Wicked Trouble by Angela Addams

Book 4 in the Wicked Distractions series

General Release Date: 8th March 2022

Word Count: 51,613
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 207

Genres:

 ACTION AND ADVENTURE
BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
CRIME AND MYSTERY
EROTIC ROMANCE
MYSTERY

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Book Description

Her fetish cruise vacation started with a bang, literally, but fun quickly turned to terror when death came knocking at her door.

Cammie Sheppard, personal assistant to Sabine Cowan, is a capital-O-organized, type-A workaholic and, according to Sabine, in desperate need of a vacation. Despite the fact that her boss has explicitly forbidden her from touching anything related to work, Cammie has a plan for her forced five-day Dark Matter Kink cruise. One, schmooze and network on behalf of Cowan Enterprises. Two, product-test all the kink goodies available. Three, get laid as much as possible. Even a working girl needs a little release every once in a while, and Cammie has been saving up.

When she meets Zane Roberts, she finds a kindred spirit, so much so that their chemistry ignites, and Cammie checks off number three on her to-do list several times in the first few hours after departure. When she returns to her own cabin later that night, she discovers the body of a man—who is very much deceased—but when she goes to get help and returns with security, the body is gone. No one believes her, except for the mysterious Zane Roberts, who, it turns out, is conducting an investigation of his own.

Cammie thinks the dead man is connected to Zane’s case, but Zane isn’t convinced. Cammie might be a sub in Zane’s bed, but she’s anything but when she’s got a job to do. Right now, she’s determined to figure out how a dead man ended up in her cabin and stop a murderer from striking again.

Reader advisory: This book contains murder, a head injury, brief anal play and an instance of drugging.

Excerpt

Cammie didn’t do vacations very well, mostly because she loathed stepping away from the love of her life…work. But when the uber-powerful Sabine Cowan insisted on an all-expenses paid kink cruise, what she called “mandatory R and R”, what was a girl supposed to do?

A hardcore type-A like Cammie played to her strengths, so that’s what she did. She packed her bags and made a cruise ‘to-do’ list. One, schmooze and network more Kitty Cat connections—Gentlemen’s Club candidates, Kitty Cat hopefuls and new clients. Two, product test, because, come on…a kink cruise? A girl’s gotta have a little fun at work. Three, get laid…repeatedly. It is a vacation after all…even if it’s forced. It’d been a looong time since she’d found a man to crank her little kink-loving heart.

“This will be your cabin, Miss Sheppard. Your boss really loves you.” Ben, her steward, winked like they were already best friends. He’d been effervescent the entire way to her stateroom, bubbling with energy and peppering her with questions about where she’d traveled from and what she hoped to do on the five-day cruise. It had been impossible not to get caught up in his enthusiasm as he pumped up the various events that had been planned. “Shall I put your bags in the closet?”

A walk-in closet? In a stateroom? “Yes, please. Thank you, Ben.”

Of course, Sabine had spared no expense, so Cammie’s cabin was beyond luxurious. It was larger than her own bedroom at home in New York and big enough for a king-size bed, a lounge-dining area and a restroom that included an actual whirlpool tub. The view was spectacular as well. With floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, Cammie would be able to see miles of ocean with no obstructed views. She also had a balcony and pictured herself having her morning coffee there while she checked email and knocked a few things off her ‘non-cruise to-do list’, of course.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Sheppard?” Ben stood at the door, his hands folded in front of him and his face clearly eager to please. His blond hair flopped over one eye, giving him an adorably disheveled look.

“Oh gosh, no. I’m fine.” She dug out some money from her purse then handed it to him. “Thanks for getting me here safe and sound. This ship is so huge. I think it’ll take me five days just to get the hang of where everything is.” Which was a total lie… Cammie had gotten the entire ship mapped out from bow to stern and everything in between before she’d stepped foot on board.

“I’m here if you need me. Just pick up the phone and I’ll answer.” Ben slipped the cash into his pocket with a nod and a grin. “Don’t forget about the sunset mixer on the Sky Deck.”

Cammie rubbed her hands together. “I’ll be there!” A sunset mixer sounded like exactly the type of place she’d find people to network with.

She had an hour to get ready, so she pulled out her sun-and-fun mixer dress—an orange, yellow and pink strapless that hugged her curves just right—then headed into the massive restroom for a dip in the tub. If Sabine wanted her to relax, she could at least make an effort.

It turned out that networking was easier than finding a nonalcoholic cocktail on the Sky Deck. Cammie had been offered no less than four umbrella-adorned drinks by four different scantily clad servers, and each time she’d asked if it was possible to get a soda or even water, she’d only been met with looks of confusion before a mumbled, “Of course! Let me get that for you.” She’d yet to find a cold drink in her hand, but she had met three very eligible men, who had been eagerly listening to what she had to say about the Kitty Cat Gentlemen’s Club. They hadn’t even balked at the fee range she’d hinted at.

“You can sign me up, little lady.” Mr. William Haversmith wore a huge tan cowboy hat on his big head. Everything about the man was larger than life, from his booming laugh and his ridiculously large cowboy boots to his long, curled mustache. “In fact, a pretty little thing like you can do whatever she wants with my assets.” He winked.

“Bill, don’t you know women don’t like to be spoken to like that?” Elm Stone also wore a cowboy hat and towered over Cammie in the same way his friend did, which wasn’t hard, considering Cammie was a whopping five foot three inches. He tried to come off as more gentlemanly, even though Cammie had witnessed him slip his hands over several of the servers’ asses as they passed by.

“I’m sorry. Can’t help myself. You’re a tiny, sexy thing, though. And on a naughty cruise like this to boot! You’re a firecracker, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.” He winked again, and Cammie had to wonder if he had a tic or if he really did think she—or any woman, really—was in to his kind of flirting. “And those dimples! So cute! I could just eat you up.” He leaned closer. “You don’t mind if I call you ‘little lady’, do you, sweetheart?”

Did she mind? Hell yes! But she’d never say that out loud. Working in an industry that catered to men, she’d become used to the ways that men behaved and the condescending things they often said. “Of course not, Mr. Haversmith.” She grinned, making sure her dimples popped for him. “I’m just going to charge you more for your membership.”

The men all laughed in their hearty way, not believing for one second that she would, in fact, give them the elevated price she reserved for special men like him. She laughed too, but hers—if a person listened closely—was edged with a ‘fuck you’.

“Well, you’ve got my contact information. Be sure to put it to good use, honey.” He didn’t wink again, thank goodness, but he did waggle his eyebrows like he was sending some kind of secret message.

Cammie laughed again then waved him off. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to search out a drink. I’m absolutely parched!” She didn’t stick around for another suggestive comment, but the men’s laughter and what could only be described as catcalls did follow her as she moved through the crowd.

Ugh.

“Oh, there you are!” A tall redhead wearing a super-flattering, black skin-hugging leather dress rushed to her on four-inch stilettos with a frosty glass in hand. “Soda water for you. I added a lime just in case you wanted a bit of flavor.”

“Thank you!” The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Cammie really was dying of thirst.

“Soda water, huh?”

She turned toward the gravelly voice like a puppet on a string. “Yeah, I’m not in to alcohol.”

“Smart. Don’t want to get too drunk then end up tied down and at some Dom’s mercy.” The guy standing next to her checked all Cammie’s eye-candy boxes. He was tall and wide, barrel-chested, thick-armed and, like her, appeared to enjoy food. “That’s why I’m only sipping my beer.”

“Bound and at the mercy of a Dom is exactly how I want to end up.” A bold statement, sure, but Cammie had a to-do list, and this guy might be her way to check off one of those bullet points.

“Zane,” he said, one eyebrow raised.

Amused or intrigued? It was hard to tell. He tilted his pint glass toward hers.

“Cammie.” She turned herself toward him so she could take in his full size then clinked her glass with his. She liked men with meat on them. They complemented her curves and were usually hefty enough to hoist her into the positions she loved. “You here alone?”

His eyes crinkled and a grin tugged his lips. “Are you hitting on me?”

“Not yet.” Cammie grinned back.

“Oh…dimples, how very—”

“If you say cute, I’m leaving.” Cammie took a sip from her glass, watching him over the jutting lime. Her body heat had to be wafting off her with the way her pussy quivered and wept. Zane was exactly the kind of guy she could have some fun with.

Get laid—check!

“Enticing.” He gave her a spicy once-over, trailing a hot-as-hell gaze down, lingering over her double Ds to the curve of her extra-wide hips, then back up again. “Yes, I’m here alone.”

“I’m not looking for love.” Cammie would never be accused of beating around the bush, especially not when it came to sex.

“Neither am I.”

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About the Author

Angela Addams

Angela Addams is an author of many naughty things. She believes that the written word is an amazing tool for crafting the most erotic of scenarios and likes telling stories about normal people getting down and dirty and falling in love. Enthralled by the paranormal at an early age, Angela also spends a lot of her time thinking up new story ideas that involve supernatural creatures in everyday situations.

She is an avid tattoo collector, a total book hoarder, and loves anything covered in chocolate…except for bugs.

She lives in Ontario, Canada in an old, creaky house, with her husband, children and four moody cats.

Sign up to Angela’s newsletter and check out her blog and website. You can follow Angela on Instagram and Pinterest, and find her at Amazon, Bookbub and Books & Main.

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Ryld’s Shadows by Angel Martinez & Bellora Quinn

Book 4 in the AURA series

General Release Date: 8th March 2022

Word Count:  74,271
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 277

GENRES:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
FANTASY
GAY
GLBTQI
PARANORMAL

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Book Description

Ryld must learn to control his dangerous shadows before they kill someone he cares about or someone unscrupulous learns how to control him.

AURA’s offices have been quiet since the mage tower incident—as quiet as they can be for an agency dedicated to policing holes in reality—and the department heads have been free to turn their attention back to mundane matters. The return to quiet bureaucracy gives AURA’s Director of Research, Kai Hiltas, the time to turn his energy to a new issue—a young drow with unusual and dangerous powers named Ryld.

Though his shadows always lurk at the edges of his vision, Ryld does his best to live peacefully and not let them hurt anyone. He has his work, his apartment and a succession of minders assigned by AURA who are, ostensibly, there to keep him safe in his new world and to prevent him from causing any scenes with his shadows. Most of the time, the arrangement works. But one disastrous incident causes Ryld’s minder to leave him unattended and lost—the precise thing he was hired to prevent.

To replace the faithless minder, Kai suggests Hank, a half-goblin accountant recently in the middle of a string of terrible luck, while Kai works out how best to get Ryld the magical training he so desperately needs. For his part, Hank truly likes Ryld and insists he would be happier working as Ryld’s companion rather than as a controlling minder.

As Hank and Ryld slowly come to terms with sharing space—and eventually more—Kai’s search for a teacher for Ryld takes them out west on the invitation of the Elvenhome’s aelfe queen and right into the lap of inter-elven feuds, ancient prejudice, conspiracies and trafficking rings. What should have been a pleasant visit soon turns into more than even forever-scheming Kai can handle.

Reader advisory: This book contains references to past trauma and PTSD, kidnapping and kidnapping of a child.

Excerpt

“I thought you guys were supposed to be more…buff.”

“Buff?”

“Stacked.”

Ryld looked at the man blankly.

“Bigger. Muscular.”

“Oh. Yes. Most of the aelfe are, as you say, buff. My kind, the drow, are as tall, but usually lighter in frame.”

The man took a sip of his beer. “So what happened to you? Did you miss the call when they were handin’ out the tickets for the tall and ripped lottery?”

Ryld processed that for a moment. None of that made much sense. Nothing had happened to him, he’d missed no calls as far as he knew, and he wasn’t sure what gambling had to do with anything. He wasn’t sure how, but his best guess, given the previous question, was the man was asking why he looked different from other elves he must have met.

“Simple genetics. I was bred for certain characteristics. My coloring. My…ability with magic.” Ryld took a sip of his own beer. “Those genetic traits also carry markers for a smaller height and build.” And madness. But Ryld had already learned humans had a deep fear of madness, so he kept that to himself.

“Yeah, no shit. You can’t be mor’n five and a half feet and a buck fifty, if that.”

Ryld blinked again. Five and a half feet was an Imperial measurement, presumably of his height, which, while accurate, was terribly inefficient. Since they were discussing his size, the other observation should have been about his weight, but instead he spoke of money.

“I have more than a dollar and fifty cents with me. The drinks here are known to be expensive. I made sure I brought enough.”

His drinking companion laughed. “Never mind. You’re a funny one.”

That was odd. Usually, he didn’t understand human humor and they could be more uncomfortable with his presence than amused by it.

“It’s time to go, Ryld.”

Ryld looked up from the human he’d been studying into the face of someone who had exactly the elven characteristic the human had commented Ryld lacked. Tall and broad shouldered, with dark, ash-blond hair, and a countenance that made sure all but the most inebriated of bar patrons stayed well out of his way. Ryld sighed and set his drink down half finished.

He stood without argument and bid the human good night, as was their custom, and followed his minder outside. As he crossed the threshold, a small flicker of dark caught his eye, but he ignored it and kept moving.

“The establishment isn’t closed for the evening yet,” he pointed out as they walked down the row of vehicles in the parking lot.

Cress gave his own sigh. “No, but it will be very soon. We’ve been over this, Ryld. You don’t have to stay until everyone else has gone, and they kick us out.”

“But…there were still a few humans I hadn’t spoken to.”

“Nor do you need to speak to everyone in the place in one night.”

“Oh. Did I transgress? Make a mistake?”

“I know what transgress means, and no, you didn’t. They don’t have a rule dictating how many people you should or should not speak to.”

Ryld stopped. “How do they know then? How many is appropriate? Without a rule, how do they know?”

Cress stopped too and turned to look at him. Ryld managed to meet his eyes for a moment, then shifted his gaze to a spot over Cress’ shoulder. Better to look at a point over the other person’s shoulder than drop his eyes, he’d learned. A downward-cast gaze was viewed as subservient, rather than simply respectful.

“When there isn’t a rule, they decide for themselves how many people they speak with, and who.”

Ryld caught another flicker out of the corner of his eye and swallowed. “If there were a rule, it would be so much easier to know.”

“I know, but that’s how it is. Sometimes there are rules, and sometimes there aren’t.”

Cress spoke in a low, soothing tone. The one he used when he was being extra patient. When he wanted to avoid a scene. Ryld didn’t want there to be a scene either. His head would ache for days after, and sometimes he couldn’t even get out of bed if it had been particularly bad. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had this conversation about rules before. There was no reason to get upset.

“Okay.”

“Okay? Are you ready to go now?” Cress asked.

“Yes.”

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About the Author

Angel Martinez

The unlikely black sheep of an ivory tower intellectual family, Angel Martinez has managed to make her way through life reasonably unscathed. Despite a wildly misspent youth, she snagged a degree in English Lit, married once and did it right the first time, (same husband for almost twenty-four years) gave birth to one amazing son, (now in college) and realized at some point that she could get paid for writing.

Published since 2006, Angel’s cynical heart cloaks a desperate romantic. You’ll find drama and humor given equal weight in her writing and don’t expect sad endings. Life is sad enough.

She currently lives in Delaware in a drinking town with a college problem and writes Science Fiction and Fantasy centered around gay heroes.

You can take a look at Angel’s Website and follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

Bellora Quinn

Originally hailing from Detroit Michigan, Bellora now resides on the sunny Gulf Coast of Florida where a herd of Dachshunds keeps her entertained. She got her start in writing at the dawn of the internet when she discovered PbEMs (Play by email) and found a passion for collaborative writing and steamy hot erotica. Soap Opera like blogs soon followed and eventually full novels.

The majority of her stories are in the M/M genre with urban fantasy or paranormal settings and many with a strong BDSM flavour.

You can take a look a Bellora’s blog and find her on Facebook and Twitter.

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Cold Blood by T. Strange

Book 2 in the Bound to the Spirits series

General Release Date: 8th March 2022

Word Count: 86,043
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 350

GENRES:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
CRIME
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
PARANORMAL
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Ghost wards are failing. Mediums are vanishing. Someone—or something—is stirringup the ghosts of Toronto. It’s up to psychic medium Harlan Brand to find out why.

After defeating a serial killer who could control ghosts, psychic medium Harlan Brand is feeling much more confident in his abilities working for the Toronto Police Service with his partner, Hamilton, as they protect the city from dangerous spirits.

He is expanding his social circle, however reluctantly, to include the other police mediums and Morgan Vermeer, another graduate from the Centre—a school for training psychic children.

Harlan and his boyfriend, Charles Moore, are continuing to explore BDSM, their relationship and Charles’ strange ability to shield people from ghosts.

Hoping to find answers about Charles’ power and the serial killer, Harlan returns to the Centre only to find that one of its ghost wards—magical symbols that spirits can’t cross—is broken, and it’s a mystery as to how and why.

The calm and order that Harlan has been building up in his life are shattered when wards start failing across the city and mediums begin to disappear, including one of his new friends and a student from the Centre.

Someone—or something—is stirring up the ghosts of Toronto.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence and murder. It is best read as part of a series.

Excerpt

Hamilton sighed as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat of their police cruiser, settling in much more heavily than usual. “Matthew wants to meet you.”

Harlan was relieved that he was already struggling with his seatbelt. It gave him a moment to think about what Hamilton had just said.

Matthew? Do I know a Matthew? Hamilton’s—and, by extension, Harlan’s—sergeant was named Matthews, but Harlan had already met her.

The seatbelt clicked into place. He was out of time.

Hamilton sighed again, this time with an edge of laughter. “Matthew is my…” He mumbled something Harlan couldn’t make out. “You haven’t met him,” he added in his regular speaking voice.

Harlan waited, hoping Hamilton would elaborate, repeat himself or that the words would finally click into place as he ran them over and over in his mind.

Silence. Silence that he had to break if he was going to get anything else.

“Sorry… I didn’t quite—”

“Boyfriend!” Too loud this time, loud and sudden enough that it startled Harlan. “Matthew is my boyfriend. He wants to meet you.” Hamilton slid his gaze over to Harlan, a sly smile on his thin lips. “You can say no,” he added, making it clear he would prefer that.

Harlan would prefer that as well, so it worked out nicely.

Before Harlan could assure him that he was, of course, in complete agreement, Hamilton shook his head and sighed for a third time that morning. “Nah, I think we’re past that. At this point, it would just be a delaying tactic. He’s made up his mind.”

Harlan glanced sideways at Hamilton. Is Hamilton actually blushing? He hadn’t thought Hamilton was physically capable of doing that, never mind imagined that it might actually happen.

“And I’ve met your boyfriend,” Hamilton shot back, even though Harlan hadn’t spoken.

Technically true, but they hadn’t exactly met over dinner or another social event. Did life-and-death situations count more or less than sitting down for a meal together?

“And, by the way”—the blush Harlan had probably imagined was gone, and Hamilton was definitely smirking now—”I knew I recognized him from somewhere.”

Shit. Harlan had been dreading this conversation, hoping it wouldn’t happen. He’d hoped that Hamilton wouldn’t connect Charles, Harlan’s ghost-repelling boyfriend, to Mr. Moore, owner of Rattling Chains, a formerly haunted BDSM club. Apparently, that had been too much to ask for.

Hamilton opened his mouth, started to say something then seemed to reconsider when he saw Harlan’s pained expression. “I’m glad you’ve got someone,” he said, just as gruffly as usual, but with a hint of genuine fondness and even warmth. “You don’t have a lot of people.” He looked away while he took a left-hand turn, then laughed. “Of course you’d meet someone on the job.”

Harlan looked down at his lap. Yeah. It was pretty pathetic. Sure, he’d started going to the occasional police-medium group—basically a coffee klatch, not everyone sitting in a circle sharing their feelings the way he’d been dreading—but that was still connected to the police. He hadn’t even realized that Charles had the same connection. Fuck. Somehow, without realizing it, he’d become one of those adults who only lived for his job.

He blinked. Maybe it isn’t just me.

“What does Matthew do?” he asked, fully expecting he already knew the answer.

He was wrong.

“He’s an advertising consultant.” Hamilton shrugged. “I don’t know what that means, either.” He paused, then added, as though he’d read Harlan’s mind—more likely his expression—“I did meet him through a case, though.”

Harlan wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. He didn’t know exactly how old Hamilton was, but he guessed his police partner was at least a few years older than he was. Was that what he had to look forward to—all his personal connections coming from his work for the rest of his life? He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, but it did. Maybe it was like that for everyone, and he just didn’t know—not that there was anyone he could ask.

Maybe Charles… He’d met a few of Charles’ friends, more or less in passing. He certainly hadn’t sat down and had dinner with any of them, the way Hamilton seemed to be proposing that he do with Matthew. He’d always assumed it was because he and Charles were still fairly new as a couple and—knowing Harlan—Charles hadn’t wanted to overwhelm him with a bunch of people all at once—but maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he just didn’t want to introduce Harlan to anyone else in his life.

Knowing he was starting to spiral, he was relieved when Hamilton continued.

“I told him you don’t do phone calls and you wouldn’t want to text someone you don’t know”—Wow, Hamilton really will make a great detective one day—“so you can just let me know when you decide. Here.” He fished a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to Harlan. “This is Matthew’s number so you can give it to Charles. He’s invited too, if he’d like.” His smirk was back. “I think he still has a choice, unlike you.”

“Where are we going today?” Normally Hamilton didn’t tell him, and he didn’t ask, but it was the only change of topic Harlan could think of. “Is it another one of Samuel’s ghosts?” Killing the warped medium and serial killer Samuel Harkness had released most of the spirits under his control, but even eight months later they were still finding stragglers, like the ones that had led Harlan to their killer in the first place.

Interestingly, Harlan and Hamilton had found—and freed—almost three times as many wanderers as the other three medium pairs put together. It was as if even though he’d never met them, these spirits felt a connection to him for killing the man who had been controlling them.

This part of the job was a lot less glamorous when the ghosts they worked with weren’t leading him to a serial killer.

“Kid,” Hamilton had laughed after a sweaty, dusty and frustrated Harlan had snapped something along those lines after a very long, hot day crammed in the crawlspace of an old house, trying to coax an especially nervous ghost close enough for him to either grab or calm it down enough for it to cross over on its own, “that’s the job. It’s not bringing down bad guys and epic showdowns. It’s…this. Hey, you’ve got a cobweb on your face.”

Harlan couldn’t help feeling that he’d peaked too soon, experienced more police-medium excitement than most of his colleagues got in a lifetime.

Crucially, he’d survived. Most police mediums didn’t live long enough to retire.

He still liked his job and found it fulfilling, rewarding and blah blah, but he couldn’t help feeling a little…let down. Restless, maybe. Not that he wanted to face anything like Samuel ever again! But…something. Something more than finding ghost, freeing ghost, next. Day in, day out, week after week. Just a little.

“Nah. Well—not as far as I know,” Hamilton amended. “Though apparently this is kinda a weird one.”

Harlan couldn’t help brightening, sitting forward in his seat a little. In light of what he’d been thinking, ‘weird’ was good. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep it in your pants.” Hamilton laughed.

“You gonna tell me or is it gonna be a surprise?” Even a few months ago Harlan wouldn’t have dared ask for information about the scene they were going to, and he certainly wouldn’t have expected an answer.

Now, it was almost like a game between the two of them—if Harlan really wanted to know, Hamilton would tell him, and if Hamilton really wanted to keep him in the dark until they got there—and Harlan was beginning to think that, sometimes at least, walking in without any preconceptions was helpful—he wouldn’t. And, occasionally, Hamilton himself knew very little or nothing about the haunting situation. Harlan was starting to suspect that was one of the reasons Hamilton hadn’t filled Harlan in ahead of time in the past. Hamilton didn’t like admitting when he didn’t know something.

“Mmm, this time I think I’ll let you see for yourself. Besides, we’re almost there.” Hamilton pulled up beside a record store, one of those hipster places that had been popping up in the most gentrified parts of the city. He got out, coming around the other side of the car and opening Harlan’s door when he didn’t get out immediately.

Harlan stepped onto the sidewalk to take a better look around. Hauntings—the ones not related to violent crime, which he doubted was the case here—tended to be in residential buildings. People died where they lived, not where they bought vinyl.

He glanced across the street—more shops, and they didn’t look like they had apartments over them. Neither did the record store or the others around it.

“There’s a haunting here?”

“I can double-check the address if you’d like,” Hamilton offered, smirking a little.

“No. That’s fine.” As far as Harlan knew, Hamilton had never got an address wrong.

Maybe the dispatcher had been wrong?

A young white man stepped out of the shop, waving at them. “Are you with the Graveyard Crew?”

It was a nickname for Toronto police mediums that Harlan didn’t really like—and, by the look on Hamilton’s face, he didn’t care for it either.

Hamilton pointedly glanced down at his uniform and badge. “We’re with the police.”

“Oh, good! C’mon in. We’ve been expecting you.” He turned and disappeared into the shop.

Harlan shot Hamilton a questioning glance.

Hamilton shrugged one shoulder, extending a hand to say after you.

He was suddenly hit by a barrage of noise—apparently the door was surprisingly soundproof. Harlan always thought the music in these types of places sounded bad, but this was bad.

Hamilton, never one to fuck around, headed straight to the man who’d welcomed them. “Can you turn the music down? Or off, maybe?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din.

The man shook his head. “No! That’s the problem.” He didn’t have Hamilton’s loud ‘cop voice’ and he was practically screaming.

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About the Author

T. Strange

T. Strange didn’t want to learn how to read, but literacy prevailed and she hasn’t stopped reading—or writing—since. She’s been published since 2013, and she writes M/M romance in multiple genres, including paranormal and BDSM. T.’s other interests include cross stitching, gardening, watching terrible horror movies, playing video games, and finding injured pigeons to rescue. Originally from White Rock, BC, she lives on the Canadian prairies, where she shares her home with her wife, cats, guinea pigs and other creatures of all shapes and sizes. She’s very easy to bribe with free food and drinks—especially wine.

Find T. Strange on Instagram.

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(Un)Loved by Katy Hunter

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 54,338
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 217

Genres:

CELEBRITIES
COMEDY AND HUMOUR
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE

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Book Description

Falling in love with Gil was never Sophie’s plan, but the French mountain air, the grumpiest llama ever and her boyfriend’s loving—if liberated—family might just change her mind.

Sophie Smith—actress, influencer, in a close personal relationship with her blender—finds herself on a French mountain with a grumpy llama, a boyfriend with a bad case of commitment phobia and his sexually liberated parents.

In between getting chased around the farm by angry goats, dealing with his beautiful ex-girlfriend and fending off a Frenchman, she’s also having an existential crisis.

All she needs to do is get her boyfriend to stop quivering in fear at the L word, teach that llama to snuggle and work out what she actually wants to do with her life, then everything will be fine. Right?

Excerpt

I throw the last of my stuff into my bag, check around to see if I’ve forgotten anything, and head for the door.

This film is done, and with it, my life here. Not my actual life—I’m not going to die or anything—just the person I’ve become over the last few months.

The lovesick teenager. The grown woman. The friend. The colleague.

All that gets packed up in a box and reinvented for the next shoot.

Time to get drunk, get my party on and maybe make a few terrible sexual decisions before going home.

I walk out of my work trailer—about to tick off the first thing on that to-do list—when my co-star, all-around hot guy and quencher of thirsts, Gil Carter, completely throws me by being on the other side of the door, stopping me dead in my tracks.

This is not part of the plan. Damn it, G.

“Shee.” He glances down at the bags in my hands. “Oh, you’re already leaving?”

“Yeah, I wanted to get a head start on packing up.” And moving on.

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my regard, like he’s pissed at me. “I…uh…I got you something.” He reaches into the battered canvas messenger bag that he totes everywhere—the one which makes him look like a hot history professor, or at least how I imagine a hot history professor.

In my mind he’s wearing one of those tweed jackets with the elbow patches, tight button-up jeans and suede shoes. He’s rushing to a lecture, in the rain, holding that scruffy old bag over his head to protect his unruly curls. I open the door for him, my hair held up in a messy bun by a well-placed pencil, my glasses sliding off my nose. “Oh, Professor…”

Sigh.

That man does impeccably good hair. He has a mass of curls softer than a kitten’s belly. They tumble into this perfect crown that I, oh, I want to run my fingers through and maybe tug at a little when the need arises.

I’ve had dreams about that hair.

Anyway…I digress. After rummaging around for a couple of minutes, he pulls out the most beautiful brown leather journal.

“This is for your private thoughts, if you need to talk but there’s nobody around. And you can write shit about people, and they’ll never know.” He runs his fingers through that infamous head of hair, still avoiding my gaze.

“What if they read it, though?” I reply, earning me a smile.

“Promise I won’t. If you promise to only write nice stuff about me.” He glances up at me and ruffles those curls again, sending my lady-parts into meltdown.

I look down at the journal. The only things running through my mind right now are the really, really dirty things that I’m going to write about him in this thing.

“Thanks, G.” I smile, then, no word of a lie, I punch him in the fucking arm.

Not hard. Just enough to show that we’re only friends. Just good buddies. Pals.

“You’re welcome.” He shrugs and shuffles his feet again. The silence is painfully awkward as we stand there, avoiding each other’s gazes. My mind is racing. Why did I punch him in the arm? Who does that? It’s lucky he didn’t get down on one knee and offer me a diamond ring. I might have knocked some teeth out.

Ask him out to dinner. Offer to buy him a drink. Say something… Anything.

Reaching down to open my bag, I unzip it, pop the journal in and look up. “Would you—” But he’s already gone.

Why am I like this?

I should have said, “Maybe I’ll write about all the fun things we’re going to do together.” Then I could have batted my eyelashes flirtatiously, thrown back my head, giggling in a sexy way. He would have pulled me into his arms…

But no. I went in for the buddy punch.

It’s not my fault. No, really, I don’t do flirting. Dr. K calls it “intimacy issues”. She leans back into her brown leather armchair and says things like, “Did you bond? Are you connecting with people?” My fist connected with his arm. Does that count?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a virgin or anything. It’s just that I don’t like touching people, or, more to the point, I don’t like them touching me. Grandma was the only person who ever gave me hugs, and she’s gone now. They were earned when I did good at an audition or won a pageant.

There is one kind of flirty thing that we’ve done. Gil’s always loved that I call him G—pronounced ‘Jee’. Like it’s our little inside joke or something. He also gave me a nickname right off the bat.

It’s our thing—or it was. It’s over now.

When I call him G, he sort of lights up, like it makes him happy. That’s the kind of nice that counts, the kind that gives a girl that fuzzy feeling inside.

There’s something very intimate about nicknames. People call me Soph—as if they can’t even be bothered to say my whole name— but when someone you’re close to creates a new, private name for you, that’s another thing entirely.

Especially when the man in question is Gil Carter—the deep-thinker, the philosopher, the person who’s kept me sane since the beginning of production.

The object of my carnal desires.

Admittedly, if you were one to judge someone by their appearance, and you were unaware of the grubby bag, you might not know what to make of him—Italian leather shoes, tailored trousers and the crispest of shirts. Even on his days off, he looks more like he’s just stepped off a Parisian catwalk than a Canadian sound stage.

G’s clothes are a whole mood, and that mood is ‘best man at a wedding in The Hamptons’.

He always has his nose in a book, and when he doesn’t, he’s napping, more often than not in my trailer. I’ve lost count of the number of times he has nodded off on my shoulder while we’ve been going over our lines, his hair tickling my nose.

I don’t mind that kind of intimacy—pure and uncomplicated. He keeps me warm and smells like bergamot—or whatever they put in men’s fragrances these days. Manly and a little sweaty. It’s a good thing. Trust me.

Like me, he’s not a people person. Except the difference is that he’s totally okay with it. I’m out here trying to be friendly and ‘normal’, and he’s just doing his thing—and totally pulling it off. There’s nothing more attractive than a man who knows what he wants and doesn’t care what anybody else thinks. I’d give anything for a spoonful of that confidence.

Our nicknames mean more to me than just words. They’re a sign of our friendship, and I count on that far more than I’ve ever counted on us getting together.

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About the Author

Katherine E Hunt

Katy Hunter lives on a mountain in France with her husband, kids and two dogs.

When she’s not writing you can find her curled up in front of the fire, book in one hand and a glass of chardonnay in the other.

Follow Katy on Instagram and sign up to her Facebook reader’s group. You can also find her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter

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The Game by A.B. Wilson

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 82,950
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 316

GENRES:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
FAKE RELATIONSHIPS
SPORTS

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Book Description

He’s everything she hates, but exactly what she needs. What will it take to turn two rival players into teammates?

Recover. That’s Abby’s entire plan when she suffers a potentially career-ending injury. But she needs financial support for her rehab now that she’s been dropped by her pro soccer team.

Enter Matti, her unlikely, tatted-up savior with a man bun. The guy with everything she wants, a stellar career and the ability to get away with anything. When Matti’s fired by his team after yet another off-pitch scandal, he needs someone to help rehab his reputation.

After a gossip column goes viral with a piece about their supposed engagement, the plan falls into place. A fake engagement to save Matti’s career, and access to the best rehab center for her. A new city, no friends, the only person they have to rely on is each other, and Abby’s grumpy cat, of course.

As they play pretend day in and day out, their feelings start to shift from those of uncomfortable teammates to something a lot like love as the two find out each other’s deepest secrets. But when a new opportunity for Matti comes knocking, ready to pull them apart, will they take the risk of admitting the truth behind their feelings?

Reader advisory: This book contains mention of child neglect, mental health struggles, and injuries sustained in a car accident.

Excerpt

Air horns, club songs and pile-ons from teammates. Confetti raining down in the drizzle, sticking to our hair and rain-spattered, grass-stained jerseys. I would never forget the moment that the F.C. Chelsea women’s soccer team won the Championship. Never, ever in my life had I felt the level of exhilaration that the men’s team must feel after the average game, because that’s how many people had jammed into Stamford Bridge stadium to watch us win—a sold-out crowd.

All around me my teammates had torn off their jerseys to trade with our opponents and were battling tears with sloppy hugs. Something magical happens at the closing whistle of a hotly competitive match that the average person never feels. The way in which your direst enemy suddenly becomes your friend, happy for you in your happiness. There is that solidarity amongst female athletes where those congratulatory moments mean something, and I’d been dreaming of this one since I was five years old.

Up in the manager’s box the entire men’s team was cheering us on. And there. Right in the middle of the crowd, if I could be bothered to look, would be my nemesis with his dirty-blond hair trapped in a messy top knot. His nice dress clothes most likely all rumpled and his sleeves rolled up to show off his massive, tattooed forearms.

His electric-blue eyes would be crackling above his stubbly, chiseled cheekbones and jawline. He was probably waving his hands theatrically, acting the fool with everyone loving on him. If he were American instead of German, I’d have bet money on his tie being wrapped around his head. Matti Shellenberg, a man I’d wished a bad case of jock itch on more times than was probably healthy.

Knowing he was up there was enough to make my blood boil. My eyes shot straight to him—like there was a magnetic force between the two of us—even at this distance. To my complete shock, he wasn’t in the mix with his teammates. Instead he was sitting all alone in a corner of the box—him, the man who was never still, never at rest, never less than one hundred percent positively on. The center of attention and master instigator. Now he sat slumped in his chair like a puppet with his strings cut, head in hands.

He’s probably pissed we’re getting all the attention.

One year later, I could still feel the mashed potatoes crusting in my eyebrows and long auburn hair, which I’d curled so carefully the night of the fundraiser for pediatric cancer patients. Those hyper-realistic plastic spiders he’d stuck on my chair that made me scream and flip my plate, launching a shower of food down on top of me and my tablemates.

I could still see him in my mind’s eye, doubled over in laughter, wiping tears of hilarity off his flushed cheeks. Could still hear his delighted slow clap and taunt. “You gonna come after me with that steak knife, Stabby Abby?” I hated nicknames, but I had to admit that ‘Stabby Abby’ was one I could get behind. That clever jerk.

The confetti storm had finally settled in colorful, sodden clumps and the team’s owner and head of operations strode through the tunnel and out onto the pitch for the trophy ceremony. I winced as I wound my way through the crowd. My bad knee was twinging like a motherfucker after a tackle from Porto’s defender that had knocked me awkwardly onto my ass. Hopefully I’d only twisted it, nothing more serious.

My co-captain, Teresa, wrapped an arm around my shoulders and started tugging me toward the hastily erected podium at midfield. The team song was still blaring through the stadium speakers and the emotions of the day were catching me. I’d won a gold medal with the U.S. Women’s National Team, but this was somehow bigger. Better, because it was unexpected. Times like this reminded me that every sacrifice I’d made to play professionally was worth it.

Tears pricked my eyes as Teresa hugged me close. “We did it, chica. Can you believe it?”

I hugged her back and we wiped each other’s tears and laughed. “You get up there first,” I encouraged. She hopped up on the stage and pulled me up behind her. Together, we walked to the podium to accept the trophy. The owner and manager were tag-teaming a self-congratulatory speech about how delightful and historic the moment was. Teresa and I exchanged a Look. This moment would have come a lot sooner if the club had bothered to invest in its women’s side the way it did in the men’s.

The owner handed us the trophy, almost bobbling it as he attempted to kiss our cheeks. The smell of whiskey flowed off of him as he leered at us. Teresa and I did our duty, ignoring the foul, smelly man as we smiled and raised that trophy high above our heads. Not even a lecher could rub the shine off of this one for us. I kissed the cool, damp metal that smelled like blood and fresh grass. That too-brief kiss was, without a doubt, the greatest in my entire history of kisses—not that that history was particularly long or interesting.

I jumped down with the Cup, wincing again as my knee protested the action, and passed it off to my teammates. Teresa and I stood back from them, arm-in-arm as we watched the celebration continue. The men’s team would be rushing the field soon because they could never handle the women’s team having the lion’s share of attention. I had no interest in being out there when Ratty Matti showed and turned to Teresa. “I’m going to the locker room, need to hit the ice baths before we have to get ready for the party. Cover for me?”

“You got it. Guess we all need some extra time to look our best tonight after this, huh?” She winked at me.

“Ugh, totally. But if I don’t get in an ice bath soon, I’m not going to be able to stand in high heels.” My tone was rueful and she slugged me in the shoulder, jerking her head in the direction of the locker room.

I took one last mental picture of my still-celebrating teammates, and the fans who hadn’t stopped singing our song, and started for the bench to scoop my kit. As I maneuvered around the celebrants and the men’s team clattering up from the tunnel, I glanced back at the owner’s box and got one hell of a shock. Matti was still there, not down with the rest of his team trying to steal our glory. No, he was still in his seat with his head in his hands. Curiouser and curiouser.

The locker room was empty, but the training staff were there and ready with congratulations and help getting the tape off from the brace around my knee. I’d suffered an ACL tear not too long ago and coming back had been an excruciating journey.

The physio helped me into the tub and one of his assistants started dumping in the ice. The cold burn of an ice bath was something that athletes supposedly got addicted to. Me, though, I was dreaming about tropical beaches and a solitary walk on white sand with the ocean curling in to tickle my toes as I shivered uncontrollably while buried in the tiny cubes.

“McKinnon, your mobile’s ringin’, darlin’! Says ‘Sylvie’. That’s your agent, right?” The head physio shook my shoulder as he showed me the screen of my phone.

I sank back into the tub and managed to get out through my chattering teeth, “It can wait till I’m done here, probably a congratulations.”

“I dunno, darlin’, this is the third time she’s called in five minutes. You’re about done, let’s get you out of there and you can take the call.” He hadn’t even really congratulated me. Nor had he asked me if I was okay, given the slight limp I knew he’d seen with his laser-like focus on all of our working extremities. My stomach hollowed out and my shivers got bigger and stronger as I accepted his hand and let him haul me out of the tub.

What does he know?

I grabbed my phone and headed back to the locker room with a newfound sense of foreboding and sent a quick text to Sylvie that I’d call when I was out of the shower. I resolutely ignored the immediate buzz of a reply and the repeated chimes that indicated an incoming call. All I needed was one more moment to bask in the feeling of winning, of being a winner, of finally, finally achieving my dream before the real world could intrude again.

The water speared into me and I could barely hear the shouts and laughter of my teammates finally coming off the pitch over its spray. Our ancient locker room was about to turn into a pre-party while we all got ready for the huge end-of-season shindig thrown by the club’s owners.

A bunch of us—me included—wanted nothing more than to go home, but one simply did not skip this event. No matter how tired, no matter how injured. You went, you gladhanded the shit out of everyone, and you pretended to have the best time. Every year, I dreaded it. This year, though, things would be different. We were winners and I was trying to shake my salty reputation—my contract was up for renewal in the off-season. I cranked the water to cold to rinse out the last of my conditioner and practiced my biggest, most pleasant smile. My cheeks hurt already.

With my team all around me, their chatter echoing off the cinderblocks that needed a new coat of paint, I felt like I was in my safe space. Safe enough, at any rate, to call Sylvie back. The insulation of their enthusiasm made a little bubble around me as I waited for her to pick up. I snorted when her voicemail kicked in. That was so Sylvie, harass me for hours, then pout when I finally did what she wanted—probably thought she was teaching me a lesson.

Joke was on her, though. I’d grown up in the most passively aggressive toxic home with a mother who knew how to wield silence as a weapon as easily as a backhanded compliment. In a small Midwestern town in southern Wisconsin where everyone knew you and your business.

Shoving thoughts of Sylvie aside, I forced my attention to making myself up to appear as photogenic and approachable as possible. Most of the other girls had completed their transition from sweaty athlete to debutante and were starting to file out to the hired cars that would take us to the Fairmont Hotel for the celebration while I was still winding a final section of hair around my curling iron.

“Want me to make sure there’s a car for you when you finally finish?” Teresa asked with a small smile as she appeared in the mirror behind me. She knew how much I hated the schmoozing that went along with our captain’s badges.

I waved my curling iron at her and pointed at my freshly made-up face. “Nah, no big deal. Just need to make sure Sam’s makeover wasn’t in vain. If I miss the last car, I’ll cab it.”

Teresa shrugged and gave me a tiny finger wave as she pushed through the swinging doors. “Your funeral if you miss it.”

“I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

After much overspraying, the last section of my stick-straight dark-auburn hair was obediently wrapped around the hot iron. The big pin curls were fantastic in contrast with my pale, freckled skin and gray eyes. I looked like a dolled-up gladiator in my dark green dress with the black lace overlay and admired the way it hugged the smooth muscles I’d sacrificed so much to build and hone. I was taking a last dab at a slightly overcolored spot on my top lip when my phone finally rang.

And like every time it rang without me immediately being able to see who was calling, my brain shouted hopefully, “Mom?” I castigated myself for still believing in the impossible. She hadn’t come around to my profession or my love for the game in twenty-three years. There was no starting now. I flipped my phone over and saw my agent’s face with her badass shark grin and tapped the screen.

“Sylvie,” I said without further greeting. Sylvie hated what she called “perfunctory nonsense.”

“Abigail Jean,” she returned grandly. Never mind that that wasn’t my middle name. First- and middle-naming me was the way she showed her affection and Sylvie changed it up every time.

I rolled my eyes. “What’s up?”

“Did I feel you rolling your eyes at me, young lady? Because I got a distinct vibe from that—”

“Sylvie, cut the crap. What’s going on that you had to blow me up like this tonight of all nights?” I asked impatiently.

“My dear, I know. I know. While I would love to let you rest on your laurels, I unfortunately can’t.” She sighed and my stomach knotted again as she continued, laying it out bluntly and with no sugary sweetness to cushion the blow. “The team has decided that they’d like to go a different direction next season. They have some kid from South Korea on scout who is basically you pre-ACL tear on performance-enhancing drugs.”

I couldn’t speak or breathe. Now? After six years and a championship. Had they seen me limp around after my knee got torqued to hell?

“I know, dear, this is a lot to take in and it feels like it’s out of nowhere,” she said with no small amount of sympathy. “I was shocked too. Completely taken by surprise. Between you and Matti, Chelsea is—”

“Matti? What happened to Matti?” I asked, my voice higher-pitched than I would have thought possible. Sylvie managed both of us and he was a recent sign for her after his last agent cut him loose. And that had gone down in a spectacular, flaming ball of shame when yet another of his infamous house parties had turned into a drug-and-alcohol-fueled orgy. Management hadn’t been fond of those photos when they appeared online.

“He’s being cut. Only the team had the grace to actually tell him in person, unlike this fiasco.”

“When did you find out about us?” I asked, wondering if they’d already decided they wanted someone else before they’d seen me win the game for the team, before they might have spotted the slight limp.

“Well,” she prevaricated. “Here’s the thing, they called me right at kick-off. Matti was told at your half-time. I don’t want you to worry. There are going to be a lot of teams interested in you after today’s win and Matti is always bankable. I’ve already had a few calls for each of you.”

She paused and I could tell she’d popped in a square of nicotine gum as I heard the aggressive chewing noise. “I know how you feel about him, but I need you to do me a favor and keep an eye on him tonight. He’s not answering his phone and when he drinks, bad things tend to follow. I need you two to be on your best behavior while I negotiate.”

“Sylvie, I’m not his keeper and tonight’s going to be crappy enough. You know how badly he embarrassed me back at that fundraiser,” I responded through a clenched jaw.

“You don’t have to talk to him—although maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing if you could pull that stick out of your ass and drop the grudge. I’ve always thought the two of you would make such a cute couple.” She muttered the last part and sighed heavily, like I was the one who made her life difficult and not the eternal man-child. Who, yes, was super hot, but oh my god was he an awful person.

“Please, Abby, get him in a cab if he gets too unruly, I’ll text you his address,” she begged.

I groaned and felt a headache start to form behind my eyes. “Fine, but I want a cut from his signing bonus for doing you this favor.”

Sylvie ignored my sarcastic comment. “I’m flying out from La Guardia tonight, will be at Heathrow tomorrow morning. We’ll meet then and can start talking about your options.”

I sighed and slumped back onto the bench, feeling completely unmoored. My options. Six years, the peak of my career as an athlete, and they’d “decided to go a different direction.” The pendulum had swung back and the price I’d already paid to play the sport that I loved, the only thing that had ever mattered to me, now seemed indecently high. Fuck this beautiful fucking game.

Who even am I without soccer to define me?

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About the Author

A.B. Wilson

Amanda (A.B.) Wilson is the pen name for a heat-seeking librarian from the upper Midwest. Long after her sassy five year old and long-suffering husband go to bed, she writes steamy, escapist contemporary romances about celebrities, athletes, and billionaires—with a twist. Amanda loves connecting with readers, so hit her up on her website for newsletter sign-up, blog posts, general contacts, and social media.

You can also follow Amanda on Instagram.

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Call It Love by Kristian Parker

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 22,375
Book Length: NOVELLA
Pages: 98

Genres:

EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
HISTORICAL

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Book Description

Charlie didn’t believe in love…until he set himself free.

It’s 1922 and after his house guest Frank Harris ran away with the under-butler, Charlie Fitzwilliam has been summoned to face the music. With the vindictive butler Bennett now watching his every move and his father planning out his life for him, Charlie finally faces up to who he is and makes a bid for freedom.

Alone for the first time in his life, he meets Michael Leonard, a kind, caring bookseller. Convinced that sex with men is only for fun, Charlie experiences a summer of self-discovery that takes him to the English seaside, the doorstep of old friends and the arms of a lover who shakes his whole belief system.

But disowned by his parents and cut off from the life he knew, can Charlie make a future for himself…and will Michael be a part of it? Is this affair something that can be called love?

Reader advisory: This book contains instances of period-typical homophobia.

Excerpt

I threw the ball with the top spin that had sent our team to the top of the league last term. It flew past Mateus’ head and smashed into the wickets.

“Oh, well done, Charlie,” shouted my mother from the sidelines. Nothing would have persuaded her to roll up her sleeves and join in. I smiled across and waved.

“Time for a break,” said a breathless Tilly, my baby sister. She couldn’t have been any different from my mother if she’d tried and had instantly plumped for the back stop, tucking her skirts between her legs.

We wandered across to the table where mother held court to our host, Domingos Graça. He lapped up her brand of flirtation and would laugh uproariously every time she gave him a little bit of gossip from London.

I picked up a glass of whatever they had served and took in the view. Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, rolling down the hill to the river. We were in the Douro Province in the north-east of Portugal—Port was big business in these parts, and the Graça family were the kings of their castle.

Their villa loomed behind us, proclaiming to all the rewards of their labour.

“She put you to work immediately? Hard luck, old chap.” Agnes had sidled up next to me without any noise. She had always been able to do that, even when we were small.

“It’s good to see you, sis.”

“You too.” She planted a firm kiss on my cheek. “At least I’ll have some fun now. Mummy and Daddy’s crusade for cash is getting embarrassing.”

I turned to see my mother and Tilly regaling the Graças with yet another story.

“Tilly is doing the work for all of us.”

“She thinks she’s getting the youngest boy, the one you nearly decapitated with your demon bowl just now. She isn’t. He hasn’t given her a second glance. Poor soul.”

Tilly had always been the odd one out. Two years separated me and Agnes, but Tilly was a surprise after my parents had taken a boat to India. We’d been sent away to school by the time she came along.

“Where’s Father?” Agnes asked.

I couldn’t even bear to think about it. “He’s locked away in his room with Bennett. They’ve been in there ever since Bennett and I arrived this morning.”

It had been two weeks since I had thrown my schoolfriend Frank Harris out of our house in England after one of our maids had caught him in a compromising position with an under-butler. I’d spent that time skulking around the house, ignoring the whispers from most of the staff.

“And how did you find travelling with Bennett? Naughty Charlie can’t be trusted on his own,” Agnes said, a twinkle in her eye.

Bennett hated anyone in this world who wasn’t my father, and my uneasiness at him being a part of this trip had built as each day passed. He had been smugness personified, attending to my every need but always with an undertone of insolence.

“A bloody bore.”

We strolled along the edge of the lawn. Agnes took my arm, and I realised I’d missed my sister.

“Come on, then. What the hell were you doing?”

I absentmindedly kicked the head off a wildflower that had dared to invade this garden of order.

“I didn’t do anything. I stupidly invited Frank Harris to stay, and he ends up buggering the help.”

Agnes laughed. “And I suppose you were in bed reading your Bible.”

“If you must know, I was entertaining Elsie.”

Agnes stopped and scowled. “That common little tart from the shop? Oh, Charlie, you can do better than that, can’t you?”

“Of course I can, but you know, any port in a storm.”

We carried on walking. The breeze was a blessed relief as the sun grew high in the sky. I hoped there were more sedate activities planned for the afternoon.

“Port.” Agnes growled. “I’m sick to death of hearing about it, drinking it, examining it. You’d think it was sent by God himself.”

It wasn’t like Agnes to be so cranky. Mother and Father had impressed upon us the importance of this trip. If we didn’t get our hands on a sizeable share of the Graças’ business, we would struggle to keep our house in the Oxfordshire countryside. Since the war had decimated the workforce, farms were struggling to pay rents, meaning big country houses were closing at a rate of knots.

“Has it been so bad?”

She scowled. “Worse. Three weeks of rattling around here. Tilly sucking up like her life depends on it, Daddy laughing at jokes that simply aren’t funny and Mummy attempting to flirt is hideous.”

I glanced at mother and Domingos. He was telling her some tale, and she was all a-quiver.

“She’s doing fine.”

Agnes’ gaze darted to the terrace in front of the house. Mine followed and there stood my father. All six foot four inches of him with a face like thunder.

“Charles,” he boomed. Every eye turned to me.

“Uh-oh. You’re for it now,” Agnes said through gritted teeth.

“Here. Now,” Father commanded.

It felt like the longest walk of my life. I trudged across the cricket pitch and up the ridiculously long flight of steps to the terrace. Bennett stood at the top with that look he’d worn for the entire journey here. I wanted to wipe it from his face.

“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room.”

“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room…sir.”

I had no idea what rubbish he had fed to my father, but I would not be disrespected by him. I stood waiting for a response.

“Of course, sir.” The smugness never left him.

I found my father pacing in the lounge. In his early fifties, he had an imposing presence. Hardly any grey ran through his dark hair and moustache. I will admit that my stomach churned when I walked in.

“Father?”

He stopped pacing and glowered at me. “Homosexuality in my house? What are you trying to do, boy?”

“I had no idea what Harris was up to, and I threw him out when I discovered, along with that good-for-nothing Tanner.”

Frank would never understand the position he had put me in. I could have spit in his eye.

“Of course I don’t expect you to know what your friends are getting up to when your back is turned.”

My body relaxed a little.

“But as for you creeping up to the woods with Albert Brown…”

The room had started to spin. How did he know about Albert? “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but that’s a lie.”

Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I whirled around to see Bennett.

“I brought your post, sir,” he said walking past me and placing a bunch of envelopes on the desk.

“How dare you come in here when I’m having a private conversation with my father?” I cried.

“I asked him to come in. Now, Bennett, tell my son what you’ve just told me.”

With an audacity I would pay him back for one day, Bennett put on his best pitying expression for me. “My apologies, young sir, but I had to bring it to the master’s attention. I happened to overhear Mr Harris and his terrible accusations.”

Always sneaking around, listening at doorways. I was shaking with fear and rage.

“Naturally I had to investigate this for myself. Poor Albert had no choice but to indulge you in your…unusual requests. He said you threatened to have his livelihood taken from him if he didn’t.”

“That is a lie. I would never do that. Albert and I—” I stopped.

“Albert and you what?” asked my father “That will be all, Bennett.”

“Yes, sir.” He left the room.

“I asked you a question. Albert and you what?”

I took a deep breath. “Albert and I enjoyed some mutual time together.”

Out of nowhere, my father slapped my face, so hard it threw my head to the side.

“How could you do this to us? Get up to your room. I don’t want to see your disgusting little face until dinner time.”

I started to walk away, my face still smarting.

“By then I will have decided what to do with you. You will not bring shame on this family.”

I pulled open the door and walked straight into Bennett. I grabbed hold of his shirt and pushed him against the wall. He let out a little yelp.

“You may think you’ve won some game, but you will regret this one day. You will never be anything other than a pathetic little man who listens to other people’s lives.”

I let go of him and started to walk away.

“I am taking care of the family. I do care.”

I spun on my heel. “I do care…sir. Know your place.”

I didn’t wait for the reply.

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About the Author

Kristian Parker

I have written for as long as I could write. In fact, before, when I would dictate to my auntie. I love to read, and I love to create worlds and characters.

I live in the English countryside. When I’m not writing, I like to get out there and think through the next scenario I’m going to throw my characters into.

Inspiration can be found anywhere, on a train, in a restaurant or in an office. I am always in search of the next character to find love in one of my stories. In a world of apps and online dating, it is important to remember love can be found when you least expect it.

Follow Kristian on Facebook.

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Finding Him by LM Somerton

General Release Date: 1st March 2022

Word Count: 59,668
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 230

Genres:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI

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Book Description

Sometimes, using a safe word gets you exactly what you want.

Canadian Zac Denman is young, rich and submissive. He’s also a kidnap risk who’s grown up in the shadow of bodyguards and security precautions. All he wants is to work out what kind of submissive he is in a safe environment and thanks to his very understanding father, he’s getting the chance to do exactly that. The Retreat in England is safe, discreet and willing to provide a selection of Doms for Zac to play with—a great way of discovering what he is, and isn’t, into.

Dale Gastrell is a friend of The Retreat’s owner, a member of The Underground BDSM club and a soldier turned landscape gardener thanks to an inconvenient bullet. Two weeks providing covert protection to a wealthy client who won’t even know he’s there seems like a perfect break from city life.

But life is never simple, and when Dale and Zac are thrown together, Dale has to fight his attraction. Zac is from a whole different world of wealth and privilege. He’s not for the likes of Dale who has to watch as Doms arrive at The Retreat to give Zac a taste of submission.

Excerpt

Carey Hoffman stepped out of the air-conditioned limousine into the burning heat of a Palm Springs summer’s day. The air shimmered, and he half-expected to see a mirage in the distance along with a camel train and a bunch of wandering nomads. The sun’s intensity made the greenery around him all the more astounding. Extensive, manicured lawns stretched to either side of the sweeping drive and in front of him stood the biggest, most palatial house he’d ever seen. He could only imagine how much watering all that lush grass would need.

“It’s enormous.” Pure white, the sun reflecting off the building’s curved walls was blinding. Carey slipped on his sunglasses to reduce the combined glare of the sun and the paintwork. He couldn’t decide whether he liked the property or not. There was no doubt that it was extravagant and no question it was unique. “Probably designed by some celebrity architect for an extortionate fee,” Carey muttered. “It must be worth a small fortune.”

“I kind of like the smooth lines, it’s all curves, no harsh edges.” Alistair, Carey’s partner and submissive, joined him, slipping his hand into Carey’s. “It doesn’t come across as ostentatious as the McMansions you see in California. It’s understated, restrained somehow.”

“That’s your artistic eye at work, love. There’s way too much white for my liking. What’s wrong with a bit of color? Or at the very least a shade of white that isn’t…misty cloud or curdled milk or something. There are whole pages of so-called whites on paint charts, though they mostly look the same to me.”

Alistair gave him a gentle smile. “The heat’s getting to you, isn’t it, Sir?”

“How do people around here not combust? This place is like a furnace—I feel like I’m desiccating just standing here. What I wouldn’t give for a dose of London drizzle right now and that’s not something I ever thought I’d say.”

“We’re English. Our bodies are not equipped for more than two hot days a year—and by hot, I mean low eighties, not high nineties. Everything here seems to be air-conditioned to the point of frigidity, and I’m sure the house will be, too, once we get inside. You’ll be much happier then.”

“It’s entirely your fault we’re here, you know that? Now you’re a famous photographer, everyone wants a piece of you. Even multimillionaires. A personal invite from Taylor Denman is not to be sniffed at.” Carey gave Alistair a kiss to demonstrate his pride. “I’m so proud of you love, even if I am being fried alive.”

“Do you wish I’d turned down the invitation?” Alistair gazed at him anxiously. “I would have if you’d asked me to.”

“Absolutely not! Ignore me, sweetheart. The heat’s making me fractious. I’m very glad you accepted the invitation and I’m intrigued to meet Mr. Denman since he sponsored your exhibition in San Francisco. It was an enormous success. I’ve never seen so many sold stickers at a show before and it wouldn’t surprise me if he bought some of the pictures himself. You worked really hard to get everything set up, the launch was wonderful but exhausting. Mr. Denman’s offer to spend a few days at one of his hotels was a perfect way to end our trip so you could hardly turn down an invitation to meet him in person. It’s a small price to pay for an all-expenses paid stay in the best hotel in Palm Springs.”

They walked toward the house, glittering quartz gravel crunching beneath their shoes.

“I have to confess I’m a little nervous.” Alistair gripped Carey’s hand tighter.

“There’s no need to be. I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do.” Alistair smiled, and Carey’s breath hitched. Alistair was beautiful, the sun glinting on his blond hair, his skin showing a hint of tan from several weeks in the sun.

“And I always will.” There was no doubt about that in Carey’s mind. Taking care of Alistair was the single most fulfilling part of his existence.

As they approached the huge front door of the property, it swung open. Carey expected to see a butler or maybe a personal assistant, but it was Taylor Denman himself who stood waiting for them. Carey recognized him from pictures he’d seen in the press. Taylor was casually dressed in jeans and a light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms and the curl of a tattoo. He was a striking man, about Carey’s age, his chestnut hair starting to silver at the temples. A trace of stubble shaded his jaw, and there were laughter lines around his eyes.

“Welcome, gentlemen. I’m so glad you were able to make the trip from San Francisco.” Taylor stepped forward with a welcoming smile.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mr. Denman,” Alistair said. “We’re so happy to meet you.”

“Call me Taylor. You’re Alistair of course, I know you from your catalog picture, so this must be Carey.” He shook hands with Carey first, then with Alistair. “Come inside, it’s hotter than the surface of the fucking sun out here, excuse my language.”

Alistair giggled. “You and Carey are going to get along really well.”

“I thought it was only us rain-soaked Brits who couldn’t handle it,” Carey said, following Taylor into the icy-cool interior of his home. “I’m melting.”

“I was born in Canada. Alberta. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the heat, but my business interests make having a home here convenient. I keep an apartment in New York but I thought you’d appreciate a few days here in Palm Springs after the bustle of San Francisco. It’s a lot more relaxing than The Big Apple.”

“We certainly appreciate it,” Carey said, gazing around the entrance hall. “It’s rare that we get to spend a few days alone together, and the exhibition was a little frantic. Thanks to you it drew a lot of attention.” He was impressed by the cool colors and sleek minimalist design. The area managed to be welcoming even though the cathedral-like ceiling height could have made it intimidating.

His eye was drawn to a wall displaying a single large picture. Carey smiled. It was one of Alistair’s photographs, blown up to huge proportions. The original was one of Carey’s favorites. It showed a vast, ancient oak, standing alone in a rural landscape at twilight, its gnarled limbs outlined against the sky. A silhouette of a fox was just visible at its base. Ironically, it hadn’t taken hours of patient waiting for an animal to appear. He and Alistair had driven out to the Chiltern hills one afternoon and had been taking a stroll after an early dinner at a nearby restaurant. Alistair, his photographer’s instinct always active, had lifted his camera and taken the snap after spotting movement. He hadn’t even known it was a fox until he’d looked at the digital image. It had been pure luck that the picture had come out so well. It had sold at a London gallery, but the buyer had remained anonymous.

Alistair edged a little closer to Carey’s side, blushing. “Now you know what happened to the picture,” Carey said with a chuckle.

“I was curious,” Alistair admitted. “Anonymous buyers are intriguing.

“The original is in my study,” Taylor said. “I had this print made specifically for this space, and you have no idea how many compliments it draws. I’m loath to praise your work in public, Alistair because it never fails to increase competition for the pictures I want to buy. I’m a covetous man—I want the best for myself.”

“I’m so flattered. The picture certainly suits this space. I’m glad it went to someone who appreciates it.”

“Well, I’ve added several more to my collection thanks to the San Francisco exhibition. Shameless self-interest got me involved and as sponsor I got first pick, which caused huge annoyance to several acquaintances. An added bonus, I admit.” He grinned, mischief glittering in his eyes. “But I have to confess that it’s not the reason I’ve invited you both here. I’m afraid I have been somewhat dishonest. Of course, I sponsored the exhibition for absolutely genuine reasons, but over the last year things have come to light that I think you may be able to help me with. A personal matter.”

“You have my attention,” Carey said. “Does this have something to do with Alistair’s photography skills?”

“No. Actually, Carey, it’s you that I think can help. Let’s go sit in the sun room. I have light snacks set out in there, and cold drinks. We can relax and you can hear me out.”

Carey exchanged a curious glance with Alastair who shrugged, apparently unconcerned by the mystery. They both followed Taylor through the house pausing to admire the pictures and sculptures that were displayed everywhere.

The sun room proved to be constructed entirely of glass but managed to remain ice-cold. Several comfortable loungers surrounded a low glass table and there was a magnificent view of the sweeping grounds. Carey guessed that the hint of glittering water in the distance must be a pool.

They settled into their seats, Carey and Alistair next to each other, Taylor opposite them. Taylor offered them a selection of drinks. Alistair opted for chilled mango juice while Carey accepted a light beer, mirroring Taylor’s choice. On the table sat several platters of cold finger food, which was tempting but Carey wanted to hear what Taylor had to say before switching his attention to snacks.

“How do I start?” Taylor leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“I find it’s always best to be direct,” Carey said.

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About the Author

L.M. Somerton

Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.

She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She’s fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.

You can follow Lucinda on Facebook, Twitter and her Website.

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