Best Man by Will Okati (Excerpt & Giveaway)

 

Title:  Best Man

Author: Will Okati

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: December  6, 2024

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 50 pages

Genre: Romance, Romantic Comedy, Christmas, Gay

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Synopsis

Taking chances is what Alexander lives for – especially when it comes to love.

Alexander’s a man of uncommonly happy disposition. His luck always holds true, and he takes chances with cheerful abandon. When he sees a Christmas Eve wedding running amok and a hot best man in need of help before Bridezilla goes boom, it’s second nature for him to step in and lend a hand — especially with regard to the delectable best man, Noah. He’ll offer that one anything he needs — a hand, a mouth, an… ahem.

And why not? The way Alexander sees it, he’s having fun and earning good karma — and he might just already be falling in love.

Excerpt

Best Man
Second Edition
Will Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Will Okati

If a man acted as if he belonged in any given place, people usually didn’t ask questions. Alexander took the steps at an easygoing pace and casually strolled to the lovely man’s side. “Need a hand?”

“I could use three, to be honest.” Pretty eased a double stack of linen napery on a bare table and stretched his arms, pulling each at the wrists to release the cramped muscles. Alexander could massage those for him, but… later. “Do I know you?”

Beauty and brains. “Not in the least,” Alexander replied, twinkling at him. “I was passing by and thought I’d see if Good Samaritans were still in style.”

Pretty rubbed his arms as he gave Alexander a once-over of bemusement and perhaps a bit of appreciation. “At least you’re honest. If you promise not to take off with a box of table favors or hit on one of the bridesmaids, then be my guest. I’m serious about the bridesmaids. I love my sister — the bride — but if one more thing sends her off the deep end –”

Alexander laughed. “Don’t worry. About the bride or the bridesmaids.” He winked. “They aren’t what caught my eye.”

“Is that a fact?” Pretty’s cheeks turning faintly pink, and the appearance of a small smile gave him away. “That makes two of us.”

“You’re honest, too. And beautiful.”

The pink darkened to crimson. “And you’re a flatterer.” That would have been worrisome if he hadn’t grinned at him and pushed one-half of the napery Alexander’s way. “If you’re sure you want to get involved in the madness… then you can be my guest.”

“You can trust me,” Alexander said, ripe with confidence. “Watch.” He took the top cloth off the stack and gave it a good snap, meant to send a long cloth billowing out.

It would have been more impressive if said cloth hadn’t turned out to be a dinner napkin.

Pretty burst into laughter. “I have to keep you now. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I turned you out to wreak havoc on general society.” His cheeks remained pink and his blue eyes lambent. He offered his hand. “Noah McMasters. Call me Noah.”

Alexander took Noah’s hand. A very nice hand it was, too, slim and smooth but firm. “Alexander.”

A hint of dimples enriched Noah’s smile. “Just Alexander?”

“I have a surname, but I’ll make you work for that one.” Alexander winked at Noah — the name fit him as well as a tailored glove, small and lovely — and draped the napkin over his arm. He clicked his heels together and bowed from the waist. “Right now, I await your command. Tell me what you want from me and I’m yours.”

Noah ran him over with an assessing gaze, and no, “ran him over” wasn’t hyperbole. Technically, yes, but the sense of his taking Alexander’s measure left Alexander feeling as if he’d been subjected to the tender mercies of a steamroller with amorous intentions.

Amorous, though, that was good. And clever. That was better.

“What would you have done if I’d told you that I didn’t need help?”

Alexander gave that the consideration it was due; precisely half a second. “I’d have tried my luck down a different road that led to the same place, because if all this has to get laid out before the wedding, which I’m guesstimating is less than an hour or two away –” he waited for Noah’s nod –”you need the help. So why not? And if you want me to hit the road instead, all you have to do is say. I’ll wish you well and be on my way.”

Noah snorted delicately. “I actually believe you, and that makes you different from at least seventy-five percent of the guys I’ve known.”

“Wait.” Alexander dropped his handful of cutlery with a clatter. “How many of those guys –?”

“One ‘no really means yes, doesn’t it?’ was all it took,” Noah said. “I push the rest out at arm’s length as soon as I know what I’m dealing with. I’m pretty and I’m small, but I learn quickly, I’m sneaky and I’m fast and I don’t fight by the Marquis of Queensbury rules.” He laughed. “Look at you. I can tell what’s going through your head right now, you know. Where do I find them and how do I hurt them?”

“If you’d ever let me finish a sentence, I might confirm that.”

“I find preempting the obvious saves time and I take it as a personal challenge.”

Noah hefted the crate that looked far too heavy for him onto his hip and nodded toward the tables. “I’ll say leave the linens alone, but if you’re determined to lend a hand, then get lending. Follow behind me and lay out the candles and other claptrap. Deal?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Sir. I could get used to that. Come on, this way. We’ll start at the end and work our way up. I like to take my time and do it right.”

“No sense in not bringing your A-game if the situation calls for it.”

Noah chuckled. “You’re adorable when you try to flirt.” He separated the napkins from the tablecloths and handed Alexander half. “Are you coming?”

Yes, and probably very soon.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will’s definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he — not she anymore — is a lot less quiet these days.

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New Release Blitz: Free from Falling by E.L. Massey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Free from Falling

Series: The Breakaway Series, Book Four

Author: E.L. Massey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/03/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 87100

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, sports/hockey, athletes, rock band, musicians, trans, bisexual, idiots-to-lovers, team dynamics, family dynamics & drama, pining, transphobia

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Description

Justin “Matts” Matthews is good at a lot of things: Rubik’s Cubes, playing guitar, herding cattle, and most importantly for his career in the NHL, hockey. He’s not good at human interactions or social cues, especially when it comes to women. This deficiency is an annoyance rather than a problem, right up until he meets Sydney Warren. If it’s not love at first sight, it’s sure something close.

Sydney Warren, frontwoman for up-and-coming rock band Right Red Hand, is fierce, driven, and she doesn’t do relationships. Being an out trans woman in the music industry is more than enough pressure—a romantic entanglement would be added stress she doesn’t need. A romantic entanglement with a professional hockey player who, to all accounts, is only just learning to be an ally is definitely not what she needs. And yet.

After a chance encounter, Matts and Sydney become unlikely friends. However, in the stolen moments of their busy schedules––late-night phone calls between NHL games and concert tour dates—they start to question if maybe “friendship” isn’t so apt a description for whatever this is between them.

But can they overcome the outside pressures from family and media that would rather their relationship end before it has a chance to start?

Excerpt

Free from Falling
E.L. Massey © 2024
All Rights Reserved

“Hey, Matty. Are you petting a dog in some back room at a party again?”

He almost hangs up the phone. Because, yes, Justin Edward Matthews—Matts to anyone who matters and Matty to his asshole stepbrother—is hiding in a back room at a party petting a dog. Again.

“I hate you,” Matts says.

“You don’t. What’s the dog’s name?”

“It’s Hawk, Eli’s dog.”

“Give her a kiss for me.”

He does. He’s sitting on a fancy bench thing at the base of an equally fancy bed in one of the dozen bedrooms at the house where the party is taking place. He doesn’t know if Hawk is allowed on the furniture or not, but he figures if she’s mostly in his lap, they’re good either way. He leans into Hawk’s warm bulk and briefly buries his face in her neck.

“So,” his stepbrother says, “the gay kid talked you into going out and socializing, huh?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Matts says, straightening.

“I’m not saying it like anything. I’m stating a fact. He’s a kid. He’s gay.”

“He’s twenty-one, and he’s married to my captain. He’s not a kid. And he’s one of my best fucking friends. Use his name.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Matts is regretting calling Aaron already. They used to do it all the time—calling each other whenever they got drunk. It was the way they bonded as teenagers when their families were recklessly combined. Matts was off at boarding school, so lonely it was hard to breathe sometimes, and Aaron was unceremoniously uprooted from the only town he ever knew, suddenly expected to call a stranger “Dad.” Their relationship was easier then, born out of isolation and a shared resentment for the people they called parents. But in recent years, their conversations have gotten more and more stilted. Exhibit A: this conversation.

“Hey,” Aaron says, like he can hear what Matts is thinking. “I’m trying. You know I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. An extremely awkward pause follows. “Well. Why are you hanging out with Hawk and not a less furry lady?”

Aaron has a point. The only good thing about going to parties is that sometimes girls will recognize him, and he can get laid without having to stumble his way through a conversation first.

“I came upstairs to use the bathroom. And it’s time for Eli to check in anyway. I’ll go back downstairs when he does.”

Hawk is Eli’s service dog. Eli doesn’t go to parties much, but when he does, he brings her with him and keeps her somewhere quiet where he can have her sniff him or whatever she does to predict his seizures every so often. And he always has someone with him as human backup too. Tonight, Matts is the human backup. Because he’s still doing PT for another week and isn’t cleared to travel with the team yet. He made the mistake of having dinner with Eli, and afterward, Eli looked at him with his big stupid sad eyes and asked him to please go with him, and Matts is a pushover.

He doesn’t like parties in general, but he especially doesn’t like them when he keeps having to explain that, no, he’s not Eli’s professional-hockey-playing-husband. He’s Eli’s professional-hockey-playing-husband’s injured alternate captain. Which is weird. Not because people are assuming he’s gay. That’s fine. That’s whatever. But people are assuming he’s married. Twenty-one-year-olds should not be married. Even if it seems to be working for Eli and Alex.

“The drinks are all colorful and sparkly,” Matts says. Making fun of rich people’s alcohol preferences is always a safe topic with his family.

“No,” Aaron gasps with faux outrage. “Sparkly?”

“No beer cans in sight.”

“The horror. Not even a bougie IPA?”

“There’s a tended bar, and the menu is all cocktails.”

“Gross. What color did you go with?”

Matts sighs in the direction of his drink on the nightstand. “Green. And then purple. And the worst thing is that I’m drunk after two of them.”

He regularly goes shot-for-shot with Russian NHL players. A neon drink should not be laying him out. He tries to look at his tongue to see if it’s changed color and is unsuccessful.

“Are you still on meds?”

“No, Mom, I’m off everything as of two days ago. Healing great. Should be playing again in another week. And I can’t even celebrate with a beer.”

“What a brave little soldier you are,” Aaron says. “Hey, speaking of moms. Are you coming home for Christmas or not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Is my dad…” He flips Hawk’s ears inside out. One will stay that way. The other won’t. He boops her nose, and she sneezes.

“You’re gonna need to finish the question if you want me to answer it.”

Matts sighs. “I don’t know. Just…you think he’ll ever apologize?”

“I think those would be hell-freezes-over type odds.”

“Yeah.”

“Come home anyway.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The door opens, and Eli slips inside, music from downstairs bleeding through before he shuts it again.

“Hey,” Matts says, “I gotta go. I’ll call you Friday, and we’ll talk about Christmas, okay?”

“Sure. Hey, uh, say hi to Eli for me.”

“Yeah,” Matts says, “I will.” The word “thanks” gets a little stuck in his throat, but he mumbles it out and follows it with “bye.”

He slides his phone back into his pocket as Eli slides onto the bench beside him.

“You okay?” Eli asks. He’s a perceptive little shit.

“Fine.” Matts gestures toward the door. “It’s just a lot. Do you always have to be so damn good at social shit? You’re making me look bad.”

“Oh, no,” Eli says, “you do that on your own.” He gives him a second look and gentles his tone. “You do look a little rough though. You want to go outside? Or we can call it early.”

“Outside works.”

They sit with Hawk for a few more minutes, and when she remains calm and sleepy, they bid her goodbye and head downstairs toward the backyard.

But halfway through the living room, Matts stops.

Because there’s a girl in the kitchen.

Well, there are a lot of girls in the kitchen. But this girl is wearing black ripped skinny jeans, and her equally black ripped shirt—advertising some incomprehensible metal band on the front—has no sleeves or collar. The shirt’s sides have been cut from arm to hem and reattached with long lines of glittering safety pins. Her lips are full. Her hair is a wild riot of brown curls.

She looks like the unholy offspring of ’80s hair-metal-era Bon Jovi and ’70s Joan Jett, and her whole vibe is…unexpectedly but thoroughly doing it for him.

“Who,” he asks, “is she?”

“Absolutely not,” Eli answers. “You are not ready for Sydney.”

“Sydney,” he repeats.

“No,” Eli says again, forcefully steering them toward the back porch. For someone so lean, he’s surprisingly strong. Sydney also looks lean and strong. Her glutes and thighs are particularly nice. She could probably squat him. He’d be happy to let her try.

“I thought the whole point of me coming tonight was that I needed to…expand my social realm or whatever.”

“Social repertoire is the phrase I used.” Eli is still pushing him. Matts is still resisting.

“Repertoire. Right.” He cranes his neck to keep Sydney in sight. She’s completely flat-chested, but her ass is something else. He wonders if she plays hockey.

“And, yes, it was,” Eli agrees. “But I know that look, Matthew.”

“Not my name.”

“I know that look, Justin Edward Matthews.”

That is, admittedly, his name.

“You don’t want to meet her,” Eli says. “You want to hook up with her.”

“And that’s…bad?”

“Have you ever even spoken with a trans woman before?”

“Trans…as in transgender?”

“No, as in transformer. Yes, transgender, idiota. And clearly, your taste in music is worse than I thought if you don’t already know who she is.”

“Wait, she’s a boy? Or—used to be a boy?” She doesn’t look like a boy. Though that might explain the boob thing. Is that bad to think? Eli would probably hit him if he said it out loud.

“And this is why you’re not allowed to talk to Sydney,” Eli says. “She would eat you alive.”

Sydney catches him staring, and Matts waves as Eli finally, successfully, shoves him around the corner and through the sliding doors to the porch.

Sydney appears again, moments later, from the opposite side of the open-concept kitchen, and purposefully makes her way toward them.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eli mutters.

“No thanks.”

“Eli,” Sydney says, stepping over the threshold to join them. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hi,” Matts says. “I’m Matts. I play hockey with Eli’s husband. Eli says I’m not allowed to talk to you because you’ll eat me alive.”

She gives him a considering once-over. “Eli is likely correct, but I’m sure we’d both enjoy the experience.”

Eli throws up his hands.

“Don’t let him fool you though,” she says conspiratorially, bowing with a flourish that somehow doesn’t spill her drink. “I am but a humble bard, at your service.”

“Bard, sure,” Eli mutters. “Humble though—”

“You look like you need alcohol, Eli,” Sydney interrupts.

He sighs. “I do. Syd, behave. Matts, good luck.”

“Wait,” Matts says, “aren’t I supposed to be…monitoring you?”

“Monitor me with your eyes while I go acquire a beverage. I promise to swoon obviously if I need your attention.” Eli throws one wrist against his forehead and falls briefly to one side before straightening and making his way back inside.

“So you’re Hawk’s understudy tonight?” Sydney asks.

She has dimples. It takes him a beat longer than it should to respond because of them.

“That’s me. Temporary service human. Not as cute as the A-team upstairs, I know.”

She gives him another leisurely assessment, and he suddenly wishes he was wearing something more edgy than khakis and boat shoes.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she murmurs over the rim of her glass.

He watches her drink; he watches the light from the hanging lanterns on the porch glint off the rings on her hand; he watches her tongue slide over her drink-stained lips. He realizes he’s staring.

“So how do you know Eli?” Matts asks, only a little desperately.

She tips her head, expression suddenly assessing. It’s an oddly predatory look for someone whose curl-augmented height barely comes up to his chin.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Sydney says.

“I—no.” He squints at her, remembering Eli’s assertion about his taste in music. “Should I?”

She reaches out to flick the collar of his button-down. “I guess not. Though one of our songs is on syndicated radio currently.”

“You’re a musician?” That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. “What’s your band called?”

“Red Right Hand.” She looks like she’s braced for something as she says it, but the name means nothing to him.

“Is that, like, a Twister reference?”

She coughs on a laugh, then hides her smile with the back of her wrist, her long fingers—guitarist fingers?—splayed over the mouth of her cup.

“It’s a Paradise Lost reference,” she says:

“What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,

And plunge us in the flames; or from above

Should intermitted vengeance arm again

His red right hand to plague us?”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

E. L. Massey is a human. Probably. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her partner, the best dog in the world (an unbiased assessment), and a frankly excessive collection of books. She spends her holidays climbing mountains and writing fan fiction, occasionally at the same time.

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New Release Blitz: When Summer is Gone by Chris Simon (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  When Summer is Gone

Series: The Likes of Us, Book Two

Author: Chris Simon

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/26/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: No Romance, Male/Male

Length: 101700

Genre: Historical, Genre/lit, historical, family-drama, bisexual, coming of age, docker, male prostitution

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Description

London’s East End, 1930s

Young docker Alfie Atwood was born into a poor but happy family and he was blessed with matinee-idol good looks which draw people to him like moths to a flame. His appearance and sunny disposition may be widely admired and even envied, but he isn’t as carefree as he seems and has bitter experience of a darker side to youth.

When his father Bill is killed in a dockside accident, Alfie is forced to become the main breadwinner. He and his mother Alice are horrified to find that Bill owed money to some bad people—the notorious brothers Mosh and Solly Alexander. They “own” the district and now they want the debt repaid.

A docker’s weekly wage and the few shillings that Alice can scrape together are not nearly enough…until Alfie’s friend Frank whispers a solution in his ear. Has the time come for the young man to use what Nature gave him to solve their problems? And if he does, won’t he be letting himself in for a whole host of new ones?

Excerpt

When Summer is Gone
Chris Simon © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
A Trip to the Moon in a Hot-air Balloon

Wednesday, 23 July 1913

Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs in the East End of London was never quiet, but what peace there was that afternoon was shattered by Alice Atwood’s anguished cries, echoing across the alleys and yards as she endured a long and painful labour. Alice’s neighbours, Elsie and Pearl, sat outside their front doors, their faces grim. They’d fetched clean towels, boiled water, made tea for the anxious father-to-be and for Mrs Charles, who served as midwife to all the local women. There was nothing more to be done.

“Oh, Elsie! It’s been nigh on five hours now,” said Pearl, as though her friend could end their neighbour’s suffering.

“I know, duck. I’ve been sitting here right next to you the whole time.”

Elsie Jarvis was a short, stout woman in a pink-and-blue floral apron that fitted snugly around her plump figure. In contrast, Pearl Rogers was tall and thin; her apron could easily have been wrapped twice around her skinny frame. She picked up the broom leaning against her windowsill and restlessly swept some dust from the pavement into the gutter. After a few desultory thrusts of the brush she paused, leaning on it.

“You never know, Else, maybe this time…”

Elsie shook her head gravely. “Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so, my duck. I pray so, but there’s no sense in us getting our hopes up. If three of ’em have died already, stands to reason there must be summink very wrong, mustn’t there?”

Pearl nodded sadly. “Yes. Well, whatever ’appens, I ’ope to Gawd it ’appens soon.”

“I know. My Bert will be home from work shortly and he’ll be banging on the wall with his slipper if she’s still making this racket. He’s got no compassion in him at all.” Elsie’s round face expressed contempt, for Bert and for all men.

They looked anxiously up at the Atwoods’ bedroom window as the screams reached a new peak and, after a short, tense silence, were replaced by the thin piercing cry of a newborn.

“Aw!” the friends cooed in unison. They couldn’t help themselves. The gloom was magically dispersed, as though the infant had come into the world waving a wand.

As the crying grew stronger, Pearl said, “Well, it don’t sound like this one’s gonna snuff it any time soon, Else,” and she threw her skinny arms about her plump neighbour in celebration.

*

The bedroom was flooded with sunlight, the nets dancing softly in the breeze. Bill Atwood wouldn’t tell his wife that she looked “radiant”—they were past that now. Her hair was matted with sweat, her face pinched with premature grief, and no trite compliment would lift her spirits.

The yellow wooden cradle he had fashioned with pride for their firstborn stood at the foot of the bed. He had come to hate the sight of it, as though it were an open grave. If this went like the other times, he vowed he would burn it. He approached tentatively, fearing that what he’d see would break his heart. In the cradle lay a tiny scrap of a baby, barely asleep, for although his eyes were closed his limbs were restless. Bill was glad because it meant he was alive. He lifted out the little body which began to scream in protest, using lungs so small that Horatio, the Jarvis’s cat, basking on the scullery roof, didn’t even cast a languid glance upwards to see what all the fuss was about.

In Bill’s strong arms the baby relaxed; his blue eyes looked up towards his father for the first time and Bill could not at first speak for love. His voice cracked as he spoke. “’Ello, mate. ’Ello. My little boy. My son.”

He kissed the infant’s forehead and moved over to the side of the bed where Alice had turned her face towards the wall and was crying bitterly.

“I don’t wanna see ’im, Bill. Take ’im away.”

“But Alice, he’s all right and he’s beautiful.”

“I can’t. If I look at ’im I’m gonna love ’im, and he’ll just be taken like the others. It’s no use. I can’t go through that again.”

“Alice. I understand, darlin’. But he’s perfectly healthy.”

“’Ow d’you know?” She was tortured by the suggestion of hope.

“Well, Mrs Charles said…”

“She said that about the others,” she howled.

“It might be different this time, love.”

“It won’t be! I know it won’t! It isn’t meant to be.”

“It might be.” His voice became less gentle. “And even if it ain’t, if this little boy only has one hour on this earth, don’t you think he deserves an hour’s love?”

Yes. Even if it broke her heart. If it was the only thing that she could ever do for him then she had no choice. She turned towards her husband who placed the tiny bundle tenderly in her arms. If this little boy’s heart were to stop beating, then so would hers.

Bill left her alone with the baby. He also was suspicious of the hope welling up inside, but it wasn’t to be suppressed. Tears stung his eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile as he joined his neighbours outside and lit up a Senior Service.

“Aw! Congratulations, Bill.” Pearl beamed. “What yer gonna call ’im, d’you know?”

He cleared his throat. “Alfred Lansbury Atwood—Alfie,” he declared with pride. Just speaking the boy’s name out loud made him feel that it was going to be all right.

“Lansbury?” said Pearl incredulously.

Bill shook his head. “You’d better ask the missus about that.”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Chris Simon is the youngest son of a headteacher and was born and brought up in North Wales. He attended college in Liverpool and Manchester studying Geography and English and returned to Wales to work at a holiday camp, doing everything from chalet allocations to scrubbing grill pans in the off season. He did this over three summers before moving to London to join the civil service, starting in North London benefit offices and ending with the Department for Transport in Westminster.

As well as football and music, Chris has a great love of social history, particularly that of London. After visiting the capital at the age of twelve his desire to live there became the first certainty of his life. He settled in Walthamstow in East London and is a keen supporter of Manchester City and, of course, Wales. It had always been his intention to write a novel whenever he found the time—and now he has.

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New Release Blitz: BEAcon of Love by Jamie Sands (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  BEAcon of Love

Author: Jamie Sands

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/19/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 45900

Genre: Contemporary Romance, romcom, gay, neurodiversity, comic-con setting, artists, TV stars, creatives, cosplay, costuming, online influencer, humor, friendship, game geeks, outing, coming out, introvert/extrovert, anxiety/panic attacks, autism representation, people pleasing

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Description

Cole has come to BEAcon for one reason: the contest cup. He’s spent months knitting chainmail and perfecting his poses. With cosplay rivals to out compete and the chance to attend panels for his new favorite show, Cole can’t afford any distractions—especially not falling in love.

Milo, star of the viral breakaway TV show Dusk City, would rather be staked through the heart like the vampire he portrays than crammed into a convention center with thousands of fans. Sure, success is great—but not when the future of the show and your co-workers depend on him staying in the closet. The frenzied fan reaction is nothing short of overwhelming.

When Milo’s anxiety gets to be too much, Cole doesn’t hesitate to come to the rescue of his handsome TV crush. His unorthodox solution opens the doors to an unexpected—and undeniable—connection. Between signings, meltdowns, and the swirling microcosm of the huge fan convention, can Milo and Cole ever be in the same place at the same time again?

Excerpt

BEAcon of Love
Jamie Sands © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Cole

Cole Parrish could not contain his excitement.

They were checking into the hotel. After a year of preparation and multiple days stuck in the car with his best friend, the greatest fan convention of the year was happening: BEAcon.

Bryce had driven the last leg of their road trip and groaned softly as he stretched out his back. The drive to Nevada from California wasn’t super long, but they still liked to split it over a couple of days and take their time. Neither of them was fond of driving for over four hours at a time.

Cole looked around, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The people in the check-in lines were just like him. They wore superhero T-shirts, or shirts with Tolkien quotes, or even casual cosplays. Cole glanced down at his own—a Dusk City fan shirt. Dusk City was the hottest new TV show of the season. Chances were there’d be a lot of cosplayers inspired by the urban fantasy show and its handsome cast who would be appearing at the convention. Especially Caleb, the smolderingly gorgeous vampire lead character.

Cole had a large suitcase and three suit bags full of costumes carefully handcrafted over the last year. Bryce had a duffel bag with his two tried-and-true cosplays inside it. He helped lug Cole’s bags up to their room.

“I dunno why you have to be so extra every time.” Bryce rolled his eyes

“I have to be extra for the community.” Cole made his eyes wide and innocent. “I have fans, you know. And they deserve every piece of effort I put into this.”

Bryce knew he was teasing. “You have maybe ten fans. And they just follow you for the time you accidentally showed nipple in that one video.”

“How dare you?” Cole slapped at Bryce’s elbow, which wasn’t easy while holding the garment bags.

“I’m here to keep you grounded, my friend. Someone’s got to.”

“You’re not just here to keep me grounded.” Cole shifted his weight. “You’re here to stalk Zack as well.”

Bryce colored. “Zack is… I don’t know why you’d bring that up.”

“Uh, because you’ve been talking nonstop about him on the drive here, how hot he is, and how much you hope you get to see him? Even though he’s my deadly cosplay rival and not even that good-looking?”

Bryce couldn’t meet his eyes.

Cole decided to backpedal. He didn’t want to make his friend uncomfortable, so he changed the subject back to a safe topic: himself. “Well. As soon as I get a brand deal for my social media, I’ll be getting my own room. No more sharing with hobbit peasants like you any longer.”

“Honestly? I can’t wait,” Bryce deadpanned. “Want me to take some pictures of you with your nipples out? That should do it.”

Cole stifled his reaction. Snooty narcissists did not snort in public.

He said instead, “My skills at crafting a fantastic costume and my natural charm and gift of connecting to others are what draw people to me. Not that someone who turns up to every event as Bilbo Baggins since they were seventeen could ever hope to understand.”

“Bilbo’s a classic.”

“Bilbo is great, but your costume is vintage. The character is vintage. You’re only twenty-two, like me. Liven it up and stop playing a hundred-year-old character.”

“Yeah, well, my job doesn’t allow for frequent visits to the gym to get my body superhero-ready.” Bryce reached over and pinched Cole’s bicep. “So, I’m going with the hobbit.”

“We work at the same pizza place, and you barely have more hours than I do.”

“Whatever, pretty boy.” Bryce flapped a dismissive hand as the elevator reached their floor, and they piled out.

“I read another rumor for what the B-E-A stands for in BEAcon, by the way.” Cole scanned room numbers as they turned into a new corridor, searching for theirs.

“Yeah?”

“Boardgaming, Egames, and Anime convention.”

Bryce frowned. “This convention has been a thing since before egames existed.”

“Yeah, I still think it stands for Badass Elves and Aliens.”

Bryce laughed. “Broadcasted Entertainment and Assortments is the one I’m sticking to.”

“Why would they have an acronym for assortments?” Cole said as he unlocked their door.

They shuffled inside. Two twin beds, a tiny desk, and a chair filled the room, leaving only enough space for Cole to drag his suitcases in.

“I call dibs on the closet,” he said.

Bryce snorted, slinging his bag on the nearest bed. “Wardrobe’s all yours. I’m claiming the shower.”

“Good idea. I don’t mind rooming with a hobbit, but a smelly hobbit?” Cole pulled a face.

Bryce aimed a playful swat at him.

Cole ducked, immediately tripping over the bed. “Is it me, or do these rooms get smaller every year?”

“It’s you and your giant ego; it gets harder to squeeze into the room. That or inflation.” Bryce squeezed past Cole’s suitcase and into the bathroom.

“Inflation? That makes no sense.” The only reply was the sound of water hitting the shower floor. Cole looked into the wardrobe only to discover he had a major problem. The tiny closet was big enough to house three costumes. He had five.

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Meet the Author

A number one bestseller on Amazon, Jamie (he/they) writes optimistic urban fantasy and romance, highlighting queer characters. They also dabble in short stories in all sorts of genres, notebook design, and tabletop roleplaying game design. Their work has been shortlisted for the Sir Julius Vogel Award. Jamie grew up in Wellington, New Zealand, and was a library devotee and constant reader of fiction from a very early age. They now live in Auckland with their wonderful spouse. Jamie has visited Japan three times and would like to move into Tokyo Disneyland. Pen names include Jaxon Knight (contemporary rom coms) and Drake LaMarque (mostly paranormal historical, high steam).

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New Release Blitz: Monsoon Queen by Jo Carthage (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Monsoon Queen

Series: The War Between Cedar and Oak, Book One

Author: Jo Carthage

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/12/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 43300

Genre: Historical Fantasy, historical fiction/1800s, fantasy, romance, lit/genre fiction, bisexual, lesbian/sapphic, anti-colonialism, East Africa, Yemen, conflict, mages/magic users, dark lord, insurgents, torture/whips, pirates, dark prince, woman mage, porqué no los dos

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Description

Twenty-year-old Noor has been hiding her magic and biding her time in the spice markets of 1812 Tajoura as she and her neighbours wait for the ravenous British Empire to sail into their homeport, cannons blazing. But when the HMS Victory arrives, so does the chance of a lifetime to join a found family in the Yemeni resistance. Noor finds herself caught up in the fight against the Empire’s battle mages and Rami, the dark prince who leads them.

In a case of mistaken identity, Noor heals Rami before a decisive battle. She sees the good in him, and her heart is torn.

Noor’s new friend Razan—a brilliant and beautiful inventor for the resistance—has no such qualms. She hates Rami for his role in the raid that killed her parents. Razan has found a way to harness Noor’s power to defeat the British, and the two women grow ever closer. On a perilous camel ride to the coffee roasting city of Mocha, Rami strikes, kidnapping Noor and taking her back to his cruel master on the HMS Victory.

In order to survive, Noor will need to call on everything she learned in the spice markets and the Yemeni resistance.

Rebels, mages, lovers. With the final battle looming and the resistance struggling without her, Noor must keep her eye on the prize: saving Yemen from the British Empire. If she can keep Razan in her bed and save Rami from the Empire, she will have the future she’s always dreamed of. But first, Noor has to survive the storms to come.

Excerpt

Monsoon Queen
Jo Carthage © 2024
All Rights Reserved

The jute rope flowed through Noor’s hands as she climbed down into the shipwreck. The shallow waters of the Gulf of Tajoura filled the creaking hold, but the crew deck was just above the lapping waves. She landed, and her sandals crunched on salt-encrusted cedar. Noor breathed a sigh of relief. At least this deck isn’t entirely rotted. Though she’d lived all of her twenty-one years within smelling distance of the sea, she could not swim. She hadn’t been permitted to learn.

Noor stood in a pillar of noonday sun shining through the hole she’d hacked in the deck above. Everywhere else was darkness. Noor peered into the gloom, checking for any cracks of sunlight on the side of the wreck where she knew her master, Musa, had anchored his dhow.

When she was certain he couldn’t see, she let a gentle glow rise in her fingertips, lighting the hold. Musa didn’t know she could cast light or move objects with her mind. He hadn’t been there when she’d found her magic that past summer, her hands on the body of a soft black cat who’d been trampled by a British officer’s horse. If he had seen her healing, he’d have had her killed.

Slaves could not be mages in Tajoura.

Before her magic had come, Noor had thought she would be trapped with Musa for the rest of her life; now, she studied with her imam every chance she got, gaining control over her power and searching for a chink in the world she could pry open long enough to escape.

The shipwreck jerked, a low wave slamming into the side.

Noor got back to work. She surveyed the crew deck, checking every corner and cavity until…there. A small tumble of rags and arm-length splinters of cedar shielded a glint of silver.

She hitched up her guntiino, the long red and yellow striped wrap she wore like an Indian woman’s sari, and raised her hand to light her way into the darkness.

Noor pulled Musa’s leather purse from under her guntiino and began filling it with silver coins.

“Teach that captain to talk too freely in the hookah shop,” she muttered as she swept up the treasure. “Or maybe just to know a thief when he sees one.”

Musa had overheard this dhow’s former captain in the hookah shop the night before, moaning about his sailors abandoning their backpay as they scrambled to escape the wreck two monsoon seasons ago. This boat was one of many. Ever since the British Empire had set their sights on Aden to the East across the Gulf and rumours of sightings of Lord Admiral Nelson’s Victory had been reported from the Cape northwards, merchants who’d never plied Tajoura’s shallow and reef-filled waters were trying their luck on the last free port on the Horn of Africa.

Many didn’t survive the experience.

Musa had sailed her out here on his rickety dhow several times a month for years, ordering her to loot the remains of shattered ships. He claimed any treasure she found or took it out of her hide if she tried to conceal it, to save up enough to buy passage somewhere else, anywhere else. Musa forgets that the alternative to allowing slaves to buy our freedom is having his throat slit in the night. Noor dreamed about it, but she didn’t kill, wouldn’t risk her secret connection to haya magic by using it for violence. Her imam had warned her that to do so might sever her connection forever. But even without knowing she had powers, Musa should have been more cautious. For now, Noor was biding her time, trying to find another way out.

So here Noor was, collecting other people’s pay for someone else’s profit; it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. She was relacing the purse when something else glimmered in the heap of mouldering cloth.

Noor’s fingers were delicate and careful of scurrying crabs and cedar splinters. There. She found what had caught her eye: a Yemeni dagger, a jambiya, with a pearl-dotted sheath and a polished moon-coloured lunella shell as a pommel.

It shone in her light.

“What kind of Yemeni man would abandon his family’s jambiya?” she muttered.

Beautiful weapons were impossibly expensive for someone like her and far too dangerous to own. She took a breath and stuffed it down the front of her guntiino. The dagger fit snugly between her belt and her belly. The leather purse went between her teeth. She climbed up her rope, arm over arm. Noor extinguished her light as the sun hit her upturned face. She reached the bare bit of stable hull that she’d tied onto and stood up on it, gripping the gunwale as the rising tide shook the wreck.

Noor glanced over the edge to see Musa glaring up at her from the helm of his tiny, shallow-drafted dhow, bobbing only a few arm lengths away from the wreck. His bald head glittered with sweat. His mouth was twisted and red.

“That’s it?” he shouted, gesturing at the purse between her lips.

She turned to descend the rope ladder, making a face where he could not see. Her sandaled feet slipped on the slimy, fraying rope, hands cramping tightly above the knots. A wave bucked the ship, and she slammed into the hull, the contents of the purse bruising her lips. The rope snapped—

Noor fell, and the warm water was over her head in seconds. She forced herself to hold her breath, struggled to look up, eyes burning with the salt. There it was, Musa’s hand lowering to rip the purse from between her teeth.

The current shoved her back against the hull of the wreck, and she lost hold of her climbing rope.

Noor shoved her panic away and pushed away from the wreck, tried to think of how she could use her magic, but her mind thrashed as the water forced itself between her lips. She couldn’t focus. She crunched against the hull again and turned into it, fingers digging into the rotting wood, forcing herself up one handhold at a time until she got her bruised lips above the water and gasped in sweet, salty air. A wave filled her mouth. She slipped and found a new hold, again and again, each breath a little shallower, until she felt Musa’s fingers dig in around her elbow before wrenching her over the side and throwing her to the deck.

As she tried to stand, he hissed, “You ugly idiot, I got my sandals wet because of you,” and cuffed her hard to the deck.

The jambiya’s sheath jammed into her stomach, and she curled around it protectively.

He hasn’t seen the blade yet.

Musa had already turned back to the helm, cursing her loudly as he adjusted the rudder, his fishing spear bloodied across his back. She had a moment to catch her breath.

Unfortunately, what she breathed in was the smell of a freshly killed dugong. The gentle creatures were like horses or the cows the Afar herdsman brought to the annual bazaar that had started just the prior month. With soft grey skin and silly faces, the dugong bore live babies. Her master liked to hunt them while he waited for her to scavenge for him, though Noor knew it was no real hunt. The sweet things would gather around any boat, as curious as kittens. She rolled away from the corpse, trying to keep her disgust off her face.

Then she froze. Strange bells sounded from across the harbour. Turning, Noor cocked her head, trying to find the source.

Silence.

Somali traders’ ships didn’t use bells. Neither did the double-masted Yemeni dhow that slipped into port under cover of night to avoid British patrols.

Only British imperial warships rang bells when they entered a harbour. She’d heard that from refugees, from women who’d escaped Mocha and Sidon.

No British warship had ever yet entered Tajoura’s harbour.

The bells rang again, and Noor’s breathing kicked up when she saw their source. At the mouth of the harbour, a ship as massive as the biggest mosque in Gaza, crowded out the sky. Its dozen square sails covered the faces of the clouds, each deck painted black and gold in succession, the colours wavering in the golden morning light.

“I’ve heard of that ship,” Musa growled behind her. “Striped like a bee, stung Napoleon in their last wars. The Victory. Their great Admiral Nelson died there.” He slapped at the ropes in the rigging, jerking the knots, swinging the sail out and into the wind. “They’ll blow us out of the water as soon look at us, with their alam mages or cannons or both.”

The bells rang louder.

Noor stared at Musa, the jambiya heavy against her stomach. If Musa stayed facing away from her, she could creep up behind him, slide the dagger out, and slit his throat the way he had the dugong’s.

There was a reason slaves weren’t allowed weapons.

The bells sounded, and she felt the weight of the knife like the promise she’d made to herself years ago: free yourself so you may remain free. She kept her eyes on the Victory as Musa hurried them back to port.

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Meet the Author

Jo Carthage is a bi, cis woman living in Silicon Valley. In her career, Jo has worked with survivors of labor and sex trafficking in DC, helped get incredible women and queer folks elected to state and national office in three states, and thinks politics and science fiction go together beautifully. Jo’s grandfather worked as a nuclear physicist at Oak Ridge in the 1950s, but it wasn’t until a 2019 family road trip veered off course and she spent an afternoon at EBR-1 that she started to write Atomic Age fiction.

Jo was honored to have Nuclear Sunrise favorably reviewed by the Director of the Mescalero Apache Cultural Center and intends to donate a portion of proceeds to their important work. As a writer, Jo loves slow burn, hurt/comfort, queer history, enemies-to-lovers, and happy endings.

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New Release Blitz: Terror by J. Hali Steele (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Terror

Series: Scorned Devils MC, Book Two

Author: J. Hali Steele

Publisher:  Changeling Press

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Release Date: 11/08/2024

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 100 Pages

Genre: Action Adventure, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense, Gay, MC Romance

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Description

Terror: Once, he had been Terrance Holton, a young gay man who learned to shove what he is so deep inside himself, he almost forgot. He grew up to be Terror and he is the Vice President of one of the baddest outlaw motorcycle clubs in Pennsylvania. The consequence of denying who he really is turns Terror into a threat to everyone around him, and eventually lands Terror in jail. There he connects with a beautiful older man who teaches Terror to love who he is.

Tinman: Timothy Jacoby gave years of his life to leading a motorcycle club that no longer exists. He did anything for his MC and his brothers, never hiding who he was. Then Tinman got arrested and sent to prison, where he serves ten years. When Tinman meets a younger biker who hides his gayness from the crew he rides with, he vows to keep Terror safe, but he hides his own past as a biker. Unable to forget their blistering encounters, the minute Tinman is released, he’s hellbent on finding Terror again. This time he’ll keep his prize.

Both men’s secrets are about to collide, and they just might blow the Scorned Devils MC to smithereens.

Excerpt

Terror (Scorned Devils MC 2)
J. Hali Steele
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 J. Hali Steele

Terror

Goddamn Dread and his fuck-the-world attitude. Defying every norm, the man flaunted his desire for other men. Took them without a care for what anyone thought. Yet he was still the most respected Scorned Devils MC club member, the MC club’s sergeant at arms, and other MCs feared him as if he were some kind of hero with super powers or some shit.

Back then, Terror had detested Dread — mostly for causing his own dormant childhood feelings to resurface.

Now Terror was returning home from prison feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Having heard from Cat, a man Terror had introduced to biker culture and the Scorned Devils MC days before his release, he was aware of the showdown between Cat and Dread. He’d told Cat to pack up and return to Kansas. Terror didn’t even go home to get his bike. He had bigger plans. He couldn’t wait to see the man who’d taken up so much space in Terror’s head while he’d been locked up for nearly three years. Terror had berated Dread mercilessly about being gay. Treated him even worse whenever Terror heard about Dread screwing any man who would have him.

When he’d been arrested, Battle Graves, their MC president, had been the one to show up to bail Terror out. He’d turned down Bat’s offer of legal representation. The bastard Terror had beaten to within an inch of his life? Shit, he’d do that again if he had to. No reason to fight the charges and have his brothers find out what went down in that motel room in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

At that time, Terror hadn’t been ready to come out.

He’d been named Terrance Holton by his drugged-out single mom, who’d simply vanished one night. Wading through the foster care system at a young age, Terror had realized he might be gay. Afraid and beat down, he’d buried Terrance deep in his psyche. Deep enough to almost forget the boy existed.

As he grew older, nothing scared the man he became — an angry-as-hell bastard who cared for no one. Made everyone call him Terror. If they didn’t, he whipped their asses.

He came to embrace one thing — an old motorcycle he’d stolen from the shed behind his last foster home. It was never reported because that motherfucker would never talk to anyone again.

That motorcycle… the speed, his disdain for the law, it led to Terror’s prospecting with the Scorned Devils MC.

Meeting the club’s sergeant at arms changed everything.

Now he was back. And he was ready to show his true colors.

Would his brothers and other clubs receive Terror the same way?

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Meet the Author

A former MC associate, J. Hali Steele loves anything with wheels, including motorcycles, classic automobiles, and race cars. A retired winning ex-quarter mile drag racer, J. Hali often angles to get her butt back in the driver’s seat!

J. Hali is a multi-published, best-selling author of romance in Contemporary MC, ReligErotica, Paranormal, Fantasy, and LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters, and angels collide – and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap and a cup of her favorite beverage of the moment.

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New Release Blitz: Summers Power by BL Jones (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Summers Power

Series: Danger City, Book One

Author: BL Jones

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/05/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 101300

Genre: Contemporary Romance, family-drama, bisexual, crime family, schoolteacher, enemies to lovers, superheroes, deceased spouse, deceased parent, slow burn

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Description

Danger City has been ruled by the bloody iron fists of the Winters crime family for decades.

When the Summers family waged war on the Winters in an attempt to take their power, violence reigned, taking no mercy on both sides of the conflict. The Summers were eventually defeated and as a result Max Summers lost everything.

Flash forward sixteen years, Max is a new man, no longer a gangster, but a simple primary school teacher still grieving the loss of his first love and trying his best to raise his children as a single father.

Cue his old rival Sam Winters re-entering his life when their oldest sons meet at school and become best friends.

During their time apart, Sam continued on the path laid out for him, climbing the organisation’s ranks right to the top. He has become every inch the mighty and lethal crime boss he was born to be.

After their unplanned reunification, both men are forced to confront the nightmares of their joint past and the burgeoning desire developing between them.

Can Max allow himself to fall in love with anyone again, let alone the man who was once his greatest enemy?

Excerpt

Summers Power
BL Jones © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

I never asked for this life.

In all honesty, if someone had told me when I was a child that one day I would be working as a primary school teacher, then I would have been horrified. I would have said my father—my father—wouldn’t allow that to happen.

When I was a boy, I thought my father was the strongest, bravest, most important man in the world. I don’t think that’s particularly odd within itself; many sons look to their fathers.

It was just unfortunate for me that mine was a violent criminal. Worse, he was a violent criminal who failed to be the best violent criminal in Danger City. When he tried to take down the behemoth that is the Winters family, they ground out my father’s rebellion like King Arthur and his knights ferociously beat down the Saxons.

I often used to wonder what would have been different if I’d just tried harder to fight my fate. At the time it had seemed inescapable. But now I look back on my choices and realise all the times when I could have been stronger, taken more control of my own life. I have to tell myself over and over again that I was young and scared, and I just wanted to please my father. To please him and survive him, a task many before me had failed to accomplish.

I’ve learned the hard way that people can do strange and terrible things out of desperation. I don’t believe anyone who hasn’t grown up as I did could understand what it’s like to live a life surrounded by different doors, yet still know you’ll only ever have the key to one of them.

My father trapped me with his choices, his mistakes. I felt like I couldn’t be anyone other than who he wanted me to be. Of course, now I know that wasn’t true. But hindsight is, as ever, mostly useless.

I’ve tried very hard not to trap my children in the same way. I want them to have every choice. I want them to feel free to be themselves, even if the world disagrees. I want them to fight back when someone tries to force them into a corner.

My son, Rory, started secondary school this year, and he’s made some interesting new friends. A best friend in particular who has caused me a great deal of anxiety.

When Rory asked if he could go over to his new best friend’s house after school on the last day of term before the Christmas holidays, I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Not that I would particularly want to. But the thought of facing the father of my son’s new best mate is somewhat daunting.

When Rory first told me he’d made a friend named Elijah Winters, I was only mildly alarmed. I told myself that Danger is a large city. There could be plenty of people running around with that surname. It didn’t mean anything. Elijah could very well not be his son.

But another part of me knew. As soon as Rory said that name. Part of me knew there was no chance he could be anyone else’s son. I’d already accepted the fact, had let the sense of inevitability take over and the resignation sink in.

It made sense to me in a strange way that another one of the changes in my life had been invaded or influenced by Sam Winters.

I saw Sam at the school when I dropped Rory off last week. It was the first time I’d clapped eyes on the bastard in years.

It seemed mad to me that so much time had passed, yet I still felt a rush of defensive anger hit me when I looked at him. Sam always pissed me off simply by existing. I don’t know how he does it, and I probably never will. Being angry at Sam felt easy, like slipping on an old, well-worn coat. I was genuinely tempted to start hating him all over again, on principle.

But then I remembered I’m supposed to be an adult, and adults aren’t supposed to hate their childhood rivals.

Intellectually, I know I shouldn’t still let him get to me. I should have moved beyond the point where he was capable of it. But it would be a lie to say I felt nothing at the sight of him. Something about him just sets me on edge, and always has. I can’t explain it rationally. He affects me like no one else I’ve met in my life.

Growing up, my father worked for the Winters. Our families had been tied together for generations.

Then my father tried to take over, dragging me and my mother along with him. He started a war he was ill-equipped to finish.

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Meet the Author

BL Jones is a twentysomething British author who spends all her free time reading and writing and taming her three much younger brothers. She works as a BSL interpreter in Bristol and lives with a temperamental bunny named Pepsi. She’s been writing stories since she was five, rarely sharing them with anyone except her numerous stuffed animals. BL has had a difficult journey into discovering and accepting her own queerness, and therefore believes that positive, honest, and authentic stories about queer people are very important. She hopes to contribute her own stories for people to have fun with and enjoy.

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New Release Blitz: Racing Hearts by Alex Winters (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Racing Hearts

Series: Good Sports, Book Two

Author: Alex Winters

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/22/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 23500

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, family-drama, lesbian, second chance, runner, realtor

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Description

Riley Hunter was the dependable one. The good girl, loyal to a fault and faithful to the end. She’d had big dreams, once upon a time, until her grandfather got sick and she had to give up going away to college to care for him. Now, a year after his passing, Riley is a townie through and through, doing social media for a local realtor and happy with her daily grind. Or, at least, content. Content, that is, until she literally runs into her old high school crush during her morning jog one random weekday in the middle of May. The morning jog they used to run together, before Piper left three years ago, that is. Left without looking back…

Piper McPhee couldn’t wait to leave tiny Jasper, North Carolina. To run away from her abusive mother. Her dysfunctional home life. Her cloying friends and, most of all, her confused feeling about girls. And how much she adored them. The only thing she regretted leaving behind was Riley, sweet, sexy Riley. Her first and only female crush. But after three years at State, and a recent avalanche of failed romances, she can’t wait to come back to town. More specifically, come back to Riley. As the two girls pick up their old habit of running together every morning, they struggle to reconnect and realize it’s because they’re no longer friends. Or, at least, just friends. And in the days to come they’ll connect in ever increasing ways, becoming lovers at long last and realizing just how much they’ve missed by denying their feelings for far too long. And, happily, making up for lost time one scintillating tryst at a time…

Excerpt

Racing Hearts
Alex Winters © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Riley

“The hell?”

Riley Hunter did a quick stutter-step onto the sidewalk, used to having the whole of her big, wide suburban street to herself at this admittedly ungodly hour. Instead, she was suddenly sharing it with a rattletrap pickup truck in some sickly shade of mustard yellow, the crooked bumper covered in a hodgepodge tapestry of faded Northern Carolina State bumper stickers, as it grumbled by at an almost luxurious pace.

Riley took a break from glaring at the ramshackle bumper, afraid it might fall off in the middle of the street, and glanced up at the sky, familiar shades of orange, blue, and black as her morning run straddled the last of nightfall and the beginning of daybreak.

The truck’s brake lights faded around the corner as it wound clumsily along toward the cul-de-sac at the end of Sycamore Street. Riley shook it off and slipped back from the sidewalk onto the blacktop, pink-and-white running shoes finding familiar footing as she wound down her morning jog, savoring the cool dawn air as it washed over her sweaty body.

In the vague distance, the truck’s engine still hummed, the only sound for miles as the sleepy little town of Jasper, North Carolina slumbered through the last of the night, hours away from waking. It was what made her morning runs so appealing, despite the ungodly hour: an entire town, quiet and sleepy, all to herself.

Not that little Jasper was ever quite bustling or hectic to begin with, but there was something to be said about the solitude of an early morning run, the peace and quiet of empty streets, hers for the taking. Winking stoplights glowing just for her, no traffic jams or waiting at crosswalks, no barking dogs or passing school buses; nothing but her, the road beneath her feet, and the familiar sights, sounds, and even smells of her tiny hometown.

Most mornings, anyway. But this morning, she was sharing her long, meandering street with a noisy, rusty, unfamiliar interloper. Some college kid delivering papers, perhaps? Or some burned-out frat partier heading home after a rowdy kegger, heading off to bed as her day was newly beginning? Riley wasn’t curious, per se, just ticked off that the best part of her run, the quiet, slow, leisurely cool-off down the last of her street, had been ruined by some rattletrap junk heap at the ass crack of dawn.

“Chill, Riley,” she told herself, musing quietly with the last of her breath. “You sound like Old Mrs. Johnson when you and Piper used to drag your asses home after some high school party!”

Thus, she rounded the corner that led to her house, finding the piss-yellow truck parked crookedly in front of Piper’s old house. As she watched, transfixed, the driver’s side door opened and none other than her old teammate, and first lady crush, unfolded from the seat, one velvety-smooth, irresistible inch at a time.

“Speak of the devil,” Riley murmured, heart racing as she padded closer to the house at the end of the street, legs suddenly as unsteady as her trembling knees.

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Meet the Author

Alex Winters is the pseudonym of a busy restaurant manager whose curious young staff would love nothing more than to follow him around the dining room reading his steamiest, most romantic passages aloud! When not writing romantic holiday stories of various heat levels, he enjoys long walks with his wife, scary movies, and smooth jazz. Visit him social media to see what stories are brewing up next!

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New Release Blitz: The Monster Within by Marguerite Labbe (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Monster Within

Author: Marguerite Labbe

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/15/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 121200

Genre: Horror romane, 19th century, Paris, French countryside, chevalier, tinker, fey, magic, monsters, ancestral spirits, orphanage, horror, thriller

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Description

For centuries, the Chevaliers de Rouen pledged to fight the monsters that inhabit France until their last breath. In the mid 1800s, Michel-Leon Parisee is the last of his line. The whispering memories of the chevaliers who passed before him offer help but have also driven other chevaliers mad with their constant advice, so Michel-Leon is forced to maintain a careful balance. When an ancient hunger threatens Paris, Michel-Leon must gather every tool he has to fight a terrifying threat that has eluded destruction before.

Constantin Severin is fey kissed, a man who walks the line between the fantastical and the mundane. He is determined to kill the magicman, the monster who destroyed his childhood, and rescue its young victims. In doing so, Constantin is in danger of becoming what he hates most. He needs a chevalier, but Michel-Leon is consumed with his own battle. Constantin must set aside old suspicions and his wandering ways if he is going to bargain for the help he needs.

Together, they can find the strength they need to battle their respective demons. They can learn they don’t have to fight alone, but it will take trust. It will take letting down long erected barriers, and it will take love. If they fail, Paris will be destroyed by the creatures that threaten it when the swarm hatches and decimates the city.

Excerpt

The Monster Within
Marguerite Labbe © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Dusk settled over the forested hills and rounded knobs of the mountainside as Michel-Leon Parisee crouched on an overlook and waited as patiently as any other predator waiting for its prey’s nose to peek out of hiding. An early April snowstorm had blown through several days ago, and evidence remained by the snow lingering around gnarled roots and the bite that clung to the air.

“This could go bad before we know it,” Régine Bardin commented as she hunkered down next to him, her gaze intent on the valley below. “The villagers are on edge and grumbling for payback.”

“That’s often the reaction when two worlds collide.” Michel-Leon spared a glance for her. Rumors and whispers had abounded since she was a girl that she was his bastard half-sister. Their coloring was similar, though her hair was more of a true red and his gilded with gold and brown. She had a riot of curls she never could tame, and his tended more toward tousled waves. They both had the same long, lean body and warm smile, and though their temperaments were quite often opposite, they complemented each other.

He thought of her as a sister, and she wished for it for all the wrong reasons.

The stamping of horses and the creak of wagon wheels sounded behind him as the villagers unloaded his requested goods. It broke the silence among the birch and firs. Michel-Leon continued to wait as Régine shifted next to him.

“The tricksters are coming.”

The voices whispered in his head, one warning coming out clear amongst the jumble of messages, as the first pinprick of yellow eyes appeared in the goblin holes that riddled the far hillside. The warning only he could hear—and Régine couldn’t—proved, despite all the rumors and wishing, they didn’t share blood.

“Here we go,” Michel-Leon said as Régine stood and laid her hand on the hilt of her sheathed, long-bladed knife.

Another pair followed the first eyes and then a dozen until the mountain holes were lit like a swarm of fireflies. Michel-Leon straightened and glanced over his shoulder at the small group of men gathered outside the abandoned chapel doors. “Is the tribute ready?” he asked.

A low grumbling answered him as he turned his attention back to the waiting eyes. “Oui. But I don’t see why we ought to give up the food we tilled and toiled for to a mob of troublesome creatures. You’re a chevalier. Blow them out or bury them deep. Isn’t that why we called you here?”

Régine rolled her eyes heavenward. The old ways were being forgotten, and Michel-Leon suppressed a sigh to echo Régine’s sentiment. He pointed at the starry field of blinking eyes. “I could do it your way, but it would end up costing you a lot more than a few barrels of spirits, calves you were going to cull anyway, and some bushels of root vegetables you can afford to give up.”

The other way would be bloody and long, and they’d never be sure they got them all. If even one goblin survived, the stunts it would pull afterward would make the villagers long for the days of kicked over milk pails and holes bored in fences.

The grumbling returned. “What’s to keep them from picking up their pranks and tricks again after you leave? The supplies won’t last long. We don’t figure to keep doing this each month.”

“Don’t worry, if they agree to the terms of the pact, they won’t bother you for a long time.” Michel-Leon patted his pocket to check if his surprise was still there. If this didn’t cause a stir of interest among the creatures, nothing would. He started to walk away and then paused. “I’d wait in the chapel if I were you. Some of the more mischievous among them might see you as friendly targets to play with when they come to collect their booty. Staying out of sight is best. I’ll let you know when it’s over.”

Michel-Leon took off in the gathering dark, one hand resting on his pistol as Régine strode beside him with the same posture. He wasn’t worried they’d have to pull it, but he didn’t want to chance the goblins would find the shiny metal fascinating and attempt to steal it. With his luck, one would blow its damn fool head off, and then negotiations would be over.

“I hope you have more tricks than they do,” Régine muttered. “I’ve never seen an infestation this big.”

“They have fewer places to parlay, and the machines with the iron and the steam, the gutting of the earth, make them uneasy.”

Michel-Leon cocked his head to listen for any other nuggets of wisdom articulating itself in the endless whispers, but nothing stood out. “Times are changing, Régine. Too fast for the little ones to keep up. Science is outstripping magic.”

“You sound regretful.” Régine spared him a glance. “There will always be more monsters.”

“Not everything different is monstrous.” A fact Michel-Leon believed fervently and one that had set him apart from other chevaliers when he was in training.

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Meet the Author

Marguerite Labbe loves to spin tales that cross genre lines, where stubborn men build lifelong ties of loyalty, friendship, and family no matter the odds thrown against them, and where love is found in unexpected places.

When she’s not working hard on writing new stories, she spends her time reading novels of all genres, enjoying role-playing and tabletop games with her friends, and taking long walks with her dog.

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Book Blitz: Trust is Fraught by Emily Carrington (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Trust is Fraught

Author: Emily Carrington

Cover Art: Angela Knight

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense

Themes: Gay, Medical Romance, Multicultural & Interracial, Werewolves & Wolf Shifters

Series: Medically Necessary (#2)

Multiverse: Searchlight Academy (#12)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 99

Synopsis

From insisting on a bed for their first time to protecting Amir from everything, Oliver is stepping all over Amir’s last nerve. It’s almost too bad the submissive wolf wants dominant Oliver in the worst way.

Amir’s frustration with Oliver doesn’t cancel out his attraction to the other wolf. As they fall deeper into the dangers of the psychic world in an effort to rescue their leader, their love may be the only thing keeping them sane.

As the leader of the werewolves sinks further into insanity, Amir and Oliver are pushed to their limits to find out what’s causing his decline. Once they discover the truth, it’s another struggle, this one against prejudice and time, to rescue the alpha above all alphas.

Excerpt

Trust Is Fraught (Medically Necessary 2)
Emily Carrington
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Emily Carrington

It was full dark when Oliver jerked awake. He sat up, smelling his own sweat and the aftermath of sex.

He flashed back to the most traumatic time he’d woken to the stench of spent jizz. Geoffrey, the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been standing over him, cum dripping from his rapidly shrinking cock.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed, fully expecting to find himself surrounded by the enemy. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he picked out the shadowy form of a lampshade. He reached out, almost knocking the lamp over in his need to shed light on the situation. When the bulb glowed, he took a quick look around the room, feeling the urge to ensure he was alone and safe. He didn’t quite dare to rise to his feet because his legs felt like they’d turned to water.

He missed Kenneth Jeremiah in the worst way all of a sudden, and he was unable to hide from the truth, that he missed his lover not for Kenneth Jeremiah’s own sake but because his lover had kept the nightmares at bay. Ever since being attacked, which had been two months before Kenneth Jeremiah died, the nightmares had been threatening. But he hadn’t actually dreamed of what happened until after his beloved was dead. Kenneth Jeremiah had possessed a rare empathic gift, one that allowed him to soothe others’ minds.

Sort of like Amir, he thought, but his terror kept him dwelling on the past.

He was alone in the downstairs bedroom of the house he rented in Washington, D.C.’s Northwest quarter. Why the hell did it smell of sex? And why didn’t his ass hurt?

Oliver’s gorge rose. He swallowed against the need to throw up. Gradually, his stomach settled and new information came to his nose. Yes, it was his own jizz he smelled on the air, but it was mixed with another male’s. The aroma didn’t spark a flashback but seemed to wrap around him, comforting him.

Amir’s scent surrounded him.

He’d had sex, all right, except it had really been making love. There was no fear or rage clouding the healthy leavings of two werewolves who cared for each other. They hadn’t gone all the way. Oliver had refused to claim Amir’s virgin body while they were so spun up from the events of the last few days and when Oliver himself had been so desperate for sexual contact that he hadn’t been sure he could be as gentle as was needed. They’d had oral sex, and now that his head was clearing, he realized he could taste Amir’s salty spend on his tongue. He licked his lips, found a little more of the heavenly liquid at one corner, and closed his eyes to savor it.

His cock stirred, although only a little as he fully realized he was alone in the bedroom. Where had Amir gone? Had he woken as Oliver had, frightened, and escaped into the house at large, or to the world beyond these walls? What if Oliver’s nightmare had been prophetic rather than a misplaced response to his joy?

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He flopped back onto the bed. Cursing softly, he performed a quick self-analysis, looking for sore spots or other indicators he’d been drugged. He detected nothing. Likewise, he felt no alien presence in his mind. His psychic shields were up and strong.

Still, his legs trembled. Clutching his knees, he tried to get a handle on his fear.

It hadn’t been all that long since he’d dreamed of the gang rape Geoffrey Huntington had led. Maybe only three weeks. Still, he was shocked every time it recurred. Hadn’t going through it once been enough? Apparently not for his traumatized body. Oliver could have bested three out of the four werewolves who raped him during that long five hours, but he’d surrendered to their brutality to save Kenneth Jeremiah. When the attack had begun, he’d expected to find Travers and Cobb involved because they were closer to him in rank, both being lower gammas. But the three besides Geoffrey, who was the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been Carl, Matthias, and Scott, all very low-ranked wolves, although not quite submissive. He’d always thought their ranks were why they’d participated. Geoffrey might have forced them.

Thinking about that night, all alone in the midst of raving beasts, wasn’t going to steady his legs. He needed to get himself under control so he could go looking for Amir and ensure his new lover was safe.

He forced himself to lie down on the bed. He inhaled Amir’s scent rising from his pillow, an aroma made of sweat and excitement and just a touch of disinfectant because Amir was a physician. Oliver breathed in and out, counting the seconds for each inhale and exhale. He added three seconds of holding his breath between these two acts and slowly his heartbeat stopped racing out of control. Amir’s joy and release held a comfort that Oliver hadn’t found since before the gang rape.

He sat up before that thought could take hold. He focused on the bedroom door, which was ajar. He did another quick sweep of the room, this time with nose fully engaged. He didn’t detect any blood or stench of fear. Amir must have left the room of his own volition.

With this idea in his head, Oliver was finally able to rise. He tugged on the pants he’d been wearing and started for the hallway. Following Amir’s scent, he went into the bathroom across the way, where Amir had apparently washed up because the tang of citrus soap hung in the air. Had he come out here naked?

Needing to solve that mystery because Amir walking anywhere potentially public without his clothes didn’t seem like the doctor of magical creatures at all. Back in the bedroom, however, Oliver saw all of Amir’s articles of clothing were still there.

Concern reared its ugly head again and he trotted from the room. He stopped by the front door, but Amir hadn’t come this way. He trailed the scent of soap to the stairs, and that was where it changed. The addition of fur’s rich aroma told Oliver Amir had slipped from human guise to lupine seeming before he went up the staircase to the second floor.

His night vision had fully adjusted to the dimness, and he climbed the stairs silently, keeping his ears open for Amir or their mutual patient.

Maybe that was it, he thought as he put his foot on the third step. Their mutual patient, Tilthos Charles, the alpha above all alphas in the Americas and Canada, was ill. Amir had managed to rule out any poisons or physical cause for Tilthos Charles’s growing madness, leaving it to Oliver to figure out the psychic cause. Oliver hadn’t yet solved the mystery beyond the realization Tilthos Charles was being forced to share his mind with five or six other werewolves who meant him harm.

Maybe Tilthos Charles was the reason Amir had left the bedroom and not because he’d endured a terrible dream. Oliver purposely made a little noise on the stairs to warn those up on the second floor that he was coming. He couldn’t quite make himself call out or even whisper. His throat had tightened, now with nervousness. What had he been thinking, making love to Amir when they had a patient to look after?

He reached the landing between the first and second floors and paused. Above him, out of sight because of the construction of the house, he heard a very quiet growl.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

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