New Release – The Road Between by Patrick Benjamin #KindleUnlimited

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: The Road Between

Author: Patrick Benjamin

Publisher: Self-Published

Cover Artist: Rebecca Covers

Release Date: December 31, 2019

Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance, Family Drama

Trope/s: Friends to lovers, Dysfunctional Families

Themes: Forgiveness, self-discovery, secrets & lies

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: 93 000 words/ 281 pages 

It is a standalone story.

 

Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

Amazon US  |   Amazon UK

 

Just because you can go home again, doesn’t mean you should.

Blurb

Television personality, Parker Houston has spent a lifetime following that motto: Running away at seventeen and vowing never to return to the small country town that made growing up gay, practically unbearable. But when the death of a loved one forces him home for the first time in twenty years, Parker has to reconcile the life and the people he left behind. Unearthing secrets and conflicts long buried.

While trying to mend the fractured relationships within his complicated family, Parker meets Bryce, a cocky rancher with a womanizing past. And although the friendship seems unlikely, neither man can deny the explosion they feel when their two worlds collide.

 

Excerpt

Prologue 

Twenty years since I’d left.

Camouflaged by a thick perimeter of poplar trees, you would miss it if you blinked. Even travelling ten clicks under the speed limit. Buried at the bottom of a steep valley, River Bluff was accessible only by a narrow gravel road. So unremarkable and insignificant, that if you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t have found it. At the base of the way was a single sign, “Welcome to River Bluff, Home of The Grouch”.

Every August, the town held a contest. Townsfolk nominated the rudest, most inconsiderate and overall “grouchy” members of the community. They declared the person with the most nominations “The Grouch”. For the next year, the winner attended every community event, with an excuse to be rude to everyone in their path. The Grouch participated in every social event — everything from the annual chili cook-off to high school graduation. The title was quite a big deal. As a child, the message was completely lost on me. Now, as an adult, I recognize how bizarre it was for a town to take pride in their unpleasantness. In many ways, River Bluff was a strange place. On the surface, it and its residents seemed utterly safe. Underneath, things were perilous.

Everyone knew each other and each other’s business. Everyone loved each other, yet no one could stand each other. If you were struggling, people would arrive at your door to offer you small scraps of their wealth. If you were successful, even more people would arrive at your door, demanding their cut. The entire community walked a thin line between socialist and militant. If an outsider had a conflict with a resident, the town would band together. They would pick-up their pitchforks to drive away the unwelcome beast. The same was true for any resident who challenged traditional thinking or practices. One could best compare the town mentality to a cult. Either you were one of the faithful, or you were an unwanted skeptic.

In River Bluff, belonging or not belonging was a concept as basic as age. There were only a few roles in which to fit. Boys were football players and girls were cheerleaders. Men worked on farms or in the oil field. Women stayed at home or worked in the town’s restaurants and bakeries. Of course, there were a few exceptions. Educators and physicians could be either male or female, but those positions came with their own sets of challenges. They required a degree. Once you left River Bluff to pursue one, you were seldom welcomed back without scrutiny. In fact, to my recollection, not a single teacher from my youth had been an original resident. They had been transplants from larger cities. Fresh out of university, with no choice but to take a position in a town no tenured educator would accept. For most of us, only a few specific roles were acceptable. That left little room for individuality.

I was aware of this truth whenever I would play dolls with Tanya Caldwell from across the street. Or whenever my mother would catch me reading “Nancy Drew” rather than “The Hardy Boys”. Or whenever I skipped football tryouts to audition for a school play. Or when I received the awkward looks of judgment from children and adults alike. That felt constant. They realized early, as did I, that I was not one of them. I did not belong. I did not behave, think, speak or even walk like them. I was different. Alien. It was that simple.

I was six years old when people first began to see me in this way. I was eight years old when I started to notice for myself. I was in the third grade, and our teacher had given us all an easy assignment. We were to present to the class a report about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Most of the kids spoke about their parents or other members of their family who inspired them. Brandon Jones wanted to be a mechanic like his father. Stacey Zimmerman wished to use her grandmother’s pie recipes to open a bakery. Jonathan Wilkins planned to take over his grandfather’s farm. Tamara Lane’s greatest ambition was to be a mother. I wish my aspiration had been so simple. It wasn’t. When the teacher called my name, I skipped to the front of the room and proclaimed that I wanted to be Oprah Winfrey.

I realize now how absurd a life goal that must have been to a group of children, especially a group of children with such rational and regular goals. I also realize now, how hilarious it was for a skinny white boy to declare that he wanted to be a strong woman of colour. At the time, it had been the truth. Well, almost the truth. I didn’t want to be Oprah. Instead, I wanted to be like Oprah – which was a notion I could have articulated better. I wanted a job in television. Doing what, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I wanted to be somebody special. I wanted success and fame. I wanted love and admiration. I wanted to be a household name, and in 1989, there was no more prominent household name than Oprah Winfrey. So, in my eight-year-old mind, I wanted to be Oprah. This proclamation acted as the catalyst for the decade of torment that followed.

I soon realized that “different” meant unwelcome. It started naturally enough, with innocent pointing, stares and laughter. Other small torments evolved from there. One boy learned how to make ‘spitballs’ from his older brother. Soon all the boys in the class had hollowed-out pens and shredded pieces of paper. Walking the halls became like storming the beaches of Normandy. I endured whatever shots they fired at me. Some days I would get home from school only to discover that the back of my shirt looked like a papier-mâché project.

By Junior High, things had escalated to acts of violence and vandalism. Another, far more offensive term also replaced my name — Faggot. It was the early nineties, so few teachers took issue with the slur. Few of my teachers took issue with anything other students did to me. One January day, someone broke into my gym locker during Phys-Ed and defecated on my jeans and sweater. Nobody batted an eye. I spent the rest of that frigid day in my sweaty gym clothes and walked home with bare legs. When I arrived home, my father had been so furious with me for “allowing” myself “to be a victim” that he blackened my eye. Then he forced me to launder my soiled clothes by hand, in the bathroom sink.

Robert Houston was a proud man, strong and quick to anger. He despised weakness and strived to purge it from me thoroughly. By force if necessary. One summer, I had woke to find the word ‘Fag’ spray-painted, in several places, on my brand-new mountain bike. I didn’t want my father to know that I was a victim, once again. So, I spent my allowance on a can of black house paint and used it to cover the graffiti. House paint is not intended for aluminum. He saw it and raged.

“How could you destroy a two-hundred-dollar bicycle?!” He demanded, furiously removing his belt. He proceeded to lash me all over my body; across my arms, my back, my legs, even my face. He was often unpredictable in his anger. I never really knew what would set him off or if the severity of punishment would suit the crime committed. It was during those long, summer months at home that I counted the days until the fall semester would begin. I preferred the Devil I knew and could predict.

By senior year, I realized that I was not alone in my exile. Of course, there were others like me, whose differences made them easy targets. I could see them getting shoved into their lockers. I could hear the profanities being slung at them. And they, in turn, bore witness to my struggle. Even though we rarely spoke to each other, we were a brotherhood. We were bound together by our shared experiences and common enemies.

Most outsiders strived for a life of anonymity and blending in. I did not. I grew independent and opinionated. I knew that nothing I could say or do could put me lower on the social hierarchy, and that gave me strength. I decided that if I had to be on the bottom, I would make sure they could hear me at the top. I spoke up, and I spoke out. I drew attention to the town’s lack of gender-neutral youth programs. I rallied for the creation of a peer support presence in our school and a plethora of other causes. The protest against pickled beets in the cafeteria had been a personal victory for me. I argued often and hard and realized I was good at it. I served as captain of the debate team, which was where I felt my most authentic and brave.

I had planted in myself, a seed of success. If it had any hope of blossoming, I knew I had to get out of River Bluff. I had to nurture my individuality and empower my spirit. I was raring to experience the world beyond. So, two days after graduation, I loaded a single suitcase onto a Greyhound bus, Toronto bound. I didn’t leave a note, and I never looked back.

Until now.

Twenty years later.

 

 

About the Author

Patrick Benjamin has always had a passion for books.  Growing up in rural Alberta, Canada, books were often the only escape he had from his simple small-town life.  Patrick loves the way books can transport readers into different worlds and times, and expose them to experiences and types of people they wouldn’t normally encounter.  His favourite stories, have always been those with strong, relatable characters. Stories that refrain from painting their characters with perfect brush strokes, and instead present their characters as fully rounded, real people — complete with their own imperfections, humours and motivations.  Those are the types of Characters he aims to create, and its their stories he wants to tell. This is his first novel.

 

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New Release – Served with a Twist by Jet Lupin

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Served with a Twist

Author: Jet Lupin

Publisher: Self-Published

Release Date: December 28, 2019

Genre/s: Sci-Fi D/s M/M Romance

Trope/s: Clash of Backgrounds, Opposites attract, Man in Peril, Meet My Dysfunctional Family, Size Difference

Themes: Kink, light BDSM, light D/s themes, collaring

Heat Rating: 4 flames 

Length:  74 000 words

It is a standalone story.

Add on Goodreads

 

 

Buy Links

Universal Amazon Link 

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

 

The pretty ones were always trouble…

Blurb

Cut Jones knows Samson from his work, but not really. He knows he’s got money, that he likes his whiskey sours extra sweet, but that’s where his knowledge ends. Samson’s come into the bar every few days for a year but has hardly said more than five words at a time, but Cut didn’t mind. Samson was out of his league. So imagine his surprise when Samson asks for his help with a very personal issue.

The pressures of owning his own company and the expectations of his father had Samson Ba walking a razor’s edge. It was only a matter of time before he tried to find a release, but when he does it’s in the worst way. And he’s found by the last person he wanted to see him this way. But things aren’t all bad. Cut offers to help him relieve his stress, and Samson’s sure he’s just being nice, but some opportunities are too good to pass up. 

 

 

Excerpt 

Samson shifted his gaze to Cut, scanning him from boots to the dark blue locs on the crown of his head. Cut shifted, smoothing out invisible creases in his jeans before Samson said, “You look good to me.”  

He seemed so sure; Cut felt he had to trust him on this. At least, if he was wrong, they’d get thrown out together. Nothing took the sting out of embarrassment quite like sharing it.

Samson stood aside and Cut preceded him into the restaurant, but then he scampered on ahead to talk to the host, making the whole exercise useless. They whispered among themselves, giving Cut ample time to verify that his ass was just as amazing in jeans as dress pants, before the host escorted them to a secluded corner meant for a party of six or more. The other patrons had enough class to pretend that their meals and conversations were more engrossing than the out of place strangers getting a whole section to themselves.

His anxiety subsiding as they took their seats allowed Cut to take things in properly. He saw the wire brush marks on the metal of the sconces that illuminated the room. When he flicked his gaze up, he saw the hand turned wires on the ornaments hanging from the chandeliers. On the glasses, the stems were so delicate and thin, yet when he picked up his to test that theory, it didn’t feel fragile in the hand. Everything was so refined and well-made in a way that made him feel small and cheap. But he’d push through it for now. 

Cut claimed the bench against the wall, preferring to see anything coming his way, while Samson took the chair across from him, his back to the rest of the dining room. He shrugged out of his jacket and set it beside him. Cut took Samson’s when he divested himself of it and did the same. Samson picked up the thin tablet that served as the menu and swiped through it. Cut gave an appreciative glance to those wide shoulders and the bit of collarbone peeking out from the open neck of Samson’s shirt before turning his gaze down to his own menu.

“I recommend anything but the fish. Issues with the suppliers. The beef is very good, though.”

“You really know your stuff.” Of course someone like Samson came here regularly. A high class spot for a high class guy. Cut carefully sipped water from an elegant crystal glass.  

Samson put down the tablet, grinned. “I should. I own the place.” 

Water dribble down Cut’s chin when he nearly choked on it. He quickly mopped it up with his sleeve. It was better his stubble got a little wet than spraying Samson’s face. 

“You own this whole place? By yourself?”

“I hope you don’t mind me showing off a little. Everything you get will be gratis, of course. So go nuts. I needed you to know that I really can pay whatever you ask. I’m serious about this.” 

Cut moved to the edge of his seat. Just because no one was blatantly watching didn’t mean they weren’t listening. “Explain what you mean by this? I have an idea, but we’ve got to be on the same page.” 

“O-of course.” Samson wet his own lips with a little water. 

He seemed a little flustered. That was the last thing Cut wanted.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

 “It’s a bit much to say over the table.” But it had to be said. If they didn’t have honest, open communication from the beginning, there was no point in starting at all. 

But if Samson had concerns about being overheard, Cut had a simple solution. He scooted over on the bench. “Join me. There’s plenty of room on this side.”

Samson froze and swallowed so hard Cut swore he heard it. He thought that might have been a step too far, but Samson came around to his side of the table, and they sat hip-to-hip. The cushion was wide enough to accommodate both of them with room to spare. A server rushed over and repositioned Samson’s place setting before disappearing as quickly as they came. 

There was that scent again, sweet and thickened by Samson’s natural aroma. Cut was suddenly aroused and uncomfortable. He shifted to adjust his cock into a more comfortable position, and his thigh brushed against Samson’s. The bigger man snapped his leg away for an instant before he relaxed again. Somehow, knowing he was nervous too helped Cut relax. Maybe too much. 

He rested a hand on Samson’s knee and squeezed. When he realized what he’d done, Cut pulled away and set both his hands on the table.

“So,” he coughed. “Let’s start with the alley and why you were there.”

 

convo-blank

About the Author 

Stories longing to have words put to them were in Jet’s heart from an early age. Jet enjoys exploring the connections and similarities between people whether they be shifters, vampires, or aliens, rendering the unknowable very knowable indeed.

Jet’s days are spent toiling away at a keyboard, slumped over a pen and paper hunting for those words, or playing around on twitter with a partner, and two rambunctious cats for company in the temperamental North Eastern US.

 

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |  Facebook Page  |  Facebook Reader Group  |  Twitter

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99c Book Blast – Little Red (Big Bad Wolves Book One) by Queenie Wise

99c BOOK BLAST

Book Title: Little Red (Big Bad Wolves Book One)

 Author: Queenie Wise

Publisher: Self-Published

Cover Artist: Reese Dante

Genre/s: Paranormal M/M Romance 

Trope/s: Enemies to lovers, Hurt/Comfort 

Themes: Werewolves, Coming Out

Heat Rating: 2.5 flames

Length: 117 500 words/351 pages

This is the first book in a series.

It is on sale for $0.99 for a limited time (Dec 27 – 31)

to celebrate the release of its sequel on December 27, 2019

Add on Goodreads 

 

Big, sexy werewolves + sassy, gay protagonist + fun worldbuilding = Little Red!

Blurb

Peter “Penis” Caldwell (nickname bestowed courtesy of popular jock, Jackson Davis) didn’t necessarily have a lot of things going for him.

  1. See “Penis”.
  2. He attended high school in a small town that was as bigoted as it was boring. (Having the audacity to stand out was considered a major character flaw.)
  3. He was maybe, sort of, a little bit (a lot) gay. Not that anyone knew that last one.

None of that meant, however, that Peter was prepared for the consequences when he is bitten by a giant wolf during a reckless night of teenage adventure.

Consequences that smack him right in the face when he is simultaneously saved and snatched by a (hugely-muscled, obscenely handsome)… mentally-imbalanced man who’s convinced that he’s a long-distance relation of Jacob Black. That’s right: werewolf.

Mr. Big and Bad claims Peter is one, too, now that he’s bitten him.

The only thing worse than being kidnapped by a crazy person? A crazy person who’s right.

Forced to adjust to pack life in a hidden society, Peter’s not sure what he longs to do more: throttle the man who’s bitten him and ruined his life so conclusively, or throw himself on Mr. Big and Bad’s ridiculously firmlap.

Yeah, lap

 

Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited 

99c for a limited time (Dec 27 – 31)

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

 

Excerpt 

​For the first time in his life, Peter realized that people had ​scents​. He wasn’t referring to the funky smell that always followed around his history teacher, Mr. Herbert, or even the flowery perfumes that his mother often saturated herself in.

No, people had scents beneath all that.

Like his dad, who smelled a bit like worn leather, or his mom, whose natural fragrance more closely resembled lemons.

Not everyone had a pleasant aroma, however. Jackson’s smell, for example, was putrid – not unlike the stink of sour milk.

No one’s scent was overpowering, and Peter often only caught whiffs of people as they walked by – and that was only when he put his mind to doing so. It was when he spent a lot of time with people, like his parents, or even Scott, who smelled a little like freshly cut grass underneath his Axe body spray, that he really noticed it.

Peter sighed, forcefully pulling himself from his thoughts. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but none of the books his parents – mostly his mom – had bought for him and his older sister about puberty mentioned the strange ability to ​smell​ other people. (He knew because he’d wasted an entire half hour searching the section about body odor.)

Realizing that as he had daydreamed, the sun had risen (and the heat index along with it), Peter glanced down to discover he had sweat through his shirt. Yanking his ear buds out of his ears and stuffing them into his pocket along with his MP3 player, Peter began tugging his shirt off his head.

He probably should have stopped running to do it. But he didn’t.

Which was why, shirt blocking his vision, Peter completely missed the man who suddenly appeared in front of him. By the time he had yanked the shirt completely off, it was too late, and he collided full speed into him.

He didn’t even have time to brace himself. One second, he was running, and the next, he was practically ricocheting off the solid mass of the man’s chest, his body flying backwards. It was a battle to stay upright– a battle he was losing – until firm hands grasped his hips and righted him, allowing Peter’s equilibrium to return to him.

An embarrassed flush bursting across his cheeks, Peter quickly stepped out of the man’s grasp, finally getting a good look at him, and… ​oh.

Jesus.

He’d almost plowed down a god, or a half-god, or ​something,​ because there was no way it was possible to be that naturally good-looking without having a parent named Aphrodite.

The handsome stranger – the man was definitely a stranger, Peter would know if he had seen ​this particular face before – had perfectly symmetrical features. He had an attractive nose and strong jaw, and his face was framed by dark, disheveled hair, longer on the top than it was on the sides.

Not only was the man absurdly handsome, he was also tall (​well​ over six feet), and judging by the way his shirt-sleeves bulged, he was positively covered in lithe muscle.

Which you are very rudely staring at,​ a voice in the back of Peter’s head pointed out. Unfortunately, jerking his eyes away from the display of tanned muscle only served as a reminder that Peter’s less-muscled body was also on parade.

“I-I wasn’t,” Peter stuttered, clutching his shirt to his chest like an old lady holding a rosery in church, “I mean, I ​was​… and then you, and I… I’m really sorry!” he eventually managed to spit out.

Determined not to embarrass himself any further – because apparently people related to Greek gods made him a little tongue-tied – Peter directed his gaze to the ground.

“Are you alright?”

Half-expecting to have been ignored, or worse, laughed at, Peter was taken off-guard by the concern-laced question. (It didn’t help that it was asked in such a cultured timbre. Peter had no idea it was possible to be physically attracted to a voice until that very moment.)

Unable to resist, he allowed his gaze to flicker back up. And promptly froze.

Peter had been so preoccupied with the man’s handsome features earlier that he had somehow missed the most striking of them all: his eyes.

Framed by black lashes, they were an intense blue. Peter’s poetry-obsessed mother would have probably called them sapphire or cobalt or something equally fanciful. But their color wasn’t what had Peter’s entire body tensing.

No, that was due to the fact that the eyes were strangely familiar. Like Peter had seen them somewhere before.

Except Peter was completely certain he had never laid eyes on this man before.

For one hare-brained moment, he thought of the pair of eyes that had been haunting his dreams for over a week now. ​They’re the same​, his subconscious all but screamed at him, ​they’re the same!

But that was ridiculous.

The eyes in his dream were red. And they belonged to a wolf. They weren’t blue and set in the face of a Michelangelo statue come to life. A statue that was currently frowning at him, a troubled crease in his brow. “Well, are you?”

Peter blinked. “Am I…?” “Are you alright?”

Oh.

That’s right.

The man had asked Peter a question, and instead of answering it like a normal person, Peter had just stared rudely.

Face burning, he half-wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “Yeah! Fine. Great. Dandy, even.” ​Dandy? What. the. hell.​ “It’s not like I fell or anything.” Although Peter wasn’t so sure he hadn’t somehow concussed himself by running into the man’s chest of solid muscle, what with his mouth moving without consent from his brain and all. “I mean, you stopped me before I could. Fall, that is. Grabbed me by the waist, which would usually be sort of creepy, in a bad-touch way, but, I mean, you’re obviously not… you wouldn’t… you know what? I’m just going to shut up now.”

By the time Peter had finished inserting both his feet firmly in his mouth, the man’s frown had increased in severity. He seemed confused.

You and me both, buddy.

After a moment, he just shook his head. “You should really watch where you’re going,” he said somberly.

Yeah, can’t be smacking into god-like entities every time I take my shirt off,​ Peter thought sarcastically. What he actually said was: “I’ll do that.”

“See that you do. You never know when you might run into… someone dangerous.”

For some reason, a shiver tingled down Peter’s spine at the remark. It wasn’t a​ scared​ shiver. Sure, the statement could have been threatening – Peter had just run smack into ​this​ man, after all – but somehow, it was something… ​else.

Peter found himself staring again, almost involuntarily, into the man’s eyes. Dark blue drilled right back into muted green. It was a staring contest Peter was desperate not to lose for reasons beyond his grasp.

 

INSTAGRAM

About the Author

 

Queenie Wise is a happily married mother of four. (Yes, that is four ​human ​children.)

When she is not busy wiping noses or magically kissing away “boo-boo”’s, she is obsessing over M/M romance. Original stories, fanfiction; she reads it all. She is especially fond of sassy protagonists and huge, burly love interests who have tough-as-nails exteriors, but are actually giant marshmallows on the inside. She loves all the tropes: hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, and May/December being some of her favorites.

Although Queenie began her writing career as a M/F author (under a different pen name), she has recently returned to her true passion: M/M.

While she has a penchant for torturing her favorite characters, all of her stories feature HEA’s. Just because there are not enough of them in the real world doesn’t mean the fictional world should be denied.

(In other words, Queenie is as soft and gooey on the inside as her giant, marshmallow men.)

 

Author Links

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New Release – What Works For Us by Colette Davison #KindleUnlimited #99c

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: What Works For Us

Author: Colette Davison

Publisher: Independently published

Cover Artist: Colette Davison

Release Date:  December 17, 2019

Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance

Trope/s: Age-gap, role-playing, Daddy kink, out for you

Themes:  Self-discovery; sexual awakening

Heat Rating:  4 flames  

Length: 57 000 words

It is a standalone story.

Add on Goodreads 

 

 

Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

and  only 99c until December 22

Universal Amazon Link

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

 

An elf costume, a pair of lacy knickers, and a Christmas charity auction might make Sam’s Christmas wish come true.

 

Blurb

When sweet barista, Sam, agrees to be a ‘slave’ in a Christmas charity auction, he’s thrilled to be bought by the man he’s had a crush on for the last three months.

Theodore is everything Sam is looking for in a man: older, authoritative, and caring. Unfortunately, Sam isn’t the most forward person when it comes to telling men he likes them. Wearing a sexy costume allows him to be a much flirtier version of himself, but can a naughty elf tempt Theodore into bed?

As their relationship intensifies, Sam finds something in Theodore he didn’t realise he needed: a man he wants to call his Daddy.

But Theodore isn’t out of the closet, and whilst Sam is happy existing in a bubble over Christmas, he knows that can’t last forever.

Can Sam risk giving his heart to a Daddy who might not ever be able to hold his hand in public, let alone commit to him?

What Works For Us is a Christmas romance with an age-gap relationship, lacy underwear, role-play, Daddy kink, and a guaranteed happy ending.

 

Excerpt

He stood and opened the door, and his heart leapt into his throat. His whole body tingled as he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from what the young man was wearing.

Sam didn’t have the boxer shorts on. Instead, he wore a woman’s elf costume, which comprised of a short dress with a green lace-up bodice and bright red skirt. Due to Sam’s height, the skirt barely covered the top third of his thighs. The skirt was filled out with netting, like a tutu, making it even shorter. Sam was wearing candy cane-striped stockings. Theodore knew they were stockings because he could see the top of the suspenders peeking out beneath the white fake fur trim on the hem of the skirt. In his head, Sam wore a floppy hat—like the Santa ones that had been flooding the shops for the last three months—but in green to match the bodice. Theodore managed to drag his gaze down to Sam’s feet long enough to note that he was wearing black pumps.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to clean in high heels,” Sam said in a confidential whisper. He sounded and looked more confident than he had minutes before.

Theodore’s mind had turned to goo. He’d seen men in drag before, but this was different. Sam’s festive costume was tapping into desires that Theodore hadn’t realised he had. He could feel his blood pumping through his veins, racing to get to his dick rather than his heart. He had a sudden desire to pull Sam into his arms and kiss him. Hard.

Dear God, don’t let me get an erection.

Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, Sam did a slow twirl. At the back, the skirt barely covered his bottom, giving Theodore the tiniest glimpse of white lace. A shiver ran through him, and he let out a little gasp of desire.

“Do you like it?” Sam asked.

 

 

About the Author 

Colette’s personal love story began at university, where she met her future husband. An evening of flirting, in the shadow of Lancaster castle, eventually led to a fairytale wedding. She’s enjoying her own ‘happy ever after’ in the north of England with her husband, two beautiful children and her writing.

 

 

Social Media Links

Blog/Website

Facebook

Twitter

Facebook Group: Colette’s Cosy Corner

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Mailing List

 

 

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Release Blitz – Inheritance by Gail Z. Martin #giveaway

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Inheritance

Author: Gail Z. Martin

Cover Artist: Lou Harper

Release Date: October 22, 2019

Genre/s: Urban fantasy with romantic elements.

(Note—Characters from my Morgan Brice (MM paranormal romance) books make several key appearances in this book.

Also, a long-time committed MM couple figure prominently in the plot).

Trope/s: Established relationships, strengthening commitment, supportive partners, protective partners

Themes: Friendship, found family, loyalty, family always has your back, trust

Heat Rating:  0 – 1 flame (No sex, kissing/hugging for MF and MM characters)

Length: 66 000 words/ 222 pages

It is the fourth book in the series but can be read as a standalone.

Add on Goodreads

 

Can Cassidy and her friends find the demon box, stop the killer ghosts, and break the Pendlewood curse before Beckford’s murderous cousins and the vengeful demon destroy them all?

Blurb 

Cassidy Kincaide runs Trifles & Folly in modern-day Charleston, an antiques and curio shop with a dangerous secret. Cassidy can read the history of objects by touching them, and she teams up with friends and allies who use magic and paranormal abilities to get rid of cursed objects and keep Charleston and the world safe from supernatural threats.

Caribbean ghosts terrorize Charleston and start racking up a body count. Then Beckford Pendlewood, the heir to a powerful family of dark warlocks, shows up raving about a bound demon locked in a lost box and begs sanctuary. Can Cassidy and her friends find the demon box, stop the killer ghosts, and break the Pendlewood curse before Beckford’s murderous cousins and the vengeful demon destroy them all?

 

Buy Links – ebook and paperback 

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

 

Excerpt 

From Chapter 1 

“It’s a ‘sailor’s valentine,’” I said, recognizing the style. I leaned closer, careful not to touch. While the idea of an intricate design crafted from shells sounded like a kitschy souvenir, antique sailor’s valentines could be true works of folk art and fetch thousands of dollars. This one was particularly well done, with a floral rose inside a nautical wind rose, enclosed in a detailed decorative border, and all of it painstakingly pieced together from naturally-colored seashells.

“We can authenticate the original ownership,” Alfred asserted, probably hoping to regain my professional respect. “It’s old—the date on the back says 1845, and the appraiser confirmed that the materials are consistent with that period. The writing next to the date reads, ‘To my darling Millicent, undying love from Joseph.’”

“Do you have any idea who Joseph and Millicent were?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Alfred admitted. “The representative said that it had been given by a sailor to his fiancée when he returned to port.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, it was a parting gift, because the sailor had already married someone else. After that, the piece passed through various hands until it was acquired a few decades later by the family of the late owner.”

I walked around the piece, which was secured on an easel. The mahogany frame appeared to be in good shape, and despite the age of the piece, the shells had not discolored or come loose from their glue, and the glass had no chips or breaks. The shell work itself was a wonder, using a variety of types—common cockles, beaded periwinkles, baby’s ears, bubbles, jingles, and more—in an array of colors and sizes. I could understand why it could catch someone’s eye.

Assuming they couldn’t feel the psychic reek of malevolent energy that made me recoil. If it has that much resonance when I’m a foot away, I really don’t want to know how it feels to pick it up.

When an item gave off vibes that were that strong, I could usually get a read without having to touch it. I closed my eyes, aware that Alfred was watching, and reached out with my psychometry, stretching my gift toward the piece but not getting any closer than necessary.

Hatred and vengefulness hit me like a punch to the face. After all this time, the resonance was so powerful that I caught my breath and took a defensive step back. I saw everything, like a movie in fast-forward. Millicent’s happiness that her beloved had returned from the sea, and her delight in the beautiful gift. Joseph’s admission of betrayal. Her shock, turning to grief and then cooling into anger. A heated argument, and the swing of a candlestick in rage, leaving Joseph in a pool of blood. Fear, remorse, loss, and guilt, and then a knife blade that Millicent used to open veins and let herself die beside her faithless lover.

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving me breathless. I might have spared some sympathy for Millicent, despite her reaction, if I didn’t feel the temperature drop and know from the prickle on my skin that Millicent’s spirit still clung to the tragic gift.

“Get back!” I reached into the pocket of my jacket and grabbed a handful of the loose salt I kept there for situations just like this. As Millicent’s spirit began to take shape and the air around us grew freezing cold, I hurled a handful of salt at her ghostly outline, making her flicker and vanish.

“Run!” I grabbed Alfred by the arm and dragged him with me as I sprinted toward the storage room door. I’d disrupted Millicent’s manifestation, but it wouldn’t take a spirit that strong long to regroup.

 

About the Author 

Gail Z. Martin writes epic fantasy, urban fantasy and steampunk for Solaris Books, Orbit Books, SOL Publishing, Darkwind Press, Worldbuilders Press and Falstaff Books. Recent books include Convicts and Exiles, Sellsword’s Oath, Inheritance, and Night Moves. With Larry N. Martin, she is the co-author of the Spells Salt & Steel, Wasteland Marshals, Joe Mack and Jake Desmet series. As Morgan Brice, she writes urban fantasy MM paranormal romance including the Witchbane, Badlands and Treasure Trail series. Recent books include The Rising, Flame and Ash.

Get a free complete short story, Catspaw here

 

 

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Cover Reveal – Inheritance by Gail Z. Martin

COVER REVEAL

Book Title: Inheritance

Author: Gail Z. Martin

Cover Artist: Lou Harper

Release Date: October 22, 2019

Genre/s: Urban fantasy with romantic elements.

(Note—Characters from my Morgan Brice (MM paranormal romance) books make several key appearances in this book.

Also, a long-time committed MM couple figure prominently in the plot).

Trope/s: Established relationships, strengthening commitment, supportive partners, protective partners

Themes: Friendship, found family, loyalty, family always has your back, trust

Heat Rating:  0 – 1 flame (No sex, kissing/hugging for MF and MM characters)

Length: 66 000 words/ 222 pages

It is the fourth book in the series but can be read as a standalone.

Add on Goodreads

 

Can Cassidy and her friends find the demon box, stop the killer ghosts, and break the Pendlewood curse before Beckford’s murderous cousins and the vengeful demon destroy them all?

Blurb 

Cassidy Kincaide runs Trifles & Folly in modern-day Charleston, an antiques and curio shop with a dangerous secret. Cassidy can read the history of objects by touching them, and she teams up with friends and allies who use magic and paranormal abilities to get rid of cursed objects and keep Charleston and the world safe from supernatural threats.

Caribbean ghosts terrorize Charleston and start racking up a body count. Then Beckford Pendlewood, the heir to a powerful family of dark warlocks, shows up raving about a bound demon locked in a lost box and begs sanctuary. Can Cassidy and her friends find the demon box, stop the killer ghosts, and break the Pendlewood curse before Beckford’s murderous cousins and the vengeful demon destroy them all?

 

Buy Links 

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

 

Excerpt 

From Chapter 1 

“I have a problem antique I’d like you to take a look at.” The man on the other end of the call sounded rattled. I recognized his name—Alfred Stone, from Stone Auctions—but I didn’t think we had ever spoken, let alone met.

“What kind of ‘problem’ does it present?” I asked. A number of possibilities came to mind. “Questionable provenance? Not sure how to authenticate?”

“I think it’s trying to kill me.”

Well, damn. That kind of problem. “All right, Mr. Stone. Try to stay calm.”

“I just told you, it’s trying to kill me. I heard you…know…about these things. Please, help me.”

Across the store, Teag Logan glanced up to make sure everything was all right. I nodded, and he went back to helping a customer.

“I can come now. Are you at the showroom?”

“Yes. Thank you. And…please…hurry.”

I ended the call and sighed. This might be the first time Alfred Stone had an antique try to kill him, but that made it just another day here at Trifles and Folly.

I’m Cassidy Kincaide, and I own Trifles and Folly, an antique and curio shop in historic, haunted Charleston, South Carolina. The shop has been in my family for more than three hundred years. While we’re known as a great place to buy high-quality antiques, the shop is also a cover for the Alliance, a coalition of mortals and immortals who save Charleston—and the world—from supernatural threats. I’m a psychometric, which means I can read the history and magic of objects by touching them. Teag is my assistant store manager, best friend, and sometimes bodyguard—and he’s also a talented Weaver witch. Sorren, my business partner, is a nearly six-hundred-year-old vampire. Together with some other friends with very specialized abilities, we do our best to keep the world safe from dark magic and things that go bump in the night.

“Problem?” Teag asked when the customer left.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Alfred Stone just called—from the auction house. He says he’s got an item that’s trying to kill him.”

“You want me to go with you?” Teag pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. His skater-boy haircut and skinny jeans made him look younger than his late twenties. “Maggie can handle the store.”

On cue, Maggie—our lifesaver of a part-time associate—waved to agree from the other side of the store. She was sporting a new bright pink streak in her short gray hair, and it matched her sweater, a reminder—as if I needed one—that she believed in taking risks and living large.

I reached up to slick my humidity-frizzy strawberry blond hair back into a ponytail and shook my head. “Let me go see what the problem is, and I’ll figure out what to do from there. It’s not far away, in case I need to give a shout.”

 

INSTAGRAM

 

About the Author 

Gail Z. Martin writes epic fantasy, urban fantasy and steampunk for Solaris Books, Orbit Books, SOL Publishing, Darkwind Press, Worldbuilders Press and Falstaff Books. Recent books include Convicts and Exiles, Sellsword’s Oath, Inheritance, and Night Moves. With Larry N. Martin, she is the co-author of the Spells Salt & Steel, Wasteland Marshals, Joe Mack and Jake Desmet series. As Morgan Brice, she writes urban fantasy MM paranormal romance including the Witchbane, Badlands and Treasure Trail series. Recent books include The Rising, Flame and Ash.

Get a free complete short story, Catspaw here

 

 

Social Media Links

Blog  |  Website  |  Facebook  |   Facebook Group  |  Twitter @GailZMartin  |  Pinterest

Newsletter Sign-Up  |  Instagram  |  BookBub  |  Goodreads  |  Amazon Author Profile

 

Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win one of three $10 Amazon Gift Cards

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

New Release – We Still Live by Sara Dobie Bauer

BLOG TOUR

Book Title: We Still Live

Author: Sara Dobie Bauer

Publisher: NineStar Press

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: December 9, 2019

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance

Tropes: Friends to lovers, hurt/comfort

Themes: Coming out, depression, anxiety, PTSD, mental illness

Heat Rating:  4 flames   

Length: 62 000 words

It is a standalone book.

Add on Goodreads

Buy Links

NineStar Press  |   Amazon UK  |  Amazon US  |  Paperback 

 

To escape the past, accept it.

Blurb 

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.

***WE STILL LIVE is a standalone M/M friends-to-lovers romance featuring detailed adult content, graphic violence, hurt/comfort, and mental illness.***

 

 

Excerpt

Close as they were to the foyer, Isaac was the first to notice the front door opening. A student walked inside. The kid dragged a heavy-looking suitcase behind him. Dressed as he was in a slim-fitting button-down, Isaac immediately assumed preppy, although that assumption altered and changed when taking into account the tight black jeans, Converse sneakers, and shaggy hair the color of caramel and chocolate—a mass of waves and curls that fell down the back of his neck but not quite to his shoulders. 

The kid pushed his hair out of the way and looked up, eyes finding Isaac and flashing a moment of panicked nonrecognition before seeing Tommy.

“Um.” Isaac pointed toward the new arrival.

Tommy turned and shouted, “John! My man!”

Not a student, then.

Tommy wrapped John in a hug that actually lifted his feet off the ground. Isaac imagined it wouldn’t be difficult. The new guy might have been average height, but he was gangly, skin and bones. 

Tommy ruffled his hair. “Have you lost weight?”

John grumbled and scratched his face with his middle finger. “What are you freeloaders doing in my house?” His voice was surprisingly resonant for someone Isaac considered “pretty.” At John’s pronouncement, crows of approval rang from every direction.

“Come meet Isaac,” Tommy said.

John wiped his palms on his jeans before reaching out to shake, and Isaac’s large hand dwarfed his. 

“Isaac Twain is the newest addition to our special corner of Hambden hell. Isaac, this is John Conlon.”

John brushed more hair out of his face. “Nice to—”

“John Conlon?”

John and Tommy froze.

Isaac jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The books on the shelf. Those are yours?”

John’s face, immobile in what looked like dread a moment before, melted into relief, tinged with a bit of blush. “Oh, yeah. You’ve read?”

“No, but I should. You’ve published a lot of books. You must be good.”

John’s nose wrinkled, and he looked away. 

Tommy shook him by the shoulders. “John is an amazing writer. He had a story published in The New Yorker when he was, like, five. Are you working on anything right now?”

John glanced at the bookshelf. “Not lately.”

“You need a drink,” Tommy said.

John’s eyes widened on a big breath. “God, yes, I do.”

“Nice to meet you,” Isaac said, but John just nodded quickly, smile thin, before allowing himself to be herded farther into the house toward the sound of quiet laughter and clinking bottles.

Isaac felt it then—an outsider’s emptiness. He became a nervous-looking coat rack in the corner, a terrified tree waiting for the ax. As the party doubled in auditory volume, he bemoaned his spilled wine. Was it okay for him to leave? It wasn’t like he was supposed to make a speech. He was only there because he figured it was the easiest way to meet everyone before the first official faculty meeting, but he’d been standing around too long. He wanted to run.

Out of curiosity, he reopened John’s book from earlier and read the front flap. It was a coming-of-age story about a gay kid in the Midwest. He flipped to the back, and a picture of John stared back at him. He’d assumed the guy was tired when they first met, but no; apparently, John had perpetual bedroom eyes, and his hair was always an artful mess. He skimmed…creative writing professor at Hambden University…gay rights activist…Converse-wearer and “old-people music” enthusiast.

All arrows pointed to John’s probable sexual preference for men. A spark of interest flickered but quickly went out. True, John Conlon was what most people would consider beautiful, but he wasn’t Isaac’s type. John was the kind of man butch guys fought over in gay clubs, but he was too small for Isaac, too fragile-looking, girly. After all he’d been through, the last thing Isaac wanted was someone feminine.

A thin figure ducked into the library and literally hid against the doorframe. He took a long drink of something brown and leaned his head back. “It’s not good when you want to hide in your own house.”

“Library is the best place for it,” Isaac said.

John kicked away from the wall. “Tommy mentioned you just moved here? I’ve been in Lothos forever, so if you need anything…” He examined Isaac from his brown boat shoes to the top of his blond head. John’s large eyes, dark green, seemed bottomless—drowning pools of intellect and soul—only slightly overshadowed by his thick eyebrows.

 

About the Author  

Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling author, model, and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. 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 and Escape Trilogy.

 

Photo credit: Bill Thornhill

 

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