Beautiful Thunder by Louise Lyons – excerpt

August 31, 2015

Hi everyone, it’s Louise here again. In this post, I’m giving you a little taster of Beautiful Thunder.

In the excerpt below, Alex and Lindsey kiss for the first time after Alex blunders into a gay club in an effort to avoid being seen by Lindsey in the street.

……………………………………………..

“I, um, I came in by mistake.” I hoped the lack of light in the club would disguise my red face. My cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Avoiding his eyes, I let my gaze drift down over his white ruffled shirt—the same one he’d had on that time in Rock City.

“Right. First you can’t make band practice because you’ve caught my fictitious flu, and now you’re in a gay club by accident?”

I groaned. “Yeah, I lied about being sick. I’m an idiot. I came in here because I saw you down the street and I didn’t want you to see me and realize I lied.”

Lindsey frowned. “Why lie? Why not just say you can’t make it? Presumably you were going out to pick up a girl.”

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t tell him the truth—that I hadn’t wanted to face him—and the only other option was to let him think I’d let the band down in favor of getting my rocks off. “It won’t happen again. What are you doing in here, anyway?”

“I come in here every couple of weeks. I was intending to catch up with some friends.”

“So you skipped practice too?” I raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t skip. Mark rang me and said you were ill and asked if I wanted to practice anyway. We decided to leave it and have a longer session tomorrow instead, with or without you.”

“Sorry,” I repeated. I took a long gulp of my beer. “I told Mark I’d caught your flu. Stupid, I know. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll get out of here in a minute. I don’t want to cramp your style.”

“I’m not looking for a bit of fun, Alex,” Lindsey snapped. “We don’t all get off with some random stranger every other night.”

“Nor do I. Not for a while.”

“But you don’t date. I doubt you can even remember the name of the last girl you were with.”

He was right, I couldn’t remember, and I covered it up by trying to sound annoyed. “Why are you having a go at me? Because you think I’m a slut? Or because I lied about being ill?”

“Neither. I’m sorry. I’m going to get a drink.”

I stayed where I was as Lindsey went to the bar and engaged in a chat with someone while he waited to be served. He shook hands with the other man and then leaned on the bar and talked to the barman. Eventually, he returned to me, carrying a bottle of Bud.

“I’ve nearly finished this.” I indicated my own bottle. “Then I’ll go.”

Lindsey nodded and sipped his beer. He didn’t speak, and I fiddled with my bottle, trying not to stare at him. He looked good as usual, and for once he wasn’t wearing makeup. His jeans were so tight, he probably had to use a shoehorn to get into them. I couldn’t stop myself imagining us in various scenarios—dancing like the two guys a few yards away, kissing like the pair nearby who were still at it. Would Lindsey even be interested in me?

I didn’t know how long we stood there not talking. Lindsey interrupted my thoughts with a muttered curse, and I looked up. “What’s wrong?”

“Steve’s here.”

“Where?”

“The dark-haired bloke who just came in. The one in the red shirt.”

I looked toward the door and spotted the man Lindsey had described. His collar-length hair framed a rugged face, and his muscular body indicated he worked out regularly. I had no idea what Lindsey’s type was, but I hadn’t imagined him going for someone like that. The man looked like he had a lot of power to put behind a punch. I put my bottle down on a nearby table and clenched my fists. “Do you want to leave?”

“No, I’m going to speak to him. I’m sick to death of jumping out of my skin whenever someone rings me or knocks on the door.”

“I could talk to him.”

Lindsey shook his head. “Don’t interfere, Alex. Stay here.” He put his drink on the table and strode away from me. I watched, grinding my teeth, as he halted close to Steve and spoke to him. Sweat stuck my shirt to my back. I knew nothing about Steve other than that he’d hurt Lindsey, and I wanted to go over there and punch the man’s lights out.

The pair talked for a few minutes, Steve gesturing in what looked to be an effort to placate Lindsey. At least he didn’t look as if he was about to hit him. Lindsey kept shaking his head, and at one point he glanced over his shoulder in my direction and jabbed a thumb at me. I wished I could hear what they were saying. Steve shrugged and nodded. He stayed where he was as Lindsey came back to me.

“What…?” I began.

“Do me a favor, I’ll explain later, just kiss me,” Lindsey said, his words almost running into each other in his haste.

I didn’t have time to think or question. I cupped his face, then slid my hand into his hair as I drew him closer. He rested his hands on my chest, and his lips parted as they met mine. I closed my eyes and caressed his lips, and I was instantly reminded of Joey’s kiss. Lindsey’s lips were firm but soft at the same time, and he wasn’t gentle and delicate like a girl. He kissed back hard and crushed my lips against my teeth. I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me, but it was obviously meant to be a show for Steve. I slid my arm around his waist and pulled him tighter against me. I didn’t care if he felt I was getting hard. My pulse raced, and I trembled with a combination of excitement and fear. Deepening the kiss, I stroked my tongue over his, and his tongue bar clicked against my teeth as he responded. I groaned and wondered if Lindsey heard it. He was bound to have felt the effect he was having on me by now. My rock-hard cock was trapped against his thigh.

Lindsey broke the kiss and turned his face into my neck. Warm puffs of breath fanned my skin, and he continued to hold on to me as he spoke quietly in my ear. “He wanted me back. He kept apologizing for hitting me. I told him to fuck off and that I’m with you. He seemed to accept it.” He pulled away at last and put a few inches between us. “Sorry about this. It was pretty childish, rubbing his nose in it, but….” He shrugged, then lifted his gaze to mine and grinned. “Anyway… I didn’t expect that reaction from you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

My face heated up, and I lowered away. “I, um, you took me by surprise,” I muttered.

…………………………………………..

Beautiful Thunder is available both as eBook and in paperback, and of course you can get these direct from Dreamspinner Press, as well as the usual online shops.

Louise Lyons on DSP

Beautiful Thunder coverLouise Lyons logo

Where Buchanan House Came From with Charley Descoteaux

August 19, 2015

WhereBuchananHouseCameFrom2

Hi all! Charley Descoteaux here to chat with you about my new release, Buchanan House. I’m so excited to be here with you! The day job might make me slow to reply, so please bear with me. I’ll be popping in and out for the next few days.

 

Before I go any farther I want to tell you about the giveaway. At the end of this post I’ll ask a question, and every answer is a chance to win an ebook. I’m giving away one copy of every ebook on my backlist and that means there will be six winners!

 

I’m a huge fan of the Marvel movies, so I’m calling this an origin story for my contemporary Romance. ☺

Last summer I got a shiny new degree and a new Evil Day Job to go with it. Not as evil as my last one, but it still keeps me busy when I’d rather be writing. Before going back to cubicle-land I took a short vacation to the Oregon Coast. I love the beach and the Pacific Ocean, and as has happened before I was struck with inspiration while walking on the beach.

The original inspiration was for a murder mystery, but I let the guy live and turned it into a pure Romance. “Pure” as in that’s the main plot, not as in “pure as the driven snow.” Buchanan House has sexy-times but even though it deals with the effects of bullying it’s a sweet and almost lighthearted story. Due in large part to the location. Lincoln City just might be more accepting than Portland, if the number of same-sex couples openly behaving as couples was any indication. I saw so many men with men and women with women in those few days—it made me feel very much at-home, even though it was my first time there.

Since it was my first time, I did a lot of exploring. To the south of the hotel I found a secluded area that looked to be about the size of a suburban cul de sac. One of the homes was for sale and I thought about how cool it would be to write a story with a bunch of guys getting away from the city to live there. Nobody would believe a group of friends buying up all the homes in the neighborhood, though. What would they do for a living? How would they afford those rustic old homes (even if the prices made my m0uth water)? There aren’t a lot of good jobs on the coast so they’d have to bring a means of income with them—and since the largest industry on the Oregon coast is tourism, that question was answered fast!

One object in the book also has its own origin story: the hand carved bench on the front porch. Last year when I celebrated the release of The Nesting Habits of Strange Birds I had a wonderful time with a Goodreads chat. A lot of fun people gave me great ideas for an object to honor Eric’s grandmother. Penumbra suggested a bench, and I love the way it appeared in the story. It’s almost the headstone Eric would’ve chosen for his grandmother if it had been up to him, but a little more fun than that.

Okay, I think I’ve gone on long enough. If you have any questions you’d like to ask, about the book or me or what I’m working on now, please don’t be shy! I might be slow, but I’ll be happy to answer.

 

As for my question, I’d love to hear an origin story of yours! Do you have an object or a superpower with a story? If not, make one up! The more outlandish the better!

On Saturday the 22nd I’ll choose the winners by random number generator so don’t forget to include your Dreamspinner Store account email address with your stories! Each winner will get an ebook from my backlist (every book except Buchanan House, in order of release)!

 

BuchananHouseFS

Here’s a little about Buchanan House—the blurb and an exclusive excerpt!

 

Blurb:

Eric Allen, thirty-three-year-old line cook, moved in with his grandmother, Jewell, after a disastrous coming-out when he was in middle school. She raised him, and he cared for her when she fell ill. When Jewell died she left everything to Eric—angering his parents and older brother. The inheritance isn’t much, but Eric and his bestie Nathan pool their money and buy an abandoned hotel on an isolated stretch of the Central Oregon Coast. The hotel isn’t far from Lincoln City—a town with its own Pride Festival and named for a president—so they christen it Buchanan House after James Buchanan, the “confirmed bachelor” president with the close male friend.

Eric and Nathan need a handyman to help them turn Buchanan House into the gay resort of their dreams. Eric finds Tim Tate in the local listings and over the months leading to opening weekend Tim reveals himself as a skilled carpenter with many hidden talents. Eric falls hard for Tim, but before he can see a future with the gorgeous handyman he has to get over twenty years of being bullied and shamed by his birth family. It would be much easier if Eric’s brother Zach weren’t trying to grab part of the inheritance or ruin opening weekend.

 

This excerpt is from one of Eric and Nathan’s days off—they’re in the backyard of Buchanan House, watching a lone surfer.

 

Nathan rested the cookie plate on top of his mug and brought his own binoculars to his eyes. “Wow. Is that…. Yes, I do believe that is Tim Tate, superhero, handyman, and also, apparently, surfer dude!”

Nathan sounded inordinately pleased to announce what Eric had seen for himself. Which probably meant he’d already known it was Tim. Somehow. Eric pointedly ignored his tone, but kept watching Tim walk toward the rocks south of Buchanan House.

Tim didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He stopped a few times to look at things the tide had washed in, poking the sand with his foot and once bending at the waist for a closer look. Eric wondered if he’d found any tsunami debris. Signs were posted anywhere tourists were likely to pull off the Coast Highway, along with Tsunami Debris Watch depositories. Eric wanted to find something with Japanese writing on it, an object that had traveled all the way across the Pacific to reach him, but had yet to see anything even close. Not that he’d had a ton of time to walk the beach or participate in Lincoln City’s nightlife, but he hadn’t exactly been a hermit either.

Eric thought he should stop spying on Tim but couldn’t bring himself to lower the binoculars. Tim seemed more relaxed than he was at Buchanan House, his walk more athletic, graceful. On workdays, Tim wore comfortable, almost loose jeans, and T-shirts either under a flannel or over a thermal. He almost looked like a different man. Eric had tried to get a feel for what the body beneath the clothes looked like, without being caught staring, but hadn’t enjoyed the level of success he’d hoped for. After seeing Tim in a wetsuit, Eric knew his fumbling guesses hadn’t even been close. The suit clung to Tim’s broad shoulders and chest, tapering to trim hips, only to bulge again over his defined thigh muscles. He looked like a god.

“Mm-mm-mmm. That is a tasty dish.” Nathan bumped his shoulder into Eric’s.

Before Eric could respond to Nathan’s teasing, Tim unzipped the top of his wetsuit. Eric stood, transfixed, as Tim peeled the top half from his body and let it hang around his waist like the bib on a pair of overalls. It was like watching a live-action ad for Men’s Fitness. Tim’s upper body was sculpted to lean perfection—he looked strong and athletic, but not bulky.

His hair sent drops of water sliding down his chest, and Eric thought about licking the salt water from his warm skin, peeling the rest of the wetsuit away, and—

Nathan’s soft laughter interrupted Eric’s fantasy. He practically pushed the binoculars away from his face. Normally he would’ve had the strap around his neck, but because he hadn’t taken the time, the binoculars fell to the ground, landed on his foot, and flopped into the future garden. Eric kept from shouting curses only with great effort. The last thing he wanted was for Tim to see them standing there, binoculars in hand, ogling him like a couple of perverts.

“Yeah, sweetheart. There’s your dessert right there.”

Eric wasn’t sure if Nathan was ignoring his ridiculous move with the binoculars, or if he hadn’t seen it. The show on the beach was definitely more interesting. “Put down your binoculars. He’ll see.”

“And so what if he does?” Nathan let his binoculars rest against his chest, dangling safely from the strap. And then he waved.

“Nathan,” Eric hissed.

Tim obviously saw him. He stopped walking, frozen in place with his surfboard under his arm, still connected to his ankle with what looked like a chain. Slowly, Tim raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, but who else would it be? Who else would be in Buchanan House’s backyard in his pink robe after noon on a Sunday? When Tim waved back, Eric’s heart sank a little. Of course he was attracted to Nathan. Who wasn’t?

With the notable exception of me, naturally.

Nathan was six one, handsome as a movie star, and never tried to hide he was ripped to boot.

Eric picked up his binoculars and headed back into the kitchen. He limped a little, but not only because his foot hurt. Obviously Little Eric didn’t get the message that this Tim, just like the last one, was nothing more than a fantasy that would end in disappointment, if not outright humiliation.

Thanks for reading!

I hope you’ll share an origin story with me—I love giving books away as much as I love stories.

 

Don’t be shy, either here or on Facebook, Twitter, or Goodreads—I’d love to hear from you!

 

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/charley.descoteaux.3

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/CharleyDescote

Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/aqe7g7r

Blog:  http://cdescoteauxwrites.com/

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For the Love of Flying with EM Lynley

August 17, 2015

For the Love of (1)

I’m EM Lynley and today I’m thrilled to be talking about my brand new release ONE MARINE, HERO.

Thanks so much for stopping by!

This book is one I’m particularly proud of and I hope you’ll find it as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

The spark for this book hit me last fall during San Francisco’s Fleet Week.

If you’ve never been to a Fleet Week, you are missing out! You’ll find a dozen ships, even more aircraft, and tens of thousands of sailors and Marines all converge on the city. And since the end of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, it’s even crazier here in San Francisco.

But most of all, I love visiting the ships during Fleet Week. This year I visited the newly commissioned USS America, an amphibious assault ship. I didn’t know quite what that meant until I arrived. Basically, this ship serves as a support base for Marine units to stage an attack.

After making my way past displays of armored vehicles and light assault vehicles (tanks, to the rest of us), I arrived on the lower deck, where a number of helicopters were displayed. Pilots and members of the air crew answered questions from visitors. I was listening to other people (mostly men) asking questions, when it hit me that helicopters were a hell of a lot more interesting than I’d realized.

clean-and-ready

In fact, a helicopter pilot would make a fantastic main character for a book.

Up on the flight deck, about a dozen smaller helicopters were on display. Now I started taking notes and asking my own questions. To my surprise, the pilots were really thrilled to answer questions, talk about the capabilities of their aircraft, and even let visitors climb inside a few different ones. I happily spent about three hours moving between Cobras, Hueys, Super Stallions, and more. I took a lot of photos and, of course, asked how I could get to fly on a Marine helo. (The answer is, you can’t. Even the pilots’ own families can’t get on board, partly for security reasons and partly because the demand would be incredible.)

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By the time I got home, I was dying to include a Marine pilot in a story.

And that’s when I got the idea of writing about a former combat pilot who comes home to fly Marine One, ferrying US government officials around and dealing with the drastic transition between those two jobs.

If you’ve read one of my books before, you know I love to do research. Not much can beat spending several hours talking with Marine pilots, but I can tell you that flying a helicopter definitely does. I took a couple of helicopter flying lessons while working on this book, and it has been one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done in my life!

EM Lynley_Helicopter lesson

 

Why Marine One?

That answer takes us a bit farther back than last fall.

I’ve never followed politics much, but like nearly everyone around the world who watches international news, I had a strong image of the President of the United States getting into a green-and-white helicopter on the South Lawn of the White House and being whisked away to attend to some vital presidential business. I had a vague notion of the helicopter being called Marine One, but beyond that, I never thought much about it.

That changed when I was lucky enough to get a job at the White House Council of Economic Advisers. Though the offices are located in the Old Executive Office next to the White House, we were part of the White House complex. It was a thrill to be so close to the inner workings of Washington.

Even more exciting were the perks that came with the job, including attending any ceremony on the White House lawn, including welcoming receptions for visiting heads of state where the president and the foreign leader would inspect US troops and color guards and military bands.

And maybe one of the coolest is getting to stand on the South Lawn when the helicopter lands

One of my favorite Marine One touchdowns was when my mother came for a visit. I knew that Marine One was due to land shortly after her arrival, so I whisked her from the airport and to the White House. She was surprised (and impressed) that after being in DC for an hour she was already seeing the president live at the White House.

I was just as thrilled at being able to include her in such a special opportunity. I think at some level she doubted I could get her into the West Wing and then to the South Lawn. She was really proud of me that day too.

I hope that you’ll feel some of the excitement of both the helicopters and White House events when you read One Marine, Hero.

***

And you knew there was going to be a contest, right?

Are you a fan of military men? Tell me why and which branch of military you like best for a chance to win one of my backlist titles.

Thanks for stopping by today!

I love getting e-mails from readers, so don’t be shy.

You can also visit me online

E-mail: emlynley@gmail.com

Website: http://www.emlynley.com

Blog: http://emlynley.livejournal.com

Twitter: @emlynley

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

Character Interview Cyrus Abrams with Remmy Duchene & BLMorticia

July 17, 2015

WoundedHearts

 

 

 

Character Interview with Cyrus Abrams

 

*audience applause*

 

Michael Mandrake: Hello, good people. Welcome to sitting down with the muses, hosted by Michael Mandrake. I haven’t done a character interview in quite a while and instead of interviewing one of my own, I’m talking with one of my sister, BLMorticia’s saucy characters, the very interesting and blunt, Cyrus Abrams from Wounded Hearts.

 

*audience applause*

 

Cyrus Abrams: *strokes beard, waves to the crowd, and removes Stetson*  Thank ya’ll. Man, that was quite an ovation. I feel like a rock star. Hiya there, Michael.

 

Michael Mandrake: Hello again, Cyrus. So, tell us more about the book you star in.

 

Cyrus Abrams: Well, it’s called Wounded Hearts. It’s starring me and a hot New York Policeman named Zane Ashford. You could say it’s a romance with some angst, and we butt heads a couple of times, okay well, *laughs* more than a couple, but in the end. I get the best of that fine ass cop. *nods overconfidently and tugs on crotch*

 

*crowd whistles*

 

Michael Mandrake: Wow, well, don’t tell us the whole story, Cyrus. We do want to pick up the book. Let’s move on. Tell us more about Cyrus Abrams.

 

Cyrus Abrams: Well, what can I say, Michael, I’m an old bastard who didn’t want anything to do with relationships. I lost the love of my life years ago and I spent a few years in the slammer. I love country music, especially Conway Twitty and Kenny Rogers, my dog, Woofer, and my horse, Minnie. I run a ranch/farm in Great Falls Montana, graining cereal and selling my best cows and hogs to local butchers. I run an honest business … well, now anyway.

 

*crowd oohs*

 

Cyrus Abrams: Like I said, I was all about the five finger shuffle with a side of porn. Then, the city slicker heads my way and things changed. I was only looking to tap that gorgeous ass, and instead, I got a lot more.

 

*crowd whistles and claps*

 

Michael Mandrake: *Michael blushes* Well, we can’t wait to see how that turns out. One last question before we do a speed round. If there is any lesson we could learn from this book, what would it be?

 

Cyrus Abrams: Mike, I’d say to give love a chance ‘cause you never know what joy it’ll bring ya. Hell, who knows if it’ll pass or fail, but dammit, don’t let it pass you by, regardless of how much of an old geezer you are.

 

*crowd whistles and claps*

 

Michael Mandrake: That’s a great lesson to learn. Now, how about a short speed round for fun? I’m sorry, your author put me up to this.

 

Cyrus Abrams: *laughs* Go on ahead. I’m on top of the world right now. *turns to the left and winks*

 

Michael Mandrake: Ah, the other star is here right now. Zane, don’t be shy, please come out and sit with him. Don’t be shy.

 

*Zane comes out and waves at the crowd, take the seat right next to Cyrus*

 

Zane Ashford: Hello there, Michael. *plants kiss on Cyrus’s cheek* I can answer too for fun.

 

Michael Mandrake: Wonderful. Alright, let’s start. Chocolate or Vanilla.

 

Cyrus Abrams: Well, hell, chocolate is always the best. *waggles eyebrows*

 

Zane Ashford:  Good answer….

 

 

 

Michael Mandrake: Why am I not surprised you answered that?

 

*Cyrus shrugs*

 

Michael Mandrake: Lights on or off?

 

Cyrus Abrams: On. I wanna see everything!

 

*crowd laughs*

 

Zane Ashford:  *palms forehead* Oi.

 

Michael Mandrake: Of course you do, Cyrus. Next, glass half empty or half full?

 

Cyrus Abrams: Well, it’s full now. *Cyrus grins*

 

Michael Mandrake: *shakes head* Cyrus, that wasn’t the question. How about, generally?

 

Cyrus Abrams: Alright, Mr. Stuffy. I’ll say half full.

 

Zane Ashford: *laughs and covers his eyes*

 

Michael Mandrake: Last two. Leather or lace?

 

Cyrus Abrams: Who the hell came up with these? I’d say neither ‘cause I may be gay, but I ain’t no fruit cake.

 

Michael Mandrake: *laughs* No, you aren’t, just answer for the audience.

 

Cyrus Abrams: I’ll go for leather then, especially if they’re the assless chaps I gave Ash for his birthday.

 

*crowd laughs*

 

Zane Ashford:  *puts finger to lips*

 

Michael Mandrake: Last one, favorite color?

 

Cyrus Abrams: Anything black, especially for a Stetson. *places it on his head*

 

Zane Ashford:  One of these days I’m going to get him to wear pink…

 

Michael Mandrake: Well, this has been very enjoyable. Cyrus, Zane, thanks so much for stopping by my show today. Good luck to the both of you.

 

Zane Ashford: Thanks, Michael.

 

Cyrus Abrams; Yes, thanks Mike. And all ya’ll rush out and get Wounded Hearts. It’s hot, angsty, and dammit, it’s fun too. Enjoy!

 

*crowd applauds*

 

Excerpt Two – Wounded Hearts with Remmy Duchene & BLMorticia

July 17, 2015

WoundedHearts Chapter Two

“Dangit!” Cyrus winced in pain when a splinter broke the skin on his index finger. Man, don’t be a pussy. It’s just a little—fuck! Knew I should’ve worn gloves! You just gotta be the tough guy, Cy. Cyrus shook his hand and hopped around like his pants were on fire. He only wanted to get the cattle through the gate and onto the fields to begin his chores for the day, and he’d be damned if he allowed a tiny piece of wood to stand in the way of him making some money. After all, this was his only means of paying the bills and keeping food on the table. Cereal graining was honest work even for a not-so-honest bastard like Cyrus Abrams.

Shit.

Still in pain and grimacing from the discomfort, Cyrus sucked on his finger and continued to work with one hand. He needed to get a move on so he’d be able to have everything ready when the truck arrived to pick up his offerings. If he wasn’t ready, the driver would leave without a second look back. He couldn’t have that happen if he wanted to keep beer in the fridge and the utilities paid for the month.

“Eeeee… eee….” The pigs behind him continued making a fuss to get out of the pen.

“Wait your turn, ya hogs! Those bitches right there are my other prime source of income.” For some ungodly reason, nobody really liked buying pork in Great Falls. Beef, on the other hand, was a huge seller, and Cyrus was more than happy to contribute to the market. Money from cereal grain farming could only go so far. He needed cash for spankovision and the whiskey he liked to drink, as well as wages for his assistant.

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed when he glanced at his watch, knowing young Brian Daystar was late… again.

Where is that sonofabitch, anyway?

If only the kid could be as serious about work instead of bedding everybody, Cyrus knew he’d have a model employee. Once Brian got to work, he was a big help, so instead of complaining, Cyrus cut Brian some slack.

If only he were a little older?

Just thinking about the hot Native American babe with long brown hair and beautiful eyes made him hard as nails. He smirked and gave himself a little tug. Whacking off in his dreams of Brian was as far as things would go for Cyrus. He wasn’t interested in long-term relationships with anyone after losing Danny to a gunshot wound to the head.

Instantly, Cyrus’s thoughts of arousal changed to grief. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes a moment, reliving the whole ordeal.

I’ll never love again.

Nope, he didn’t need anyone after seeing such a horrific event unfold in front of his eyes, and then, to make things worse, they charged him with the murder and sent him to jail for five years until someone finally wised up and acquitted him.

“Falling in love means hurting, and I’m too old to hurt!” Cyrus slammed the gate closed and stalked to the pen where the pigs were bunching up in front, ready to get out. He slipped on his gloves to protect the nick on his finger and shoved the door wide, allowing them to roam free in their part of the yard.

Watching the hogs, he leaned back against the fence and flicked the tip of his Stetson from over his eyes. Looking up into the skies, he squinted from hot sun bearing down on him. Drops of sweat formed on his brow, but he didn’t bother to wipe any of it off.

A little perspiration never hurt nobody.

Cyrus wrinkled his nose and turned his attention to the mud under his feet. He still couldn’t believe how many years had passed since his lover had been mercilessly taken away from him. Attempting to keep from crying, he sniffed and choked back tears. “Danny, sometimes I get lonely, but I know no one will be able to take your place.” Cyrus plucked a toothpick from his shirt pocket and jammed it between his lips. “No one wants me, anyway. I’m too set in my ways and I need my space. I’m better off alone, taking care of the cows and graining cereal, my man. Besides, nothing’s gonna come close to what I had with you.” And they wouldn’t, knowing how picky he was about the men he wanted to bring home with him. Cyrus knew he held them up to a standard that most likely couldn’t be reached.

Although Cyrus knew this to be a fact, he never stopped any man from keeping him company temporarily, but once he got his fill, Cyrus kicked them out without so much as batting an eyelash. He knew it was wrong as hell to force people out of his life, but again, it was for the best.

Cyrus tossed the toothpick away and headed for the barn. With the pigs playing in the mud and the morning chores started, he’d check on the horses. And since he couldn’t find Brian,  he’d even collect eggs, things Brian should’ve been doing for his first duty at eight-thirty.

Cyrus stomped through the mire in the other direction. Just as he began walking, Brian rushed from his car, slamming the door behind him. “Cyrus, shit man, sorry I’m late. Just came from… ah… never mind. I’ll get to work!” Brian stumbled to keep from slipping in the muck. He inhaled deeply, pulled his ponytail from out of his jacket, and slapped the white cowboy hat atop his head. “No need to do anything irrational, Cy. I’ll even stay a little later without pay if you like.”

Cyrus shook his head and smirked. “Naw, man, it’s all right. I know you got a life outside this ranch. Just ’cause I’m miserable don’t mean you have to be.” Cyrus handed him the basket.

Excerpt One Wounded Hearts with Remmy Duchene & BLMorticia

July 17, 2015

 

WoundedHearts Chapter One

A strange beeping echoed around Zane Ashford in that moment between complete, dreamless sleep and being painfully awake. Then his body awakened and he felt his left eye hurting. Not the kind of pain from sitting at a computer too long, or even the sting from accidentally dripping shampoo in the eyes.

Panic set in. His body went rigid and the beeping around him went haywire. Hands held him against the bed, and Zane struggled to get away, to get free. Why wouldn’t they let him go, and why couldn’t he see through his left eye?

Zane surged upward, shouting for help. His mind was screaming I can’t see, but for some reason, something blocked the words from escaping.

His chest heaved, his heart slamming, as someone screamed at him to stop freaking out. But he couldn’t see. One eye was completely covered and each time he opened the other everything was just a blurry mess and that sound was starting to give him a migraine. Two hands clutched at his shoulders, pushing him backward, but he didn’t want to go back.

Please! I just want to see!

“Come on, Big Daddy. Snap out of it. If you don’t stop struggling, they’re going to sedate you!” The hands shoved hard against Zane’s shoulders. “Is that what you want?”

Zane gasped and opened the one good eye he could see through. Everything was a little blurry. Slowly, he came around from his daze and instantly felt like crying. There was no mistaking the tube down his throat. His brain kept telling him to swallow, but he couldn’t and he only panicked more. He snapped a hand from the person holding him and reached for it.

“Zane Alexander Ashford! I swear to God, I will knock you out myself if you touch that tube!”

Still, he reached for it, but the moment he began tugging, there was a nick at his arm. At first surprise stopped him from taking the tube out, then the world crashed in on him, spun, and went dark.

There was no telling how long he was out, but the world swam in on him like a bad movie, shaking horribly into focus. The pain was there again, but this time he remembered what had happened. He could hear the doctor speaking over him as though he wasn’t even there.

“…80 percent vision loss….”

Once again Zane drifted into a quick sleep, but the beep woke him.

“…I don’t know if he’ll ever carry a badge again physical….”

The memory of the heated char of a bullet from a perpetrator’s weapon burned in his mind, the pain unlike any other.

He’d gotten his man at a terrible cost.

“Ash?” a familiar voice called. “Come on, Big Daddy, open your eyes.”

“What for?” Zane’s throat felt rough and he coughed. He wasn’t sure which he preferred yet, the tube in or out. Either way his throat still felt as if he’d swallowed sand.

“So you can see my beautiful face.”

Zane tried to harrumph but failed.

“Because there is a whole world out here!”

Zane wanted to tell Renford to kiss the blackest part of his ass, but he was concentrating on the dryness in his throat. He cleared his throat, trying to be less of a burden than he knew he already was and not ask for something to drink. “How long have I been under?”

“Three days,” Renford replied. “You were in a coma because there was some swelling. They were worried you might have had some damage, but it seems your brain is working just fine.”

“Water.”

Renford reached for a cup on a nearby desk. Zane wanted to take it and drink on his own but he could barely sit up. Renford must have noticed and helped Zane ease forward so he could drink from the straw. He pulled greedily from it.

“Hey, slow down there.”

Zane ignored the warning and sucked until he could barely breathe before releasing the straw. He eased away from Renford and flopped back to the pillow. The hospital smell made him nauseous, and every sound was reason enough for him to worry. Detective Zane Ashford had been in too many hospitals when a perp or a victim was dying. He knew the sounds.

Someone crashed, and a loud alarm with an animated voice screamed code blue! Hurried voices and footsteps charged down the corridors. Someone was hollering for a cart as a voice boomed over the intercom.

The noise was almost too much to bear, but the darkness inside his own head was worse.

“… it really isn’t as bad as it could be,” Renford was saying.

“What?” Zane shook his head to clear it. “Sorry—all the chaos outside kind of distracted me.”

“I know this may be boring, but pay attention! The doctors say you will have to wear that thing for about six months.”

Zane lifted a hand to touch the patch and couldn’t help feeling like a pirate—a horrible one who should no longer be a pirate but cannot give up the life. “Well, shit.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this.” Renford’s voice was raspy, like he hadn’t used it in a very long time. “But it could have been worse.”

“And how could this possibly have been worse?”

“You could be dead.”

Writing Interracial Romance – Roundtable Remmy Duchene and Sharita Lira

July 17, 2015

WoundedHearts

Sharita: Hello there. I’m Sharita Lira. I’m very excited to be part of the Dreamspinner romance team, and with me today is one of my favorite people and authors, Remmy Duchene. In this blog, we’re discussing interracial m/m  or gay romances. We hope to pinpoint some of the issues, misconceptions, and solutions to making more diverse gay romance novels a reality.

Okay, let’s start with the why. Why are we doing this blog? As you know, Remmy and I have a new release, Wounded Hearts, which is part of the Wounded Series from Dreamspinner Press. Being in the genre as long as we have, we’re well aware of the issues that might arise. Let’s bring Remmy in to discuss our first issue.

Remmy:  *waves* Hi everyone. Sharita decided to take me away from my chocolate ice-cream, but we won’t tell her we bite…oh right, issues within the Interracial world. Thinking about it makes my brain hurt, but I guess we have to say something about it right? Well,  first, there isn’t nearly enough interracial, MM couples on these stock photo sites. Have you noticed that Sharita? I mean, sometimes I sit down for hours, pouring through stock photo sites with my cover artist until I get mad enough to want to punch something.

Sharita: I have indeed noticed that, Remmy. With just about every IR m/m book I’ve done, there’s been very little to represent our characters. Not just African American, but Asian, Hispanic, and older men. Thinking about Wounded Hearts, we couldn’t find the right men for Cyrus or Ash, but our brilliant cover artist was able to come up with a kick ass cover, despite the lack of variety. Remmy, what do you think is the solution?

Remmy: I have no idea, man. I mean – I see all these non-interracial covers and these men are holding each other and looking romantic and beautiful, then I look at my covers and the men seem to be on different planets *sigh* I don’t know. If I could, I’d start my own photography studio and take the pictures for IR covers that would look just as beautiful. But short of doing that, there isn’t really a solution.  There is one photographer who took some pictures of African American males, but as you know, my men are not skinny little things–I couldn’t use any of this photographer’s pictures.

Sharita: *sighs* We can’t force more photographers to fit our needs, but we can make them aware with a blogpost like this one. Making diverse books is not just about race, it’s about age, gender, and so on. What about more pictures of beautiful transsexuals? Older men? Women who aren’t just blond with blue eyes. The world is a melting pot and I wish more photographers would offer variety to royalty free sites. So, if you’re a photographer, listen up. Give us more of everything, a wider selection. That’s all. Let’s move on to the next thing. Interracial m/m means leaving most of the stereotypes at home. What do you think, Remmy?

Remmy: Dude, listen, I’ve been telling people that for years. I specifically write Interracial romance/erotica because I don’t think love is one way, or people are one way.  I try to mix them all. People who stereotype drive me crazy. I think I told you about the publisher who told me one day that I should turn my Japanese guy into a Native American guy because Japanese people think black people are dirty and that their relationship would never work? I was righteously P.O’ed. I wanted to tell her that Japanese people LOVE Jamaicans, so much so that they sample our music, a Japanese girl was the Jamaican Dancehall Queen and they adore asking us questions and learning how to cook from us. Right before telling her to…well…you can guess. I had to be classy about it.

Sharita: *blinks* Of course you did. When writing interracial or just fiction, people have ideas for things they think is reality. What happened to love is love no matter what? lol Going back to the issue with stereotypes, I also recall someone telling you to make your black men more “urban.” Umm… I believe we both write all of our men as people, first. Instead of making them poor, why can’t they be rich and gainfully employed? Ash inherited millions and he’s still a cop. Bottom line, people are people and just because some people fit some stereotypes, it doesn’t have to follow those in our books. Now, here I come with a wrench into this argument. I’ve always said, unless that stereotype is essential to the plot, you shouldn’t draw on those when you write. What do you think about that, Remmy?

Remmy: I try to stay away from stereotypes period. I mean, don’t get me wrong, sometimes you need to toss a little bit in there. But stereotyping is boring. I had a reader say to me that writing my Japanese guy with a big…um…*blush and whispers* willie isn’t real because Asian men are small. I blinked and then laughed so hard I almost peed myself. Why? I’ve dated two Asian guys and they were not small. So, yeah, stereotyping just makes people look dumb.  And yes, I said willie *jumps on bed singing, My Bologna has a first name….*

Sharita: *laughs like a hyena* Okay, I’m in agreement on that, however, I can think of one instance in a future story of mine where the Asian character automatically suspects a black man of being a thief. That is what will get the two men together, so yeah I’m using that as the point of conflict, but in general, yes, lets leave them out of fiction. Now, let’s move on. Something that kind of fits the so called stereotype is speech. In Wounded, we have two very different men. Ash, a black cop from New York, and Cyrus an older cowboy from Montana. In that book, we went back and forth with our lovely editors and betas on how they spoke. Not heavy slang, but some phrases, they didn’t understand. Remmy, tell us what happened?

Remmy: Lovely….suuuuure. *cough* *cough* But seriously, yeah. It always drives me a little insane when my editor messages me and go “um…what does “aight” mean. Then we have to go back and forth trying to figure out if it was real or not. It’s hard to write other cultures sometimes. Because where you would like to use certain languages, you just know the headache that will come when the Beta’s and editors who never had a chance to really study these cultures get their hands on the story. You know me, I love using foreign languages so I think that must drive them crazy too lol

Sharita: *laughs* Oh yeah. You throw me off with the French in this latest book we’re doing. lol So the solution? I suppose it’s just betas and editors getting up to speed. The speech gives books a “flavor” if you will. Neither I nor Remmy have characters that talk heavy slang. Only my “Frankie” character in I Like Em Pretty comes to mind because he was from New Orleans, but other than that, it’s not necessary to write a good interracial romance book. Sprinkle a little of the language, don’t draw on stereotypes unless it’s central to the conflict and/or plot, and please, somebody please give us some more diversity in stock photos. Us interracial gay romance authors will love ya forevah! *smooch* Remmy, I think we covered the biggest ones right?

Remmy: *looks up from frowning at my gum that was supposed to be Starbust candy* *Sigh* yup – We could dig into Historicals for Interracial characters but that’s a whole other can of drama we could go on for years about. So yeah, Wounded Hearts is book one in a series that we had fun writing – and will be in your hot little hands soon. For my readers they’re going to be a lil surprised but its a good surprise – trust me *giggles* You won’t be disappointed because this book has all the same Remmy flavour with a whole lotta Sharita shaken, not stirred.

Sharita: Actually, its my wicked gal, BLMorticia and yes, she enjoyed … or sorry, Cyrus loved making Ash mad. These two men were at odds from the moment they got together, but hey, what’s a good romance with the conflict right? Thanks for listening to us rant today. Look for Wounded Hearts to be released, oh shit, today! Haha! Enjoy!

Release Day for Wounded Hearts with Remmy Duchene & BLMorticia

July 17, 2015

WoundedHearts

Blurb: Zane Ashford’s stint in the NYPD comes to an abrupt halt when he is injured in the line of duty. After waking up partially blind in one eye, all he wants to do is crawl into a hole, but his friends and family won’t leave him alone. Reluctantly, he lets his best friend talk him into time away on a ranch in Montana. But the moment he gets there and meets Cyrus Abrams, Zane begins to contemplate murder.

Cyrus Abrams is vulgar, ornery, stuck in his ways, and not about to change for anyone, no matter how good Zane Ashford looks in those jeans. The more they lock horns, the more Cyrus begins to see Zane in a whole new light.  But Cyrus has a past, one that left him in big trouble and more broken than he cares to admit—a past no one told Zane about. Cyrus fears that when Zane finds out, everything will come to a screeching halt.

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A Good Sicilian Boy’s First Love #dreamer

June 12, 2015

Dinner at Fiorello's400x600

You probably can’t tell it from my name, but I’m half Sicilian, on my mother’s side. She was a Comparetto. And she was, as is the case with all good Sicilian boys, my first love (and my forever love—she was taken from me by cancer in 2007).

 The excerpt below (and the character of Vito’s mom) was inspired by my own mother and the conversations we would have on the phone.

 Sicilian mothers want two things for their boys—first and foremost, that they eat and second, that they find love….

An Exclusive Excerpt from Dinner at Fiorello’s by Rick R. Reed

Vito went into the living room, where he’d tossed his phone when he came home from his shift. He picked it up and pressed the Home button to bring it to life. He scrolled through his contacts and found the one labeled simply Mother. He tapped the word, and it brought up her picture.

She had once been a beautiful woman, and still was in many ways, defined and elevated by her Sicilian heritage. Her hair, once glossy and black, was now cut short, and it looked dryer. She kept the gray away by having it colored a deep shade of red. But you could still see the girl in her green eyes, still see the strength in her strong chin and broad Italian nose and full lips. He recalled when he had taken the picture, a few years ago, when he had begun work at Fiorello’s and she had come as his guest to dinner. She had been so proud! She had cried when he placed the lasagna with béchamel he made in front of her, not because it was sublime—it was—but because her husband, Johnny, wasn’t there to share it with her. This was a few years ago, and she had just lost him to a heart attack.

Vito shook his head and decided much more thinking like this would defeat the purpose of calling his mom, so he pressed the button that would connect him.

She answered, as she almost always did, on the first ring. And as soon as their hellos were out of the way, she said the same thing she always did. “I was just gonna call you.”

“Isn’t it funny how that works, Mom? Every time I call, you were just gonna call me. Yet my phone never rings.” He laughed to show he was teasing.

“Did you just call to give me a hard time? I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

“Well, you have to admit, it’s usually the other way around. Isn’t it the parent who’s supposed to bug the kid about keeping in touch?”

“Oh, Vito, is my boy feeling lonely? What made you wanna call me up at the crack of dawn? I could have been sleeping.”

“Oh, come on, we both know Brenda gets you up at four every morning for her breakfast and a tinkle.” Why his mother had named her dog Brenda was a mystery Vito had never been able to unravel.

“She’s a good girl.”

Vito could imagine, and knew he was right, that his mother had the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear and was bending over in her kitchen chair to sweep the little dog up off the linoleum to cuddle her.

“Yes, she’s my baby,” she cooed, confirming what Vito was imagining. He smiled.

“So what’s up? You wanna come down for breakfast? I’ll make you bird’s nests. I baked bread yesterday, and I got some nice roasted peppers to put on top.”

Vito grinned at the mention of the egg dish, thick-sliced bread with a hole hollowed out in the middle for an egg, fried in a cast iron skillet in lots of butter or bacon grease. Not all that healthy, but God, was it comforting. Vito was tempted to throw on some clothes and head out to the western suburb of Cicero, where he had grown up and his mother still lived, just to sit in her kitchen and have her make that for him.

He could practically smell the toasted bread and hear the sizzle of the butter.

“That’s tempting, Ma. But I have to go to work today.”

“So what? You don’t go in until the afternoon, right? They hired that new cook, Elizabeth, right? To take lunches?”

Vito nodded, and when he realized his mother couldn’t see him, said, “Yeah, but I didn’t sleep too good last night, and I probably should take another run at it.”

Cora was quiet for a moment. “You thinking about them again?”

“Ma, I’m always thinking about them.”

“And you always will, son. Just like I always think about my Johnny, your dad. The world got a little darker without him in it. But you know what?”

“What?” Vito asked, even though he knew what his mother was going to say. Despite the fact he had heard this same speech over and over again, he let her say it. It showed she cared, and next to a hug, words like these made Vito feel loved.

“Everybody says it, but it’s true. Life is for the living. You gotta move on, boy. It’s been over a year now, hasn’t it?”

Vito said quietly, “One year, three months, and six days.”

“You have to think about not just the joy they brought into your life, but the joy you brought into theirs. You made them happy. You drove them crazy sometimes! But I know they always felt loved. That counts.”

“I know, I know, Ma.”

“If you need to, you go to church and light a candle for them. You think of them up in heaven, waiting for you. They’re okay. They wouldn’t want you moping around.”

She paused, and Vito could imagine the wheels turning in her head.

“I wanted to do the same thing when your father passed, just shut myself up in the house, crawl under a blanket. For good. But the girls, your aunts, wouldn’t leave me be. They made me come out to bingo on Sundays at the Sons of Italy. They made me go shopping at North Riverside. They even got me to get on a plane to Vegas! Ha! Remember that?” She didn’t wait for her son to answer. “They made me live. You gotta do the same. It’s time.”

At her words, a sudden, unbidden image popped into Vito’s head: Henry, piling dishes up to load into the dishwasher. Strands of his blond hair were glued to his ruddy forehead with sweat. He had stripped off the short-sleeve shirt he had worn in and had on only a ribbed tank that clung to him. He had caught Vito looking and given him a smile. It was a simple moment, but that connection stayed with Vito. It touched his heart. The moment was frozen because it was like they were the only two people in the busy kitchen, for just that fraction of a second.

“You’re right, Ma. You’re always right.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, that’s me. So, speaking of which, you’re off on Sunday. I’m making sewer pipes, sausage, and gravy, and you’re coming over. You can bring somebody.”

“Like Connie and Gabby?” Vito asked, referring to his big dogs.

“Well, I was thinking maybe a nice boy. That would make me really happy.” She was quiet for a moment. “Besides, those two monsters are gonna eat my Brenda for a snack one of these days, I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts.”

“Ma, they’re afraid of Brenda.”

They both laughed. Somehow the little five-pound dog always managed to ride herd on her much bigger “cousins.”

“But I’m serious, Vito. You got anyone you can bring? Seeing anybody? A handsome man like you shouldn’t be by himself.”

And again, Vito thought of Henry. Oh, he’d been “seeing” him, all right. Almost every night for the past two weeks. And then again, in his dreams sometimes. Once he even woke from one of those dreams with come in his shorts, an experience he hadn’t had since he was a boy. He had a feeling he dreamed of Henry because he pushed him away so consciously at the restaurant and even out of his waking thoughts. But his mind refused to let him go.

“No, Ma. I’m not ready to date anyone again.”

“I didn’t even necessarily mean date. But you got friends, don’t you?”

Vito thought sadly, or maybe gratefully, that the answer was no, beyond friends of the four-legged variety. The friends he used to have, in that other life that now seemed to belong to someone else, had all turned away. Not because they hated him or didn’t want to be around him, he knew that much for sure, but because they didn’t want to face his pain, didn’t know what to do with the longing and loss in his eyes, the hurt he wore like an apron. What could they do? What would they say? His life only brought theirs down. So one by one, they stopped seeing him.

He didn’t blame them.

“It’ll just be me and the girls. Is that enough?”

“Oh, let’s not have a pity party here. Remember when you told me you were a fanook?”

“Ma, we don’t use that word. We say gay.”

“Whatever. The point is, do you remember?”

“Yeah. I was twenty. I wrote you a letter.”

“And I cried. And I went to church and lit a candle for you, praying that this gay thing would be ripped out of you.”

“Nice.”

“You know it took some adjusting. You weren’t who I thought you were. But so much happened over the next few years. There was—”

And Cora went quiet, her voice stilled for several moments, and Vito knew she was trying to catch her breath, to hold back tears. He knew because his own were springing to the corners of his eyes and running down his face.

In a choked voice, she went on, “I learned that I was wrong. That if Jesus granted my wish and did rip this thing out of you, you wouldn’t be you anymore. And I wouldn’t have had—well, you know.”

“I know. I know.” Vito held a hand to his eyes to stem the flow. “I’ll be there on Sunday, and I’ll bring a nice antipasti. I got some of that good sharp provolone like you like.”

“Okay, son. I gotta go. Brenda’s tap dancing at the back door.”

“Bye.”

“And Vito?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Vito’s heart gave a little leap. He never, ever doubted his mother loved him, but she seldom said so. It wasn’t her way. She showed it more through hugs and pinches, sometimes too hard, on the cheek, but most of all through her food. Before he had a chance to return the sentiment, though, she had hung up.

BLURB

Henry Appleby has an appetite for life. As a recent high school graduate and the son of a wealthy family in one of Chicago’s affluent North Shore suburbs, his life is laid out for him. Unfortunately, though, he’s being forced to follow in the footsteps of his successful attorney father instead of living his dream of being a chef. When an opportunity comes his way to work in a real kitchen the summer after graduation, at a little Italian joint called Fiorello’s, Henry jumps at the chance, putting his future in jeopardy.

Years ago, life was a plentiful buffet for Vito Carelli. But a tragic turn of events now keeps the young chef at Fiorello’s quiet and secretive, preferring to let his amazing Italian peasant cuisine do his talking. When the two cooks meet over an open flame, sparks fly. Both need a taste of something more—something real, something true—to separate the good from the bad and find the love—and the hope—that just might be their salvation.

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WRECKED Blog Party – Part 2 – Sexy Excerpt

May 16, 2015

Wrecked

Thank you for joining me, Deanna Wadsworth, for my blog party to celebrate the release of my historical romance WRECKED. Earlier I was talking about inspiration and where I got the idea for WRECKED.

Now I have a question for you….

What is your favorite era in American history to read about?

The Wild West? Revolutionary War? Civil War?

I’m a huge American history fan, so I like all the eras because it feels like my history. J

If you don’t know the setting for WRECKED, here is a quick peek at the blurb:

Blurb from WRECKED:

Off the Key West coast, Rief Lawson works as a wrecker, salvaging ships and their cargo. Exiled to the outskirts of society because of his mysterious gift of sight, Rief’s only respite from his loneliness is painting an unknown blond man. When a merchant ship wrecks during a violent storm, Rief rescues a drowning victim and comes face-to-face with his destiny.

It is the man from his art!

Heir to an English barony, Mathew Weston entered the merchant trade with his greedy father and soon-to-be father-in-law. Dominated by his father and smothered by the people around him—including his sweet but tiresome fianceé—Mathew is terrified to follow his true desires. Marriage and obedience seem safer than a life of secrecy and possible prison.

After the daring rescue, a fire ignites between the two men. Powerless to resist his desire, Mathew learns what it means to be a man in Rief’s arms. With this newfound confidence, Mathew teaches Rief through gentle touch that he deserves the affection he’s long been denied. Yet their affair is doomed from the start. Two desperate men, wrecked in heart and mind, must find a way to salvage the chance at love fate has given them.

 

Now would you like a quick, naughty excerpt? Please leave a comment about what era in American history is your favorite for a romance novel and then check out the naughty excerpt from WRECKED! I mean, if any of you read EASY RYDER or A CUPID’S WAGER, you know that I like to write some steamy stuff!! And don’t forget to enter to win your own copy WRECKED!

~D

 

Enter to win WRECKED here:a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

EXCERPT for WRECKED:

With a soft moan, Rief clung to him for a moment. Then he rolled over. “Take me again before you go.”

Mathew groaned when that ass brushed against his cock. Already pretty stiff from being so close, his groin throbbed at the sight of such submissive posturing.

Sideling up to him, he brushed Rief’s mussed hair off his face before cupping it possessively and kissing him. An intensity of emotions roared inside him knowing Rief trusted him enough to share his secrets. It made Mathew want to protect Rief’s heart while bringing every pleasure to his body he had ever been denied. He would give anything to this man, anything to make him heal and to prove, more than any drawing, Mathew would give Rief peace. Their time together would surpass any joy Rief experienced while painting him.

He would be immortalized, not on a canvas, but upon Rief’s very soul.

Drawing back, he asked in a pant, “Where is the oil?”

Rief found it and poured some in his hand, passing it to Mathew to coat his cock. He stared, enthralled at the indecent pleasure on Rief’s face as he plunged his own fingers into his ass with expert precision.

“Please,” Rief begged, lying on his side and raising one leg.

Never before had Mathew heard a more rousing word, nor seen such an erotic sight. He’d first believed buggering was something done to a woman or someone less than a man. Perhaps doled out as a punishment.

How foolish he had been!

This morning, he saw everything so differently.

To all outward appearance, Rief was the heartier of the two. Big and masculine. Yet pleading for a cock inside him did not make him less of a man, nor did it render him weak or feminine. His need to release all control, to be vulnerable before Mathew, made him incredibly enticing. Mathew had been living in fear most of his life, but when they were in this bed, he was empowered. Bold and courageous, just as Rief painted him.

There was no greater or lesser between them. Being connected this way made them both whole.

Enter to win WRECKED here:a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

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