice must find a way to resist temptation or risk blowing their last chance and destroying his relationship with the two most important men in his life.

Excerpt

Wounded Martyr
Courtney Maguire © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Everything hurt.

Hiding in our dingy dressing room toilet, back pressed against the wall between the sink and the urinal, I read wall graffiti to take my mind off my sore joints. Black Sharpie marker slander tucked between worn band stickers. Jake is a pussy. For a good time, call. Someone had scrawled SUX over a Wounded Martyr sticker in the corner. An old one. Apparently, we’d played here before. I couldn’t remember.

House music vibrated through the wall, and I pressed my shoulder blades into it. I gave a no-smoking sign the finger and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. This used to be my favorite part, the anticipation in the moments before we hit the stage. Now, I shook with a mix of adrenaline and dread that made me queasy.

“Ice!” A familiar voice cut through the din followed by a rapid knock on the door. “Dude, you in there?”

I popped a cigarette between my lips. “Fuck off, I’m taking a shit.”

The door opened anyway, and in slipped Ashton. Ash. Hair in his face and dark liner around his eyes. Deep lines framed his mouth, but his too-long limbs made him appear perpetually boyish. The way I would always see him. The sixteen-year-old kid playing bass in his garage.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

I scowled and shoved the cig back in the pack.

“Dante is going to lose his shit if you don’t get out there,” he said, closing the door behind him. Dante, our self-appointed fearless leader. If he wasn’t such a goddamned great guitarist, I’d kick him in the teeth.

“Dante can suck my cock.”

“Pretty sure he’s not into that.” We shared a laugh before his eyes pinched in concern. “How’s the voice?”

“Tired,” I answered on the tail end of an exhale.

“You can make it, man.” He stepped toward me. “Just three more shows, and we’re home.”

“Have you seen the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it full?”

He pressed his lips together, and those lines around his mouth deepened.

“Shit.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He squeezed my arm. “It’s a big house. It would be hard for anyone to fill. Besides, we’ve played smaller.”

I nodded, but my stomach dropped into my toes. Sure, we’d played smaller. I remembered playing crowds of twenty people, ten of whom hated us. But we were eighteen with nowhere to go but up, and nothing to lose. It felt different now.

Ash’s expression softened. “What do you need?”

A drink.

“A blow job from John Stamos.”

“You and me both.” He hooked his hand around the back of my neck and pressed our foreheads together. “You’ll be great,” he said. “You are great. Just another day at the office, man, you got this.”

I leaned into him and released a long breath. Just another day. Another day I got to play rock and roll. Living the dream, most would say. But even dreams didn’t last forever.

“What the fuck are you two doing in there? Put your dicks away, and let’s go,” Dante’s gruff voice shouted from the other side of the door. Ash shot me a mischievous grin and dropped to his knees just as the door swung open. “What the fu—”

“Be right out, Boss,” I said, but he’d already stomped off, spitting and cursing the whole way back to the dressing room, his bright copper skin dark with an angry flush. I gave Ash a kick with my heel, and he rolled over backward, tangled in his own legs and howling.

“Homophobes are fun,” he said between gasps.

“You’re a prick,” I said, but I was smiling, my earlier dread carried away in the stream of his laughter. Dante had left the door open, and the house music pounded through me, ringing the tuning fork inside. It was still there, thank God. I offered Ash a hand and hauled him up.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his hand still wrapped in mine.

“Let’s get to work.”

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Meet the Author

Courtney Maguire is a University of Texas graduate from Corpus Christi, Texas. Drawn to Austin by a voracious appetite for music, she spent most of her young adult life in dark, divey venues nursing a love for the sublimely weird. A self-proclaimed fangirl with a press pass, she combined her love of music and writing as the primary contributor for Japanese music and culture blog, Project: Lixx, interviewing Japanese rock and roll icons and providing live event coverage for appearances across the country. Her first novel, Wounded Martyr, is a 2019 RWA® Golden Heart® Finalist in the Contemporary Romance: Short Category.

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Dec 16

New Release Blitz: Wild Bells by Elna Holst (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Wild Bells

Series: Tinsel and Spruce Needles, Book Three

Author: Elna Holst

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 16, 2019

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 14800

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, holiday, romance, lesbian, disabilities, college student, silversmith

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Synopsis

Lund, Sweden, 1998

Mia Andersson is not a nice person. She is a sharp, sensational-looking, aloof lawyer-to-be, and the busiest sapphic player in town. Mia Andersson takes no prisoners, tells no tales, and if you gave her your number, chances are she won’t call. But this holiday season, at age twenty-seven, wheels that are out of her control have been set in motion, and it looks like she might just get caught in the spin.

Excerpt

Wild Bells
Elna Holst © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Lund, Sweden, 1998

Linda Ling was all that. From the moment Mia had first set eyes on her, at the band’s premiere gig at Blekingska back in October, she hadn’t been able to not see her: Linda Ling turned up in her dreams at night, in her thoughts by day, in casual conversation between classes, in the distance along the streets of late-autumn, early-winter Lund. She was on posters, in clubs, in the air, and—God help her—in Mia Andersson’s masturbatory fantasies. The spiky, jet-black hair, the punk-goth pallor, her slight, androgynous build, the calculated raggedness of her clothing: black netting, torn edges, charcoal and purple stripes. The ankh tattoo at the nape of her neck, which Mia had glimpsed, teasingly, only once at the university library, where she had happened to spot Linda embroiled with a gaggle of friends-cum-admirers, her hair gathered in a messy I’ve-got-brains-too bun to mark the occasion. She had a piercing, as well: a stud below her full, pouty bottom lip, and each and every finger of her hands was adorned with at least two fancy, industrial-sized silver rings. Her eyes were an intense shade of violet, which Mia suspected must be the product of tinted contacts, but it didn’t matter, or rather, it merely added to her attractions—because Linda Ling was so attractive it was unreal.

And Mia Andersson was not in the habit of not having got her leg over that already.

True, Linda was four years her junior, but Mia wasn’t usually squeamish about that sort of thing: she was twenty-seven, not eighty-three. And she’d bet her favourite, well-worn Ramones tee Linda Ling wouldn’t mind a slightly older, a lot more experienced lover.

This wasn’t so much bragging as a statement of facts; Mia Andersson had been a player of, more or less, the exclusive sapphic variety since she had turned fifteen. She had been sexually active for well over a decade, and she had turned her fair share of blushing bi-curious virgins into raging rug munchers. Her gaydar was impeccable. If there was even the slightest possibility, the most infinitesimal potential of queer in a girl, Mia brought it out and honed it to glimmering perfection, before releasing her back out into the wild. Mia Andersson was a dykemaker. It was just her thing.

There was only one problem—one which, despite her being closer to her cool thirties than her red-hot twenties, Mia couldn’t recall ever having run up against before. She was miffed. She was stunted. She was flabbergasted.

Linda Ling was, to all appearances and in spite of her heavy, enticing, smouldering andro vibe, completely, irredeemably, one hundred per cent and counting, straight.

The mere thought caused Mia’s upper lip to curl in distaste, her hand gripping the neck of her beer bottle spasmodically. She just couldn’t accept it, and the non-acceptance had turned into a minor obsession—to the point where Mia Andersson, the Malmö-Lund region’s busiest lesbian lay, had gone a full thirty days (an entire month!) without getting any action. Her frustration was verging on palpable. She needed another drink.

Turning abruptly away from the low stage where Linda and her band members droned out their latest dour-faced dirge—the Raven Choir they called themselves, or something along those lines; to be honest, Mia wouldn’t have given them a second glance, much less paid the price of a ticket, if it hadn’t been for the fact that their lead singer was, well, all that—Mia made for the bar. Or, that was the plan; in reality, she ran crotch first into a froth-tipped pint of lager.

“Oh, for fuck’s—”

Eyes of an indeterminate colour regarded her, from out of a tan face shaded by the stiff peak of a light-blue football cap.

“Unexpected move.” The person to whom these iconoclastic features belonged cocked her head, and a devilish glint came into those previously oh-so-innocent eyes right before she added: “Bet I got your knickers wet in record time, though.”

Mia ‘the Dykemaker’ Andersson was at a loss for words. Slack-jawed with disbelief, she simply stared down at the woman seated—of course, it had to be, this close to the stage—in a sleek purple wheelchair, a now half-empty glass of beer in hand. Or half full, depending on your outlook on life, etc. There was something oddly, disturbingly familiar about her.

The woman switched her glass over to her left and held out her right hand.

“Sandra Ling,” she drawled, and everything came together, all at once, as Mia darted a look back up at Linda, who was, mercifully, not turned in their direction.

“That’s right,” Sandra nodded as she shook Mia’s limp hand vigorously. She had some grip on her; that was for sure. “Twins. I know. I know. It’s not fair; how come I got all the looks and talent?”

Mia snorted, half in shock, half in amusement.

“How is that—” She stopped, not really certain where she was going, what she was saying. Besides, her jeans and—yes, her underwear, too—really were soaking. In a non-sexual, not comfortable at all way. “Fuck, I’m wet!”

Sandra sucked her lips in over her teeth, giving her a frog-like appearance. Kind of—no, not kind of, just cute, actually.

“Yeah, jokes aside, I’m sorry about that. I was just about to—well, never mind.”

Mia shuffled her feet. There was a puddle on the floor, starting to give off that classic old-drunk reek, and she felt about as fresh and alluring as if she had pissed herself. And here she was, chatting to a stranger. A girl in a wheelchair. Linda’s sister. Her twin.

“I should go wash off.”

Sandra sat back in her seat, lifting herself up a little on her forearms. Her torso was—square, almost a perfect square, there was no other way of putting it.

“I’ll keep a look out for you. When you get back, I mean. I think I owe you a drink or something. What did you say your name was?”

“Mia. Mia Andersson. I’m—I’m really wet.”

Sandra’s lips twisted into the subtlest smirk Mia could recollect ever having seen, except—well, except when she happened to catch sight of her own reflection.

She actually, honest-to-God blushed.

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Meet the Author

Often quirky, always queer, Elna Holst is an unapologetic genre-bender who writes anything from stories of sapphic lust and love to the odd existentialist horror piece, reads Tolstoy, and plays contract bridge. Find her on Instagram or Goodreads.

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Dec 16

New Release Blitz: This is the Circle by Tash McAdam (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  This is the Circle

Series: The Psionics, Book Four

Author: Tash McAdam

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 16, 2019

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 75800

Genre: Science Fiction/Fantasy, LGBT, military, futuristic, alt universe, barbarians, bonded, dark, disabilities, body snatching, undead, polyamory, non-monogamy, minor romance

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Synopsis

In the middle of two wars, including one that they didn’t want and didn’t ask for, the Psionics of ARC struggle to turn back the Eaters. The Institute is still waiting for an opportunity to regain control of the city, but right now there are more pressing concerns. Outside the Wall, chaos reigns, and the slums are overrun. Citizens and dwells alike are panicked and rioting. Cassandra hides in Epsilon 17’s body, convincing those closest to her that everything is normal as she pieces together plans to escape in the confusion.

But when the Eaters take her, Thea manages to regain control. The tables have turned. Now she has to pretend to be Cassandra to survive—but fortunately her time in the Institute prepared her well. If she tries to flee, she’ll be killed, but if she stays with the cannibal hordes she’s bound to be discovered. Escape seems impossible, but help—and friendship—comes from an unlikely source.

Toby and Serena have their hands full fighting the invading Eaters and trying to track down leads on where Thea could be. Cut off from his twin, Toby’s relationships with ARC deepen and grow, but he’s consumed by his guilt and his need to find Thea.

The cannibal threat looms ever closer, and with one of their best weapons either lost or disabled, ARC has to decide what their priorities are. Should they try to kill her, or save her?

Excerpt

This is the Circle
Tash McAdam © 2019
All Rights Reserved

TOBY

They’re coming over the wall, Serena pushes the thought to me as we duck into a doorway, looking for our next targets. People are running and screaming, I see a toddler dashed out of his mother’s arms, grabbed by an invisible hand, and send a puff of telekinesis out to catch him, whisking him out of danger and back safe onto her shoulder. A scream of frustration rings in the empty air.

The woman doesn’t know what happened, but she takes her child and keeps running. The streets are clearing now, the gates shut to keep the attackers out, cutting off the flood of dwells. I can’t help but think they’d be safer if they’d all stayed outside. The Eaters are here; they’re in the City, but we can’t see them.

I desperately try to comm base, but everything’s down, my datapad blinking uselessly as it tries to connect.

Serena marks two falling shapes that are invisible to me as they tumble down the huge white edifice. They’re using their power like parachutes, skidding their feet down the surface of the wall and wafting their telekinesis above themselves, slowing their descent; it’s unbelievable. Via our hand-to-hand connection I get a faint impression of Serena skidding down a wall by herself, long ago, young and scared, with devastation woven into the heart of the memory. She digs her nails into my hand, jogging me out of the private moments she didn’t mean to share, and points our joined hands at the first descending Eater.

I send out a burst of power, flatten the body-snatcher against the massive white blocks of steel-hard stone, feel his bones break, and his scream of pain reverberates through the air. Serena yanks the other attacker down, but he…no, she, flips in the air and lands on her feet, dodging into the panicked shapes before Serena can keep track of her.

A massive figure shunts refugee bodies aside like a battering ram—Tudor: he can see them, just like Leaf could in the desert—and heaves upward. The woman Serena lost sight of flickers into view for a moment, and Tudor hammers a huge fist into her chest. Everything is so sharp and clear in my vision. I see her rib bones bow inward, snap. Battlesight, Serena crows, adrenaline pounding through her, making her forget the deaths around us and focus only on the joy of war.

Together we race toward the fading trail of another invisible attacker as they sprint down a street after the fleeing crowds. They want the children, Serena sends to me, her inner voice shocked and disbelieving. I caught it on her before Tudor took her down; they’re here for the kids. The powered kids, she means. I feel it.

Why? My feet smash into the pavement. I wish these boots were older, broken in, the tight synth-leather making my strides just a touch uncertain on the slippery solar panels.

You should try doing this in the rain, Serena jokes, not knowing the answer to my question. Then we’re on the escaping Eater and have to focus. She reads and finds his feet for me, bare, soles like hide but used to hot sands not smooth glassy surfaces. I thread a noose of power around his ankle, ready to trip him. But I forgot what they can do with an open line, and I gasp as he yanks on the tendril I sent toward him. He pulls a gob of power right out of my chest, absorbing it with a shuddery cry I can hear with my mundane ears, not needing Serena to read it and pass it to me.

I stagger, almost falling with the shock of it, but Serena catches me with a strong hand around my belt, saving me from a nosedive onto the ground. Toby. It’s a cry, thick with fear, but I’m okay. I let go of the power and let him take it rather than try to keep the connection open and fight him for it. I don’t know how to do that, and the memory of my twin taking everything out of me is still too fresh in my mind to want to try.

I’m good, I spit it, finding my balance and yanking Serena along, urging her to look for our prey, but he’s disappeared, and she can’t find him. If they want the kids, they’ll be at ARC, I realize and share at the same time, and Serena blanches.

Damon.

Purchase

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Meet the Author

Tash is a 30 year old teacher candidate at UBC in Canada, although they were born and raised in the hilly sheepland of Wales (and have lived in South Korea and Chile before settling down in Vancouver). Tash identifies as trans and queer and uses the neutral pronoun ‘they’. They’re also an English teacher and fully equipped to defend that grammar! They have a degree in computer science so their nerd chat makes sense, and a couple of black belts in karate which are very helpful when it comes to writing fight scenes.

Their novel writing endeavours began at the age of eight, and included passing floppy discs back and forth with a friend at swimming lessons. Since then, Tash has spent time falling in streams, out of trees, learning to juggle, dreaming about zombies, dancing, painting, learning and then teaching Karate, running away with the circus, and of course, writing.

They write fast-paced, plot-centric action adventure with diverse casts. They write the books that they wanted to read as a queer kid and young adult (and still do!)

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Dec 09

New Release Blitz: Undergrowth by Chel Hylott and Chelsea Lim (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Undergrowth

Author: Chel Hylott and Chelsea Lim

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 9, 2019

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 53500

Genre: Science Fiction/Fantasy, LGBT, Hurt/comfort, children, immortal, demons, apocalyptic, lesbian

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Synopsis

Seventeen-year-old Mariam has been mixed up with the supernatural since she was a kid. Between a half-rotting Beast showing up in her dad’s study when she was six years old and the fact that she can’t die, it doesn’t come as too much of a shock when drought-ridden Los Angeles turns into a sentient, carnivorous rainforest overnight.

The tedium of wandering through a ruined city filled with dead bodies and crumbling buildings is broken when she stumbles upon beautiful Camila and her ragtag crew of survivors. Mariam isn’t exactly altruist of the year, but her soft spot for kids means she can’t just leave them to fend for their own. She rescues them and decides to throw her lot in with theirs.

Despite herself, she quickly becomes a part of their family. However, even as they all start feeling at home in their new vegetal world, sinister figures from Mariam’s past begin to reappear, and the whole hell-jungle situation begins to feel a lot more personal. As she learns more about her family’s involvement with the unnatural forces that caused all of this destruction, Mariam is faced with a terrifying truth: she might have to betray someone to save the city and her new friends.

Excerpt

Undergrowth
Chel Hylott and Chelsea Lim © 2019
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
The door gives way with a wet squish, and Mariam wrinkles her nose against the smell. Damp wood, ripe fruit, the sharp tang of tree sap, and, yup, there it is: there’s something dead in here. Probably whoever thought holing up in a hardware store would save them. At least, she thinks it’s a hardware store. The sign out front is mossed over in green, and the display window has been overrun with vines. Still, it seems like the right kind of place.

Mariam doesn’t really want to go inside. She’s seen plenty of death, and the smell is rank enough, it’s almost certain that there’s more than one body in there. But she’s here for a reason, and who knows when she’ll next get another opportunity this good? She needs tools, and there are tools here.

Shoving a shoulder against the door gets it open wide enough to slip through. Inside, it takes a minute for her eyes to adjust, but eventually, rows and rows of shelving swim up out of the darkness. Everything is slick with damp.

Under the death, there is the smell that is particular to home improvement and hardware stores, something like sawdust and varnish. That and the nails scattered all over the floor indicate she’s found the right place. She bends to pick up one of the nails, considers it, grabs a box off the shelf, and stuffs it into her backpack. Who knows? Maybe she’ll need them at some point.

Down the first aisle, then. Screws, nuts, hex bolts…halfway down she trips and catches herself, but not before something moist brushes her ankle. She looks down and sees a leg, then another. Bile rises to her throat; she chokes, the stench suddenly overwhelming, before she steadies herself, hand on a shelf. Memories of her mother rise before her, short blonde hair streaked with red and gray slime, sprawled over the floor, her pale white hand blackened with gunpowder. Then Mariam blinks, and she’s back in the dark, the stink of blood replaced with that of rot, and nothing to be heard but the thudthudthud of her heart.

A family, maybe. Those shoes are too small for an adult. She leaves them where they lie.

She tries to distract herself and rakes her eyes over the shelves in a direction away from the bodies, and a large red toolbox catches her attention. She walks over and tries to open it. It’s stuck fast. She tries not to think about the bodies, thinks instead of her father, and braces herself, then pounds the toolbox with her fist. Her flesh breaks and she hisses, but as soon as the pain hits, it shifts a register, run through with a tingle of the supernatural. Skin knits back together before her eyes, and she bites back the scream that’s welling up inside of her throat. Goddamnit. If she could turn it off, she would, though that might not be advisable in her current situation. It’s useful, she can’t deny it, but the pain feels like more trouble than it’s worth.

At least the toolbox is open now, and the pain’s cleared her head. She takes a shaky breath as the scar fades away into clear skin and peers inside the toolbox.

Inside she finds pliers, a pair of shears, a utility knife, two screwdrivers, and a chisel. She puts them into her backpack and moves on to the next aisle, where a shelf of flashlights piques her interest. Promising. But when she finds the batteries to go along with them, they’re all wet and leaking acid. So much for that.

Three aisles later and she’s picked up a coil of nylon rope and a dust mask, but what she really wants is at the back of the store. A rack of sledgehammers, picks, and axes has fallen over in the corner, already half overgrown with slippery vegetation. Mariam lifts one after another, testing them for weight and grip and something else she can’t pinpoint.

The last one is wedged under the rack itself, but she yanks it out and blinks at it in the dark. This one. This one will do. It’s small, just a little hatchet with a wooden handle and a blade painted red, but it feels heavy and solid in her hand.

She gives it a couple of practice swings and smiles to herself as it snicks through the air. It’ll cut through the less robust vegetation, in any case, and it’s still light enough to use as a weapon if she ever needs it. And she probably will, if she’s honest, despite the twist it puts in her gut. There are animals, now, smarter and more vicious than they have any reason to be, and plants, too, that will grab at your ankles and wind themselves around your neck if you aren’t careful. And there are people. Not many, it seems, but there are some, and Mariam knows people aren’t always friendly in times like these.

The hatchet sits snug at her hip, looped through her belt.

She avoids the first aisle and its inhabitants on her way out. A careful step over the vines at the door and she’s back out into the perpetual gloom of what used to be a six-lane boulevard. It’s morning still, probably. Overhead, the arms of newly sprouted trees make a lattice of dripping green that just about blocks out the sky. Down here on the ground, time passes almost imperceptibly, everything slow and sluggish like she’s underwater with only faint, filtered light from on high to guess at the position of the sun. Maybe time stopped when the tremors ceased. Maybe a lot of things.

It’s been weeks, now. How many, she’s not exactly sure. For a while, she’d kept track of the days in a little notebook, but then a curious vine plucked her pen right out of her hand, so that was that. And what’s the point anyway? By now she’s pretty sure humans won’t be around long enough to read anything she writes for it to matter, not if what happened here happened everywhere.

It started with the blackouts, which wasn’t so bad. Just another summer storm rumbling through, making the lights flicker with its static, she’d thought. But soon there were rolling waves of vibration that pulsed through the walls, through the floors and ceilings, and set her bones to shuddering. The lights brightened, dimmed, buzzed, and then popped. When they went out for the last time, who was to know they’d never come back on?

After that it was quiet for the space of about five seconds. All the electric humming in the whole world suddenly gone. It was the kind of stillness no one had known for a hundred years or more.

Then, a sound like a screech, like the earth itself was screaming. The sky flashed neon and the ground shook and shook and shook. Suddenly in her nose, the choking stench of smoke, sickly sweet but caustic all the same.

She doesn’t know, really, what happened next, because she was home alone at the time, and, yeah, she’d locked herself in the basement with a box of crackers and three bottles of water until it was over. A couple of times someone had banged at the door, and once they’d begged and pleaded, but she didn’t open up. She’s not ashamed. It kept her alive, which is more than can be said for most people who ventured out to help their neighbors or investigate or whatever the hell they were doing outside. She’s found their bodies all over the place. Some of them still had skin.

The bodies aren’t the main feature, though, because most of them are gone by this point, overgrown or threaded through with leaves or sunken into the peat. The world is different now.

After the last of the aftershocks faded, she’d crept up to the door and peered outside to discover that overnight, everything had turned green.

So much for the drought. So much for ripping out your lawn and replacing it with desert plants, because, oh man, this is not a desert anymore. Los Angeles is now a clot of humidity and vegetation. Huge trees, their trunks furred with moss, sunk their roots right through what used to be highways and sidewalks and stretched up to tangle their branches in the windows of skyscrapers. Every surface, it seems, is covered with flat, spongy leaves or snake-like vines that secrete a sticky sap when they get agitated.

It burns, the sap. Mariam found that out the first time she tried to fend them off and came away with her palms crisscrossed in acid burns. They healed up quick, like they always do, with painful side effects, and she’s been careful ever since.

The vines aren’t the only things to look out for, and in the short time she’s been out here on her own, she’s discovered that pretty much anything can turn out to be deadly. Not long after she’d crawled out from her house, some guy she knew from around the neighborhood called to her from across the way and started toward her, until halfway there, he shrieked and the ground just swallowed him. She didn’t go over to investigate. That’s the kind of stupidity she has no time for.

She doesn’t quite know what to do after raiding the hardware store. Without a purpose, the emptiness that’s threatened to eat away at her since she was a tiny girl hovers at her consciousness, so she does what she usually does when despair sits heavy in her gut: she goes to the ocean.

She used to spend so many nights at the beach, playing her guitar for strangers and staring at the sky. It was her place to think. Maybe it can still be.

It turns out to be a bad idea.

Finding it at all is hard enough with her sense of direction torn to shreds from all the new vegetation. The vines mostly leave her alone, but every so often, like a curious kitten, they bat at her face, hair, and clothes. It’s disconcerting and horrible and weird. The vines cease their explorations once she removes her hatchet and starts swinging wildly, anger and a case of the heebie-jeebies giving her newfound strength. At first, sap stings at her face and arms, but that will pass. Better than to have the creepy things all over her.

She gets close to the beach when her heart stops.

She can hear people, lots of them, and dogs barking too, somewhere on the other side of a thick lattice made of branches and vines. Through the chinks in the trees, she can see them moving, bright spots of color in the green.

She yells, “Hey! In here!” and jogs as fast as she can through the tangled plant life toward the voices.

“Hey!” she shouts again as she gets closer, but there’s no answering call from the other side of the vines and no change in their movements. Mariam peers through a gap in the vegetation, just a little gap as wide as her hand. She can tell it’s almost sunset, but even so, it’s blindingly bright out, the sun bouncing off the ocean, and she has to squint for a moment before things become clear. Closer to her, a group of men and dogs are milling around on the beach: military, probably, based on their uniforms. One’s talking into a radio, the rest walking back and forth along the tree line, peering in suspiciously.

“Hello? I’m in here!” she calls out again, but even to her it sounds muffled, and none of them turn.

“No, can’t get through. Chainsaw didn’t even leave a mark—the stuff just kept growing back thicker. We’re going to head out,” the man on the radio says, and his handset crackles in response.

“No way through the top, either. Wait, there’s something going on. Something’s moving down there, it’s…looks like vines. Vines are…” There’s a pause, and the static buzzes louder, then, “Oh my God, they’re coming at us! They’re pulling us down! Someone help! Someone—” The radio crackles again, this time ominously, and Mariam hears a crash somewhere far behind her. She curses under her breath.

What the hell is going on?

She tries another, “I’m in here!” as loud as she can, the desperate sound scraping at her throat, but it’s obvious they can’t hear her. They don’t even turn. Instead, they shuffle nervously in place and glance around at one another in silence before their leader puts the radio to his mouth and asks, “John? You there?”

Static.

After another moment the man issues an order and they turn away, dogs and all, heading back toward the sea.

“Wait!” Mariam cries, but they’re already climbing into their boat. Someone starts the motor.

She has to fight back tears of frustration and anger.

Mariam scrubs an agitated hand through her hair, cropped close to her head but still longer than she likes—she’d been due for a haircut already when disaster struck. Now it’s threatening to tickle her ears and stick to the back of her neck.

What’s she gonna do now? Hack her way through to the beach to try to get to the people there? She can’t. The vines are too thick and her little hatchet isn’t big enough. If the military with all their tools can’t get through, how can she even begin to—

She hears a shriek inland. Sounds like one of those scary smart monkeys. She’d better get away from here before…another ungodly scream rents the air, and wait. That doesn’t sound like a monkey.

That sounds like a little girl.

Mariam hears more shrieks, childish voices screaming in horror, adult voices shouting to run. She looks at her hatchet, and her eyes harden. Then she runs back into the overgrowth, her weapon at the ready.

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Meet the Author

Chelsea Lim is a writer, teacher, and reluctant academic. Originally from the Pacific Northwest, she now lives in Los Angeles with her partner and too many books. In her spare time, she loves cooking elaborate meals, watching wushu films, and procrastinating on her dissertation.

Chel Hylott is a Brazilian-American living in Surrey, England with her wife and pug. When she isn’t writing sappy Sapphic short stories, you can find her reading Tarot or listening to Bossa Nova.

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Dec 09

New Release Blitz: We Still Live by Sara Dobie Bauer (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  We Still Live

Author: Sara Dobie Bauer

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 9, 2019

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 62500

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, college, teaching, in the closet, coming out, past trauma, depression, anxiety, PTSD/post-traumatic stress, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, mental illness

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Synopsis

Running from a scandal that ruined his life, Isaac Twain accepts a teaching position at Hambden University where, three months prior, Professor John Conlon stopped a campus nightmare by stepping in front of an active shooter.

When John and Isaac become faculty advisors for the school’s literary magazine, their professional relationship evolves. Despite the strict code of conduct forbidding faculty fraternization, they delve into a secret affair—until Simon arrives.

Isaac’s violent ex threatens not only their careers, but also John’s life. His PTSD triggered, John must come to terms with that bloody day on College Green while Isaac must accept the heartbreak his secrets have wrought.

Excerpt

Dr. Isaac Twain stood in a cozy house surrounded by strangers, where a forced jubilation floated like stale smoke. The house was something out of the Shire, a hobbit home for humans, on a hilltop in Lothos, Ohio, overlooking Hambden University’s campus.

Isaac had been dragged around the party earlier and introduced. The head of the English Department called him an “emergency hire.” Emergency because two of their professors had resigned a week before the semester started when they realized they couldn’t come back, not after what happened.

The unfamiliar faces of his new coworkers floated in and out of Isaac’s attention. In the overwarm, crowded kitchen, two older ladies smiled up at him and tried asking about his work, his life—did he have a wife?—but he ducked their questions like a soldier ducks bullets. For a time, he hovered among them with his glass of wine until a delightfully disorganized bookshelf in a room off the main foyer caught his eye, and he took solace.

Stepping inside, he cast a glance over what had to be someone’s office. An antique oak desk anchored the space, though its surface was bare and dusty from nonuse. A couple of framed band posters decorated the walls, but the only name Isaac recognized was Freddie Mercury. Trying not to snoop, he turned his attention back to the initial object of interest.

Books of all shapes and sizes crammed into the shelves at odd angles. Half were alphabetized, as if their owner had once considered organization and admitted defeat. In the top right corner sat a bobblehead, some kind of rodent with a red W on its chest. Isaac bopped the critter on the head, and it nodded in response.

An author named John Conlon dominated an entire half shelf. Isaac grabbed a book with bright binding—young adult, if the cover was anything to go by. He set his glass of wine on the nearby table, empty but for a photograph of a smiling couple with dark hair (whoever lived here was apparently not a fan of clutter) and flipped pages. He read the first line—It wasn’t meant to happen that summer, but by then, Declan understood the things he meant and the things he did were often at odds—until a stranger arrived at his side.

“Hey, newbie. You hiding?”

Isaac looked up to find an overgrown frat boy with spiked blond hair and a square-shaped head staring back at him. “Maybe,” Isaac said. He lifted his chin toward the kitchen. “It’s claustrophobic in there.”

The man shrugged. “What can I say? We’re overbearing, given the right amount of alcohol.” He extended his hand. “I’m Tommy Dewars.”

Isaac slid the Conlon book back where it belonged and accepted Tommy’s greeting. “Isaac Twain.”

“We’re playing the name game later. See if you remember everybody. If you mess up, you’re fired.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He squinted up at Isaac. “Not to be weird, but English professors aren’t usually seven feet of solid muscle.”

Isaac almost choked on his drink. Granted, people often commented on his height and physique, but Tommy’s remark still caught him off guard. “I used to run marathons,” he said. “But I’m a geek on the inside. Promise.” When Tommy smiled, Isaac tipped his head toward the dusty desk. “This your place?”

“Mine? No, God, no. I live in a shithole closer to campus. This is John’s place. He’s driving back from Wisconsin today, but he should be here soon. How long have you been in town? Heard you moved up from North Carolina?”

“South Carolina. Charleston.” He finished half the glass of wine in one go. “I’ve only been here a couple days.”

Tommy’s wrinkled plaid button-down untucked from his jeans when he scratched his belly, and he sipped what appeared to be whiskey. “Why the hell would you move to Ohio from Charleston?”

Isaac shrugged as the boisterous kitchen conversation spilled down the hall. “Change of scenery.”

Somewhere, a glass dropped and shattered. Disinterested, Isaac paid the disturbance no mind so was ill prepared for a sudden assault. He huffed out a breath when Tommy suddenly tackled him to the floor, both their glasses flying. Isaac held his hands up, bracing for a punch…until he realized he wasn’t being attacked.

Tommy, eyes wide, scrambled off Isaac and sat back on his heels. “Shit, I am so sorry.”

Isaac leaned up on his elbows. “You okay?”

Jaw clenched, Tommy sputtered a chuckle. “Apparently not.” He stood and helped Isaac to his feet. He laughed some more and brushed at the front of Isaac’s blazer. “I, uh…” He pressed his lips together and glanced behind him. “New habits, I guess. Jesus.” He smacked Isaac on the shoulder. “Seriously, are you okay?”

Isaac’s heart thudded in his chest, but he still said, “Fine.”

“I need to get you another drink.”

Isaac picked up their dropped glasses, spilled but not broken. “It’s all right.”

“You came at a really bad time, man.”

“I know.” He did know. Well, he knew enough. School shootings were practically a weekly occurrence. Six people had died in a campus shooting at Hambden the spring before, although that was his only detail. Details seemed too heavy, the number of lives lost countrywide like rocks tied to the necks of those drowning in despair.

Purchase

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Meet the Author

Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling author, model, and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, she lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film. She is author of the paranormal rom-com Bite Somebody series, among other sexy things.

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Dec 09

New Release Blitz: This Christmas by J.R. Hart (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  This Christmas

Author: J.R. Hart

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 9, 2019

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 56800

Genre: Contemporary Holiday, LGBT, gay, in the closet, holiday season, coming out, virgin, opposites attract, new adult

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Synopsis

Alex Ross can’t catch a break when it comes to Christmastime. With a long history of bad holiday experiences—like getting rejected under the mistletoe or playing referee to his mother’s divorce—he’s just trying to survive it.

New in town and a stranger to everyone, he plans on ignoring the holiday altogether. That would be easier if his ridiculously cheerful new neighbor would cool it on the Christmas hype. Nicholas is annoying and loud. Worst of all, he’s also impossibly attractive and nice to everyone. It’s getting harder for Alex to deny his interest, especially when Nicholas leaves Christmas cookies at his door and wages a snowball fight against him on the coldest day of the year.

Can Alex open up to him and get into the holiday spirit before he endures another ruined Christmas?

Excerpt

Christmas Spirit

Peppermint. Everywhere Alex looked, on every shelf, peppermint surrounded him. Before Thanksgiving had ended, someone sneezed red-and-white stripes throughout the grocery store. Most of the year, Alex was indifferent to peppermint. He didn’t have a personal grudge against the flavor, not really. At Christmas, however, indifference became loathing.

What was the point of basing an entire season around one specific flavor profile? He didn’t get the excitement of mint, the mad rush to stock up as if the ingredient were scarce. Calculating an extra ten minutes into his routine to account for peppermint mochas being all the rage and the long lines accompanying the seasonal drink? Not particularly enjoyable. Personally, Alex preferred peppermint in the summertime, stirred into a glass of lemonade. In the current season, chamomile tea was a far better option, particularly in Omaha, which may as well have been a frozen wasteland. As he loaded the chamomile variety into his cart, he looked at the peppermint tea beside the others on the shelf again. How many people buy that thinking this is the only time it’s available? It wasn’t a limited holiday tea. Do people really not know this? Peppermint tea was right there, on the shelf, year-round. But somehow, no one touched the tea in the summertime.

Alex found it a little scary how some crafty marketing on the part of a few national giants—a few food brands—could push peppermint to the forefront of everyone’s minds, convincing them the one flavor was a requirement for a good Christmas. Marketing alone could make one flavor of tea, available year-round, fly off the shelves during the right time of year. “Madness.”

While he could deal with the fascination—darn near obsession—with peppermint products surrounding him in the aisles, he couldn’t stand the chaos and overcrowding Christmas caused. He hadn’t realized he’d been standing in front of the tea for as long as he had until a woman bumped him out of the way—no “excuse me” or anything—to reach the tea. He watched her snatch up several boxes of the very same peppermint green tea he’d rolled his eyes over. He wanted to be home badly, instead of at the store.

“You know they sell that stuff all year?” Alex asked. Stupid question.

She replied with a glare, then added two more boxes to her cart before wheeling away.

“Okay, then.”

Comfort food. Alex stalked away in search of comfort food. Not comfort food in the way most people would define it, but rather the food he personally found most comforting. Starting with the obvious item—the largest jar of peanut butter the store had to offer. He wondered how offended the cashier would be if he grabbed a pack of plastic spoons and tore into the jar now. He needed comfort. Moving to a new city, right before the holidays? Yeah. He needed peanut butter. Bread wasn’t important. His preference was to eat the substance straight out of the jar, where the creamy—never crunchy—mass could squish in and fill the emotional void left behind from the tension of shopping at Christmastime, the internal stress from packed aisles crowding in on him, overwhelming him. He scuffled his feet along the floor, head low, set on trying to avoid eye contact with any other shoppers.

Alex wasn’t in the mood to conjure the polite, Christmassy grin he was forced to give the other shoppers. The store piped in annoyingly saccharine, cheerful Christmas tunes, and the music was starting to give him a headache. I hate Christmas. He hadn’t always, but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to like the holiday. He attempted to elbow his way around a cookie display with shoppers crowded around. When he couldn’t manage to get through the crowd, he maneuvered between, reaching an arm in under someone’s elbow and above another shopper’s wrist. He grabbed two boxes, tossing them unceremoniously into his cart.

Too late to put the cookies back, he noticed the words “candy cane,” printed on the label. With the crowd, there was no way he could reach in and put the packages back. What about the season necessitated peppermint added to the cream-filled center of a sandwich cookie? He didn’t understand the need there. “What’s wrong with plain Oreos?” No one heard his question. Which was fine—he hadn’t wanted an answer. He should have ordered his groceries online, he realized in hindsight. But, he was here now. Leaving the store empty-handed didn’t make sense.

Saccharine tunes came through the speakers, crooning classics surrounding shoppers in the store. “On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…” From the next aisle, he could hear a voice singing along. The stranger didn’t bother to hum or sing along quietly as most other shoppers did. Instead, he made his presence known. “Eleven pipers piping.” His voice was booming and excited. “Ten lords a-leaping!” Whoever he was, he was getting into the music, holiday cheer annoying Alex from an aisle over. As Alex grabbed a box of cereal off the shelf, he caught a glimpse of a garish Christmas sweater, a peek of beard, and lips moving along to the song. Of course. He was desperate to get out of the store. The sooner he finished shopping, the sooner he could leave the festive hellhole and take a nap. His mind flitted to the booze aisle. Alex considered alcohol to be a decent enough solution for getting through the holiday season. Unfamiliar with the store’s layout, he wanted to find where he needed to go so scanned above him for a sign. He didn’t see it. Instead, he turned and saw a lone box of peppermint bark on an endcap. He debated grabbing some.

If the candy was any good, it might make up for the peppermint overload the season itself had. Besides, it was the last box. The fear of missing out overwhelmed him. Peppermint wasn’t all bad, even at Christmas. He reached his hand out to grasp the box as a large hand wrapped around the other side.

“Oh. Oh gosh.” A man, the one who had been singing, judging by his festive, candy-cane-striped sweater matching the one Alex had seen through the aisle divider, looked at him. “You can have it,” he said, but he didn’t let go of the box. He was offering with the hope Alex would decline and let him have the box. Alex could barely stifle a groan as he looked up at him. The guy looked a little too into Christmas in the sweater, and his obnoxious attire was a lot to take in.

Alex wasn’t short. He rarely had to look up at anyone. But this festive giant towered over him, so he let go. “I don’t even like peppermint bark,” Alex said. “Take it.” The last thing he wanted was to get on this guy’s Grinchy side over a box of candy he didn’t actually want.

“What?” The man in front of him stared, aghast, mouth open, jaw dropped in an exaggerated way Alex had only ever seen in movies, as if Alex had somehow personally attacked him with the statement. “You’re not a fan? It’s a holiday staple, man!”

Alex resisted any and all temptation to tell him, “I’m not your man.” He hated when people said things like that, so overly friendly, as if they knew each other, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he tried to hide his basket behind him, remembering it was full of peppermint cookies, not that he’d wanted them either. He worried the man had caught an eyeful, but then again, did he really care? He wasn’t on trial here! Apparently, what was on trial was whether or not he liked peppermint bark. Christmas and everything related to the holiday was on his last nerve; that was certain.

“No,” Alex said. “I am not a fan of peppermint bark. All it is is mint and chocolate. Go get a box of chocolate mints in the candy aisle—exact same thing, but the stuff sits there year-round, and nobody’s trying to convince you you’ll have the worst Christmas ever if you don’t have it.”

“Uh…” The man cocked his head to one side.

Alex considered he might have come off a little too strong, and for a moment, he was embarrassed by his mini-tirade about how awful the holidays were. He didn’t back down though. In fact, he realized he’d made a good point. Like he’d told the guy, he could go to the candy aisle if he needed chocolate and mint so badly. “It’s true,” Alex said. Frustrated with himself for getting sucked into the marketing, he was thankful some crazy person in a sweater had come along to snap him out of buying the peppermint bark—or worse, into the peppermint delusion—when he didn’t want it.

“It’s not the same!” The man protested. “This has a pepperminty crunch! It’s magical! I can’t imagine not loving peppermint bark!” Alex quirked an eyebrow and backed away slowly. “Or Christmas! Or candy canes! Of course, I bet that’s because my mom set me up with the whole naming me after Saint…” Alex shook his head, muttering “Merry Christmas,” and went down an aisle before the man could finish explaining how his mother’s love for Christmas somehow translated into a desperate need for peppermint. He didn’t have the energy for any of this. Instead, he stalked away, grabbing a bag of chocolate-dipped pretzels—sans any sign of peppermint—before checking out.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

J R Hart is a queer 30-something novelist passionate about telling romantic and erotic stories about LGBT+ characters. When J R isn’t writing, you can find her at the science museum with her son, cheering for her favorite soccer team, or at The Bean Coffee Co plotting her next work. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @jrhartauthor, or on her website at jrhartauthor.com.

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