NEW RELEASE for STELLA SHAW

Male male romance at its finest is what Stella Shaw promises and is exactly what she delivers. You will definitely enjoy her latest release. 

Friends-with-benefits is a practical arrangement—until it becomes something more.

Arne’s easy-going nature is sorely tried the night his kitchen’s almost set on fire. It’s the fault of admin assistant Simon, a man Arne’s treated with suspicion ever since Simon joined the Haven Hotel team. But when he has Simon in his arms, injured, vulnerable, yet full of sexy, prickly spirit to match Arne’s own—he starts to rethink. 

When Simon confesses, he’s struggling with intimacy, and Arne offers his practical help as an escort, it’s only meant as a joke. Until Simon accepts. He’s inexperienced and nervous despite his confidence at work, and embraces Arne’s sensual, unashamed instruction very eagerly. Alongside the passion, a friendship blossoms—and the vulnerability becomes emotional, too.

But Arne’s always been too generous with both his time and his money. When he’s betrayed by someone he trusted, it hits him hard, and halts his plans to launch a cookery vlog. All Simon wants to do is help him in return, but Arne rejects him. 

Maybe it’s time for Simon and their friends at the Haven to unite on behalf of Arne’s ambitions and dreams. And help both Simon and Arne decide if there’s a new direction they can share.

AMAZON BUY LINK

Stella Shaw is a pen name of the best-selling author of MM romance, Clare London. Stella's series of Rent Boy romances, Love at the Haven, launched in January 2021.

Join Stella's newsletter or find her on Facebook. Catch up with her on Goodreads, Bookbub, and Instagram. 

 Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She's written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she's just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she's happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.

All the details and free fiction are available at her website.

Be sure to check out Clare's website. Stay connected on Facebook, Twitter, BookBub, and Goodreads.

AND THE NOMINEES ARE...

Some of the finest books, authors, covers, and publishers in the industry are up for the annual awards from Love Romance Café. Dawn Roberto and her staff worked hard to select the contenders and lay out the voting procedures. A wise and seasoned author told me, "Chosen as a nominee is the honor" and I do believe she was correct.

I'm grateful and excited to be a part of this moment. My erotic novella PHOTO Op! is in the running for Best Contemporary Book 2013. This would not have happened without my amazing editor Helen Hardt and those two critique rascals who never let me get by with a thing, Melissa Bradley and Erica Dananay. A special thanks goes to the person who started this all and shoved me onto the right path, my mentor mystery writer Beth Anderson.

There are many close friends who are nominated this year. Three phenomenal authors who are also my Wenches of Words cohorts: Sharon Ledwith, Legend of the Timekeepers Best YA Book, and Sam Cheever Best Author and Declan Sands Blood-Hound Best Series. Another bud who has always been there when I needed her Clare London Best Cover. The other nominee friends are at the top of their genres Jane Dougherty The Dark Citadel Best YA Book, Desiree Holt Lock and Load Best Thriller/Suspense/Mystery, Selena Illyria Mate Not Wanted Best Erotic Romance Book. I am elated to add Musa Publishing BEST PUBLISHER, and they really are.

The excitement builds as the voting begins today. All 4000 plus members of Love Romances Café are eager to choose their favorites.

Congratulations to all the talented nominees and the best of luck to everyone!

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

New from Clare London, author of the Amber Allure best-sellers A Good Neighbor and Upwardly Mobile.....

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
Clare London
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-703-8
Genres: Gay / Contemporary
Amber Allure



BUY LINK

BLURB:
Garry's definitely at the end of his tether. He's waiting in an airport lounge to meet his friend Will, to go on holiday with mutual friends in a Scottish highlands hotel. Now there's a ten-hour delay to incoming flights, the seat in the lounge is more like an instrument of torture, and he's beyond tired of airport food.

What's worse, he's also dreading having to apologize for the pass he recently made at Will, under the influence of too many beers and a long-held crush. And the suddenly shocking realization that when Will accepts a new job offer on a continent thousands of miles away, it may be the end of their close friendship--let alone anything more.

To add to Garry's stress, he's treated to the company of Emily and Max, two young people who think he needs educating in the ways of the world--and his love life--whether he welcomes the interference or not. Struggling with their well-meaning help and the startling mess on his clothes from spilled ketchup and noxious-smelling sweets, he's encouraged to re-examine how he feels about Will and to decide what kind of journey he'd really like them to take together...

BLURB:
Garry must have dozed off. He woke with numbness in his left arm that made it feel the size of a Halloween pumpkin, and a pain in his scalp that meant his hair had got caught awkwardly on the wrong side of his parting. His head was stretched back over the back edge of the chair, and his legs were folded underneath it in a manner that would defy professional physiotherapy. Trying to move his limbs just made him groan aloud as the muscles cramped. It took him a depressingly long time to get himself upright again. Wincing, he made a mental note to renew his gym membership when he got back home after the trip.

He tried to smooth his hair back down in place. He’d snagged the shoulder-length ends into a short ponytail for traveling, but the tie had twisted at the back of his neck. When he tugged it back into shape, his fingers caught up in the tangles. It also seemed to have collected an interesting selection of dust particles and the remains of a catering-sized margarine wrapper. Maybe a couple of those blueberry droppings.

He squinted at the lounge clock and saw that a couple of the ten hours had passed.

The good thing was that the Sleeping Not-Beauty had left the seat beside him.

The not-so-good thing was that he had another neighbor and this one was a lot smaller. Probably only about seven. A round, plump-cheeked girl’s face stared at him, her eyes sky blue, her hair pale blonde. She was delicately pretty and would have looked like some kind of picture book princess, except that she had a huge, suspiciously red stain on the front of her Hello Kitty T-shirt. Her legs were tightly pressed together to contain a pile of sweets in her lap and there was sugar frosting stuck all over her skirt and her fingers. Some of the sweets had obviously already been consumed—the frosting was on the end of her nose, and around her mouth, too—and she chewed thoughtfully as she looked at him.

Garry wrinkled his nose. There was a particularly violent and disturbing smell around the sweets, like a medicine he’d once been forced to take as a kid. A fair proportion of the sugar fallout seemed to have made its way on to his jeans, too. He examined his mood and doubted it was one to tolerate children just at the moment. The feeling was creeping back to his arm and it was damned painful. He wanted to swear—he had a good vocabulary, he’d been complimented on it more than once—but, of course, that was now out of the question. He knew that much about children.

“Hi,” the girl said. “You’re awake now.”

He glared at her, groggy from his nap, and still aching. His stuffy brain wanted him to say “buzz off, kid,” but his mouth opened and he said, “Hi.” He didn’t know what else to say to such a small person. He hadn’t had a lot of practice with them. Allen used to talk about his large family and the new generation of nieces and nephews, but Garry admitted in his deepest, most honest heart, that he usually tuned all that information out.

“You want one?” She held out something that looked sticky and totally unappealing, vibrantly pink and green and in the shape of a heart. New sprinkles of sugar whispered off it on to their knees.

Garry pursed his lips. He had an irresistible, immediate urge to brush off the white crystals as if they’d rot like poison through his jeans. “No thanks. I…already ate.”

“When?”

He stared at her. Who did she think she was, his mother? “When I got here.”

“You’ll need more than that,” she said, bluntly. “The Delay is twelve hours now.” Her tone dignified it with capital letters, like it was some kind of alien monster, some Harbinger of Armageddon, some Premonition of Global Doom.

Now she had him doing it, even in his private thoughts. For a second, he thought he might still be asleep and dreaming he was in a late night version of The Twilight Zone. But his back and his toes still hurt…so it looked like he was awake. Mournfully so.

“You should be with your parents,” he said, just as bluntly.

But she didn’t seem disturbed by him. She put a red and yellow heart into her mouth and wiped her sticky fingers down her T-shirt. It proved that at least the red stain wasn’t blood. Garry wondered at what point he’d even considered that might be the case.

“You’re grumpy,” she said. “Just like Mum.”

“Huh?” One thing Garry did know about kids was that if you encouraged them, they stuck like glue. Or like particularly revolting sweets. All he had to do was stifle any conversation, and then in a minute, she’d get bored of him and wander off again.

“I’ll stay here for a while,” she said, patting her lap with determination...

BUY LINK

Learn more about Clare London and her bestsellers at website.

I'll be back Monday. Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

What would you do with 72 HOURS?

Clare London's signature line says it all; Writing… Man to Man, and no one does it better. Like so few female authors in this genre, Clare writes male emotions with an honesty and depth that weave you into her stories. Her latest release, 72 HOURS, proves it.

Here's a glimpse of this compelling story.

72 HOURS
Clare London
Dreamspinner Press



BUY LINK

BLURB:
Tanner Mackay and Niall Sutherland were once far more than just fellow intelligence agents. But then a mission went horribly wrong and everything fell apart, sending Tanner into hiding and splitting the team and their affair wide apart.

Now an unknown traitor is threatening the team, and their ex-boss is determined to reunite them before it’s too late. She finds Tanner in a run-down trailer park, bringing with her a most unwelcome refugee, in need of temporary sanctuary: Niall, the man he thought he'd never have to face again. The man he's sure feels exactly the same in return.

Trapped in a situation that’s both claustrophobic and highly dangerous, Tanner and Niall will have to revisit their past and reconsider their perceptions, their loyalties—and their desires—in order to survive, let alone forge a future together.

EXCERPT:
Niall kissed like a demon, but a very sweet, very sincere demon. His tongue was hot and fast and fucking gorgeous. He tasted of the wine, the pasta sauce and the mints that came with the check. He pressed fiercely against me, like he’d been holding himself back for the last hour but was now released from whatever inhibitions he’d had, and his hands twisted sharply into my hair at the back of my neck. I could feel strands working loose from the tie and his fingertips pressing on the thin skin at the nape. His eyes were open, watching my reactions, and his hands never strayed past my shoulders. He was waiting, I think, to double check I was okay with it all.

I may have been an acting coach at work, but no one had ever accused me of being difficult to read when it came to sex, whether kissing or something far more intimate. I slid both my arms around his waist and pulled him closer, tight against my body. My lips pressed back hard against his and I gasped my willingness into his mouth. I felt his body tighten and the muscles slide against my own, all the way from torso to knee. The door eased open behind us and we half-fell into the hallway, laughing, groaning, still nipping at each other’s lips.

“Which floor?” he gasped.

“Fifth.” I’d never cursed the broken elevator as soundly as I did that night. We stumbled up all five flights, bumping our bones on the banister, scuffing our shoes against the wall. From the way we clung to each other, we were like a single, melded body with two sets of limbs. I nudged him around each landing, taking every chance to run my hands inside his jacket and down his sides, his ribs and torso tantalizing me from underneath the thin shirt material. As I groped for the keys to my apartment, he seemed to be the only thing holding me upright, clutching my shoulders and gasping into my neck, his fingertips tracing the pulse in my throat, caressing my skin with the damp heat of his palms.

We tumbled again through a doorway, panting from our exertions and from a barely contained passion. But this time when I kicked the door closed behind us, I knew it was just us now; just the two of us, blessed privacy, and a mounting excitement that had consumed any shred of sense left in my brain.

The music playing in my apartment? It was pure soul… a low, slow beat and a voice rich with sensuous humor in every syllable and tone. I barely registered, except to feel the familiar comfort of it around me. Kind of my favorite music, coincidence or not.

And all those worries I had about the state of my place? Thankfully, we never went anywhere near the kitchen to check up on my housekeeping abilities. We also bypassed the lounge where, in fact, there were several piles of laundry on the couch, some clean and some embarrassingly crumpled. As we staggered down my narrow hallway, he shrugged off his jacket and I dropped my keys someplace I didn’t see and, frankly, didn’t care. I toed off my boots and socks in a trail of laughter and hot breathy kisses. When I mumbled something about the coffee I’d promised him, he laughed directly into my face and kissed me again, so soundly that my eyes closed and I felt his taste seep into my very veins. I felt him kicking off his own shoes and fumbling at my buttons. I’d wanted to take some time, to savor the suspense of peeling his clothes off of him – to tease him, perhaps, with my own unwrapping. Then his hands came up underneath the cool fabric of my shirt, running fingertips across my exposed nipples, and suddenly instantaneous nakedness would have been way too slow for me.

The bedroom wasn’t hard to find, mainly because I pushed him bodily through the door, and we fell onto the bed, entwined again as that four-limbed beast. By now, my shirt was hanging from my body by nothing more than a single sleeve, but in return I’d managed to open his without ripping off any buttons in my impatience, and also tug down the zip of his pants. He palmed my groin, molding his hand around the swollen excitement under my jeans, but I had a hand inside the cloth of his underwear and I had a hold of flesh – damp, hot, amongst curls of hair already sticky with excitement – and I was making him groan aloud in a very satisfying way.

He felt exquisite. Precious. I couldn’t understand my reverence, but there was no mistaking it. I’d never felt like that before – nor since, for that matter.

I took the advantage then. I rolled myself around and scrambled up to kneel beside him, tugging at the fabric of his pants and pulling them down from his hips. His soft black jersey briefs were a fabulous contrast against his dark, flushed skin, and they peeled off just as easily under my determined touch. I wanted him naked, and I wanted it now!

He lay on his back underneath me, with none of that coyness that some guys have when you strip them. No, he lay there with his shirt wide open and his chest heaving, his long, bare legs stretched out along the length of my bed. He looked both confident and comfortable, like a wet dream come to reality. His eager eyes glittered like flints, and they were locked on me. His arms lay by his side, and his fists clenched gently. When I reached down to pull his shirt off properly, he shifted his upper body to help me. Then he reached up for my hand and drew it down to his mouth. I watched, fascinated, as his tongue slipped out and licked the valleys between my fingers.

“Tanner.” It was just a breath; just a murmur. No instruction, no demand.

I gazed at him, drinking in the sight of his body laid out on my bed, the sheet creased under his hip, shadows playing along the white cotton folds as he clenched the muscles of his slim ass. The front of his thighs curved sweetly. Soft hairs on his skin, dark curls around his groin. He sucked softly on my fingers and shifted a little more. The movement made his cock bob gently against his belly, the flesh thick and swollen. It made the skin of his balls crinkle and the globes inside roll against the base of his groin...

BUY LINK

Learn more about Clare on her website and her blog. Of course you can catch up with her on facebook, too.

Have a wonderful weekend. I'll be back Monday. Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

FROM MURDER TO ROMANCE

It's PARTY TIME!

Today at Love Romances Cafe from 11:00a.m. until 1:00p.m. EST.

Join Clare London, Ginger Simpson, Linda Sole, Lizzie T. Leaf, Marie Tuhart, Raine Delight, Rita Karnopp, Tabitha Shay, Sarah Grimm and me for a surprising two hours of fun and prizes.

Hope to see you there!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

MURDER AND SEX - OH YEAH!

Today's guest author is the amazing Clare London who writes Man to Man, and no one does it better. Clare has a new release, BLINDED BY OUR EYES. This is a well-crafted mystery that has received stellar reviews and a book you'll definitely want to read.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Clare, here's a brief bio:

Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant.

She's written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. Clare likes variety in her writing, while friends say she's just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she's happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.

Find details of her publications and plenty of free fiction at her website, as well as an invitation to her mailing list. You can also catch up with Clare on her blog. Visit her today and say hello!

BLINDED BY OUR EYES
Clare London
ISBN: 9781426890406
Carina Press



BLURB:

London art dealer Charles Garrett has devoted his life to appreciating and acquiring beauty, both in art and in his companions. His fashionable life is rocked to the core when he discovers the body of a young artist, Paolo Valero, in a pool of blood in his gallery.

As Paolo’s mentor, Charles is haunted by the horror of his violent death. Seeking closure, he investigates Paolo’s past and soon discovers a tangled web of motives and potential suspects, some closer to home than he ever imagined. He’s drawn to Antony Walker, an aggressive, handsome sculptor with unsavory ties to Paolo. Charles is unsettled by Antony’s forceful nature but irresistibly attracted to his passion and his art.

When the evidence points toward Antony’s guilt, Charles is thrown into emotional turmoil. Has he lost his heart to a killer?

EXCERPT (PG):

The sound of a man crying was the first shock. Deep, racking sobs echoing off the smooth walls of my showroom. The whole gallery was usually deserted and cool at this late hour, despite the urban truth that London never slept. Yet tonight something in the air resonated with tension. And huddled in the far corner was a slender, pale young man. Arms clenched around his drawn-up knees, his eyes hot and wet, staring at me through a fringe of bedraggled dark curls. He looked angry and scared, and for the first few seconds it was all directed at me.

Without thinking, I dropped my bag. I heard the thump as it hit the floor.

I’d never seen anyone who wasn’t a woman cry like this. The sound was strange, astonishingly loud and ugly, his breath rasping with each hiccup of anguish. His shoulders rose and fell awkwardly, the bones a shadowy silhouette under the thin fabric of his shirt, his knuckles white against the black fabric of his jeans.

How beautiful he still looked, how miserable yet how utterly fascinating. My thoughts disgusted me, yet at the same time I couldn’t deny them. As I stared back at him, the aggression in his eyes started to fade. Hope glinted there in its place.

Then I registered the blood on the floor around him. How the hell could I miss it? So much blood. It ran along the base of the far wall and pooled out over the floor, a shocking, plum-red stain on the pale wood. It was thick and unnaturally still, an occasional patch of it glistening under the dimmed overhead lights. Coagulated; no longer flowing. I had no idea how long ago it’d been fresh. The residue puddled around his bare feet and under his legs and arse, then slithered along the edge of the wall again, diverting around the base of a display case. I barely glanced at the case. It stood upright, but crooked as if broken, and the objects inside had been knocked over.

I just stared at the blood. Funny how these things strike you when you’re in shock; it was only after I noticed the mess that the smell hit me. Thick and putrid, seeping into my throat, daring me to gag. Why didn’t blood smell like this domestically? When I cut my hand, when I sliced meat? This was human blood in quantity, human life as it spilled. It had its own unique horror. Some of it had oozed between the young man’s toes—the dark crimson colour stark against the pale skin of his feet, a gruesome parody of piano keys. He sat like an island amongst a grisly sea, a pale shadow within the dark, viscous surround. When he put a hand out to the wall and started to ease himself up, I wanted to cry out, to tell him to stay still. I wanted to stop him spoiling the perfect, limpid surface around him, breaking the seal.

It was the shock made me think that way. Of course it was.

“Charles?” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. “God, I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.” He took a couple of shaky steps toward me. His shoes and socks lay in a discarded pile against the wall, soaked red with the blood. I couldn’t take my eyes off the print left by his foot, a dark smudge on the area of clean floor behind him.

“Charles…?”

There were other footprints—messy, scattered marks on the floor beyond the display case. They weren’t all his. A large huddled object lay against the right-hand wall, half hidden behind the furniture. That area, too, was covered in blood. It wasn’t an object, of course it wasn’t. I was ashamed to have thought of it like one of my exhibits.

It was a body. The body of another young man, even paler, even more disturbed. Even more still.

BUY LINK

EXCERPT TWO:

Walker laughed again, but more softly. He’d made his coffee while still doing something with the tools on the table, gathering them up, putting them away in the wooden box. I couldn’t see around his torso, couldn’t see what his hands were doing in front of his body. I heard the bolt snap shut on the box and he turned back around.

“What are you doing there?” I said, too loudly. I didn’t seem to have full control of my voice. “Why are you bothering with that now? I just want to talk to you.” What are you hiding from me?

He just glared at me, his eyes dark and unwelcoming.

I glanced over at his work in progress. “What kind of themes do you work with, Walker? Did you work with Paolo? He’s…he was a very talented sculptor.” Is that why you were together—as artists? Or was your relationship something else? Something fierce…

“He was a shit,” Walker growled, shaking his head.

His bluntness shocked me. “That’s—what the hell do you mean?”

His eyes narrowed. “You think people shouldn’t speak ill of the dead? Paolo Valero leeched off people. He was pretty and he was talented, but for all the time I knew him, he was a liar and a thief.”

I was stunned. “Money?”

“He stole money, yeah. And materials. And ideas.” Walker sighed. “But he stole time and attention, too. From me—probably from you, too.”

“Why are you saying this? Why are you slandering him like this?”
For the first time I saw uncertainty in Walker’s expression. “You have no fucking idea, do you? It doesn’t mean I wasn’t his friend. Though plenty of people in this business will tell you he got everything he deserved.”

“What do you mean?” I nearly shouted.

Walker shook his head. His frown got deeper. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Is that what happened with you and Paolo?” I persisted. “What did he steal from you? How much?” Maybe too much?

Walker gazed steadily back at me. “You look at everyone like that, Garrett?”

“What do you mean?”

He took a step toward me, threateningly, yet I didn’t move away. I couldn’t identify the expression in his eyes, but it chilled me. “I know guys like you, right? Dealers.” He made it sound like a disease. “You watch other people create, you give your critique, then you pimp the goods. Always on the outside, never really involved. You look around this room with cold eyes. You see a block of stone, you see banknotes, where I see breath and beauty.”

I was furious—suddenly, blindingly furious. “Who do you think you are? You arrogant shit.”

He didn’t even flinch. “And that’s the same look you’re turning on me now. Appraising me.”

I couldn’t speak, my throat was closing tight with the anger. He was right, I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, but it was from anger, not admiration, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with the fierce, sensual attraction that emanated from him, the way his dark eyes caught and fascinated my attention.

“You’re looking at me the same way you look at the stone.” He stepped even closer. A trickle of sweat ran from his throat down the middle of his bare torso. I imagined it pooling above his navel, glistening and bobbing as his belly clenched.
“I’m not.” That’s not me.

“No?” he murmured. He peered at me, sounding puzzled. “Then it’s something else…” His chest was heaving, as if he had the same difficulty breathing as I did. Behind him, the point chisel was still on the edge of the table. He hadn’t locked it away with the other tools. Its handle was a foot from his grasp.

“Get away from me,” I whispered.

He frowned. “Say that again. And this time like you mean it.” He was still searching my face, but now his expression was confused, as if he’d lost whatever he was seeking. And then his eyes slid away from my face to my chest and down the whole of my body, slowly and carefully. When his gaze came back up, lingering for too long on my groin, I blanched. The sexual intent was never in any doubt.

And my body shuddered in response.

He looked back up at me and his hand lifted from his side as if he meant to reach out and touch something.

I stepped back. “Get away,” I repeated, sharply.

His eyebrows rose. He looked both startled and disappointed. “Yeah, just like I said. “Cold. You’re never going to melt that, Garrett, fucking men like pretty, passive Joseph. He’s never going to give you what you need.” He laughed without humour.

I lurched back another few steps, finally released from my strange paralysis. My escape from this room was only a few feet away, in seconds I could be out of the door and back down the stairs to the street.

“I can’t believe all this about Paolo.” I stared into Walker’s eyes, the pupils dilated. I could feel the door frame at my back now, I was brave in the face of my retreat. “Why do you talk about him like that? You want me to be as angry with him as you are. Were. Why?”

“Get out.”

“Were you fucking him?” I cried, and he recoiled. Had I struck a nerve? “Did you want revenge for whatever he’d done to you? Did he make you angry enough to want to hurt him?”

“None of that is your goddamn business,” he snarled. “I said, get the fuck out or else I—”

I dodged back before he could follow up his threat, away from him, my hand reaching blindly for the door handle. I stumbled out onto the landing. Not bothering with dignity or pride, I just dashed down the stairs two at a time. I felt an idiot, and a ridiculously scared one, too.

BUY LINK

I'll be back tomorrow with information on a wonderful celebration. :) Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

PARTY ON!

Join me today, and several of my good friends, for a fun time at LOVE ROMANCES CAFE from 11:00am - 2:00pm EST. I'll have an easy contest for you to win free downloads along with offering great recipes and lively conversation.

Hope to see you there!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

GAZING INTO THE CRYSTAL BALL

The future is bright for talented Clare London who allows her effervescent personality to shine through her work. Clare has a master plan filled with intriguing contracted stories that will be published over the next few years. Today, we focus on her paperback releasing this Sunday from Amber Quill Press. It's a collection of her latest e-books I know you will enjoy.

HEART AND HOME
Clare London
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-798-4 (Paperback)
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure

BUY LINK goes live April 25, 2010



From two men in the middle of a secret affair, to a young muse bringing inspiration to a failing artist, to an established couple discovering they can still surprise each other, to ex-lovers finding compromise far more important than conflict, this collection of stories celebrates the diversity and delight of lovers who seem mismatched, but whose love is strong enough to find the way to each other’s heart—and a home together.

Previously available only in electronic format, these four stories of gay erotic romance have now been combined for a paperback edition! Included are the tales...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HOME SWEET HOME
Clare London
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-649-9 (Electronic)
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure



BUY LINK

BLURB:
The attraction between Chaz and Ryan is as strong as ever, but they’ve taken a relationship break, frustrated by each other’s lifestyle. Chaz is a drifter, casual to the point of carelessness. Ryan is a control freak, preferring order and organization. It just wasn’t working between them. When Chaz moves apartments yet again, the project is fraught with chaos and plenty of breakages. Despite Chaz’s determination to be independent, Ryan comes to help out. Chaz admits he’s grateful for the friendly support. Or at least, that's how it starts.

EXCERPT:
I took a deep breath. “I think I was meant to be changing my own behavior as well. I think I made promises, too. About growing up, about remembering I might have someone else’s interests to consider. Right?”

There was wary gratitude in his eyes. “Yes, you did. You were going to watch yourself, as well.”

We did some more of the staring thing. “Haven’t been too good at it so far, have we?”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes rueful. “Control freak…you said that, plenty of times. I was sweating the small stuff. Chill out, you said. Back off.”

I winced. “Yeah, I can talk shit, too.”

He smiled, genuinely amused I think. “Look, I said before, I don’t want you to be different—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I know that. Wouldn’t work anyway, eh? But it wouldn’t work with you, either.”

“Yes—”

“And that’s just how I like you, Ryan Crawford.”

He went very quiet. I couldn’t hear a breath, couldn’t see his chest moving. He worried his lower lip and I couldn’t take my eyes off the gesture. My gut was still disturbed, but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling. I suspected I knew where this discussion was leading.

“You like…”

“Yeah,” I said, more firmly. “You. As you are. Liked you the first day I met you.” Fell for you shortly after. “Whatever crap I say to the contrary, it’s good to know I can rely on you. Good to know you look out for me. Yeah, you drive me mad. But…” What should I say? How should I say it? He could take a joke like the next guy, but this was something else. “You’re a challenge to me. It’s exciting.”

“You mean the differences?” He was looking at me from under half-lidded eyes.

I held his gaze, trying not to blush like some idiot. “More than that. You…yourself.”

He nodded. Didn’t answer.

It was still my spot on stage. “I can see that this lifestyle of mine is a problem for you.”

“You can?”

“Yeah. And I’m sorry about that, I genuinely am. I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to be a little more responsible. It wouldn’t hurt me to admit that just concentrating on me doesn’t always get me where I want to be. That sometimes I have to backpedal a bit, and mop up a few mistakes. That sometimes I wish…”

Ryan’s mouth opened slightly and he moistened his lips. “Chaz…”

“I wish sometimes I’d thought things out a little more carefully.”

He looked startled. “You mean, like the moving?”

“Uh-huh.” But that wasn’t actually what I was thinking. I was suddenly more concerned that I’d let some pushy blond with cute manners talk me into a separation that—if I’d ever had the sense to realize it—I’d never wanted. I did like the way he looked out for me, provided the anchor for my occasional turbulence. Yeah, I blustered about it but, I’d missed it. And if I’d put some kind of careful thought into the whole separation suggestion, rather than the arrogance I wore like a badge of honor, I might have been able to bring some compromise to the table, rather than a shrug and a surrender. It was a two-way street. Or so someone once told me.

Ryan’s face was a picture—a picture of strange, shocked hope. At least, I hoped that’s what it was, and not permanent hemorrhoids from sitting on the damp, crappy stools that I was sure I’d thrown out after the last move.

“I can see things a little more clearly, too,” he said. His voice wasn’t hoarse anymore. It was soft and low, issuing from those soft yet firm lips of his. Ryan spoke a lot of sense. He could be a fool, same as me, but I knew it was plain cussedness that often prevented me from distinguishing between the two. “I guess I can see that it’s not the end of the world, not having a plan.”

My turn to be startled. “No?”

His face twisted in a wry smile. “Guess that’s something from a control freak like me, eh? Sometimes I like the carefree, the sudden. The spontaneous.”

“You do?”

“I’m working on it. You’re worth it.”

Dammit. That sly grin of his infiltrated my defenses like a rat under a fence. I took another deep breath. “Ryan, I want to do something fairly spontaneous right now, but I’m just not sure how close you are to that coffee machine, which will either explode in your face or you’ll want to beat me off with it—”

He beat me to it, instead. He took two more steps forward, slid his hand around the back of my neck, pulled me forward and kissed me. Hard. His lips were at the firm stage, his palm was slightly sweaty—just how I liked it on my skin—and he smelled like the most delicious thing I could think of, if I’d been able to think clearly at that moment, if his tongue hadn’t been sliding into my mouth, if he hadn’t been whispering against my cheek such incoherent sounds of need, such gasps of please…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MUSE
Clare London
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-588-1 (Electronic)
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure



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BLURB:
Gavin McGrath’s art career is in ruins, his health is failing, his wife’s left him because of his promiscuity, and he’s alienated people in the industry with his aggressive and arrogant behavior.

But when a full pot of red paint falls on his current canvas, apparently ruining it, it brings a change in his life he never expected. A strange, beautiful young man appears in his studio as his companion and Muse. Matteo is from another time but he understands artists all too well—and now his place is with Gavin.

Matteo brings devotion and inspiration across the centuries, forcing Gavin to take stock of his life and his behavior in the months he has left to him. Eventually Gavin realizes he must reconsider the capacity for love he’s always scorned—before it’s too late for both him and Matteo...

EXCERPT:
...Matteo yawned slowly, not self-conscious at all. Then, quite calmly, he dropped to the floor and settled himself cross-legged beside my easel. “You said it yourself. You can’t ignore the cries from inside your gut. That painting cries to me.”

Dear God. “And what does it cry to you, Matteo?” The sarcasm wasn’t as sharp as I’d intended. “You said I painted it from life, but that’s nonsense.”

He sucked thoughtfully on the orange, his nose crinkling every time his teeth bit into it. It was an innately charming, affectionate gesture. “It cries life to me. Hurt. Love. Warmth. Death.”

“Clichés,” I snapped. I was surprisingly disappointed in him. He was nothing but a high school critic, a pretentious mimic. No better than Ailsa and some of the other fawning idiots who came around, ostensibly to learn from me. A trespasser.

He shrugged again and reached for the other half of the orange. He’d sucked the first half quite dry and there were flecks of its flesh on his lower lip. He looked up at me from under thick, dark lashes. “It cries passion to me.”

My breath stilled in my chest. I’d have been scared by the fierce concentration in his gaze if I didn’t know all this couldn’t be real. “That’s not what I want. Not now.”

Matteo laughed as if we both knew I was talking complete crap. Other people had laughed at me in the past, but their laughter was full of scorn and dismissal. Matteo’s was…happy. Fond. After a moment, I smiled, too.

He snagged another orange and settled his back against the wall. He drew his legs up against his chest, well-developed muscles straining against the material of his pants, one hand resting on his knees. “But for now, you must also finish what you’ve started. All these paintings…” With the hand holding the orange, he gestured toward the stacked canvases. “You must decide on the good ones and make them better. Then sell them so you have enough money.”

I shook my head, astonished at his boldness. “You know nothing about it. They’re all crap, there’s nothing new there.” Or so my agent had said, both to my face and then in correspondence, because he was a coward. I wasn’t an idiot, I knew my bad temper had increased over the last few years. I’d scared the shit out of him more than once and also alienated most of the gallery owners in town. Even hardened art journalists thought twice about approaching me nowadays. What did I have to offer anymore? I was at the end of the road on so many levels. I’d never have admitted my failures to Ailsa, but here I was, baring my rather soiled soul to this weird, misguided young man.

Matteo laughed. Such a relaxed, untroubled sound. “But I’m here now.” He leaned his head back and planted his bare feet firmly on the floor, wriggling once more to get comfortable. “So now you must tell me about yourself, Gavin McGrath.” When I opened my mouth to protest again, he shook his head, his young, soft eyes a little grave. “While you paint, of course.”

It was nonsense. Didn’t I say so? All of it. It couldn’t be happening and it shouldn’t be tolerated. But I got up from my chair and picked up the palette. Matteo nodded at me, encouragingly. I stood at the easel and concentrated on the top section of the canvas. The red paint had bubbled there; the light in the studio caught the top of each bump, reflecting and refracting, blending the dips and shadows. I could see the opportunity there to paint the emergence of a life, bubbling into existence, raw and innocent and clean. My vision was much clearer than usual and the pain in my chest had eased. For one brief, shocked moment, I thought I caught the scent of the orange, hanging in the air of the studio, tart and sweet. And as I painted, I started to tell Matteo about myself.

Several hours later, he stopped murmuring replies to me. I no longer heard the creak of the floorboards behind me as he shifted to get comfortable. Was he asleep? I wiped a bead of sweat from my chin, but for some reason I was wary of turning around to look.

“Matteo?”

There was a slight whisper—it might have been a draft under the door out of the studio. I tried for a careless, cynical tone.

“You never said who your artist friend is.”

He sighed, then. “Concentrate on your work, Gavin. It’s not important. And maybe you won’t have heard of him? He uses the name of his town, where he lived and his parents died. It was before he came to Rome. He goes by the name of Caravaggio.”

And when I whirled around, Matteo had gone. I never heard the door either open or close behind him...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

UPWARDLY MOBILE
Clare London
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-628-4 (Electronic)
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure



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BLURB:
Since the day they met, Owen’s restraint has been an exciting foil to Caleb’s unruly lack of discipline. Now established lovers, they can’t deny how welcome that balance is in their lives. Two very different men, both strong-willed - it shouldn’t work between them, but it does! Owen’s steady world is rocked by Caleb’s boldness, and Caleb finds a haven in return. Now they share their lives, a strong need for each other and a highly developed love of play.

On this weary night at the end of a working week, they’re caught in traffic on opposite sides of town. They’ll have to wait to meet up until the journey’s over, to enjoy the evening together. Or will they? Caleb decides he won’t wait to play, and he’ll play as dirty as he dares – or as much as they can handle over the phone!

EXCERPT:
Caleb watched other vehicle headlamps arc across the side window of his car, then swoop away in the opposite direction. He relaxed a little in his seat and lifted one hand off the steering wheel.

“Caleb?” On the other end of the phone, Owen’s voice had that sharp edge again, sending welcome goose bumps down Caleb’s flesh. “What do you mean by that?”

“Didn’t I say? I don’t like waiting. I’m horny now.”

Owen made the tutting sound that Caleb also knew well. “So surprise me. Not. But there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m sitting in a cold, damp train carriage and you’re trapped in traffic.” He went silent for a moment, then when Caleb didn’t reply, he snapped again, “Caleb?”

Caleb sighed happily. In complete contrast to his lover, he felt increasingly relaxed. The car heater was on and the windows were slightly steamed. He was protected from the foul weather outside, also the noise and hassle of city life. Work had been tedious this week, but now it was over for another couple of days. Okay, so Owen was still miles away, but Caleb had an intriguing alternative. His guy’s voice was pitched at just the right level, irritated yet curious, too. Just at that cusp between fury and fascination.
Could go either way, Caleb knew that from experience. That was what made the game all the more delicious. He felt … yeah. Provocative.

“Yes, Owen?”

“Don’t,” came Owen’s voice. He sounded apprehensive.

“Don’t what?” Caleb smiled broadly. He liked apprehension in a man, too. It certainly had its place in foreplay. “Like you say, there’s nothing we can do about it. Not we, anyway.”

Owen made a soft, strangled noise.

Caleb leaned around the steering column to be nearer the phone, dropping his voice to an almost-whisper. “I can always entertain myself. Not as good as lying spread out and naked on the lounge carpet, my breath heaving, my knees drawn up to my belly and your slicked fingers sliding in and out of me.” He sighed, rather theatrically. “But a guy’s got to make the best of a situation.”

“Dear God.”

Caleb didn’t really want to be distracted by the strained tone of Owen’s voice. All he wanted to concentrate on was how deep it was; how rich. That voice. His pants seemed to be getting tighter by the second. Owen’s protests – though Caleb couldn’t recall any of them ever being significant - did that to him every time. He rubbed his free hand gently over his lap, caressing the bulge there.

“I’m very hot tonight,” he murmured. “Very thick.”

Owen cursed under his breath, but Caleb caught most of the words. Owen had an impressively imaginative vocabulary when he chose to swear. Sounded like he touched on plenty of things that were currently coloring Caleb’s own imagination.

“Dammit, Caleb, you’re in the car. Have you pulled over?”

Caleb let out a slow, heavy breath, making sure the phone would pick up the noise.

“Yeah. And I’ve pulled out. Didn’t you hear my zipper?”

Owen’s breath made a sharp, gasping sound.

Caleb slipped his hand inside his open fly and ran possessive fingers along the length of his cock, swelling inside his briefs. “I’m hot. Way too hot. Lucky I wore the thin, white shirt today. You know the one? It’s loose. I can reach up under it and…soothe myself.” He impatiently flipped open the lower buttons on his shirt and slid his other hand up his chest to his nipple. It was pebbled already, and not from the cold weather outside. He pinched it between his finger and thumb and rolled it, hard. Made him wince, but in that good kind of way. “Ouch.”

“What are you doing?”

Caleb grinned. “I’m just touching.”

“Touching?”

“Uh-huh.” He heard Owen’s hesitation; heard the catch in his breath when surrender started to win over self possession. That exact moment was as sweet as any pie they’d ever shared since that first night.

“What are you…?”

“Touching?” Caleb didn’t expect an answer, not if Owen was still in a public place. "Myself. My skin. My belly. My chest. I can feel my heart beating against my palm. It’s kinda fast.”

“You said…”

“Ouch. Yeah. Pinched too hard.” Caleb arched his body, only his shoulders touching the back of the seat. “My nipples are sore with it, guess I’m a bit rough. And maybe I’m wishing it was your hand, instead of my own. But it’s going to be fun, to get these pierced. Like I suggested, you remember? We can both play with them.”

Owen groaned; the sound carried well over the phone line. Caleb shivered with delight and ran his hand back down to his belly. He spread out his fingers and felt his way over the clenched muscles. Slowly, he slid his fingertips in under the waistband of his briefs.

“What’s happening?” Owen’s voice was low. “Caleb?”

Caleb frowned. “You can find out when you get home. Not long to wait, I thought you said.”

Owen growled. “Hmm. Maybe I’m the same as you, after all.”

The growl had been enough for Caleb’s whole body to tense up. Owen’s frustrated tone was just that extra frosting on top. “Yeah? I don’t think that’d be much fun.”

Owen tutted. “You know what I mean. Impatient. I can be impatient, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop saying…” Owen cut off the words with a grunt. Caleb imagined his lover’s expression. Angry with his situation, aroused despite it. His pupils starting to dilate, his fists clenched.

Oh, but the game was sweet, too!

“I guess you are the same in some ways.” Caleb reached down inside the cotton fabric to stroke his growing erection. He lowered his voice, too. “You don’t hold back, do you, Owen? At least, not now, not with me. I’d like to watch that, in person. The expression on your face; the clench of your muscles. I wish you were here.”

“Look, I know, so do I—”

“Right now. To see me. To stroke me.”

Owen groaned again. “I don’t think this is fair. I don’t see how I can…”

“Ah, but you can.”

“I can…what? Caleb, for God’s sake…”

“Surprise me,” Caleb whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A GOOD NEIGHBOR
Clare London
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-574-4 (Electronic)
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure



Dylan hasn’t told his eccentric Aunts to stop matchmaking him with girls—or that he’s already having a secret affair with Neal, his nearby neighbor. Maybe it’s time for Dylan to confess, and to decide what kind of life he really wants with the man he loves.


Dylan admits it himself, he's a relentlessly single man in a small town, consoled only by being a good teacher and a devoted nephew to his Great-Aunts.

When the Aunts take a hand in matchmaking him with Josie, the girl down the street, Dylan doesn't tell them what kind of soulmate he's really looking for—and the fact that he's already found the man in question, Josie's brother Neal. But a secret affair can't go on forever, can it?

Faced with a heart-wrenching decision when his chance at love seems to be moving even farther out of his reach, Dylan knows it's time for him to own up to what he wants...and what kind of man he really is...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have a wonderful weekend. I'll be back next week with Selena Illyria. Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

A BEAUTIFUL IMAGINATION

is a God-given talent Clare London uses to the utmost in her compelling, well plotted novels. Below are two of her books available from Dreamspinner Press which may be purchased either in e-book or paperback. I think you'll enjoy them. :)

SPARKS FLY
Clare London
Dreamspinner Press



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BLURB:
Nic Gerrard is this year's brightest young entrepreneur, charming and charismatic, with time for everyone. Aidan West is his cleverest programmer, fiercely committed to his work and with little time for friendship or socializing. Together they created the successful dating agency, Sparks, with a new and refreshing approach to matching people.

A year later, their lives are very different – Nic has all the trappings of success and as much company as he wants; Aidan is solitary and disapproving of such a lifestyle. When Nic decides to update the agency's unique matching program, he and Aidan must work together again. Getting along gets harder as they deal with a malicious hacker and face a crisis at the agency. It will take both of them to make the agency work, and somehow they have to find a way to put their differences aside. Nic and Aidan have secrets to keep, and whether they'll admit it or not, they each need something – or someone – to help Sparks fly.

EXCERPT (NC17):
Aidan stood outside the bar as Nic came striding out after him. Nic looked relieved that Aidan was still there, but his expression turned to shock at Aidan’s next words.

“You kiss strangers in bars a lot? Or let them kiss you?”

Nic almost laughed aloud, this scene was farcical! “He’s not a stranger. He’s an acquaintance. Was an acquaintance.” Don’t be such an asshole, Aidan, he thought to himself.

“More than an acquaintance, I think. A friend?”

Nic stared at Aidan. What the fuck was going on? Why was Aidan nagging away at this? “Okay, he was more than an acquaintance, if you want to know. But less than a friend.”

“How do you measure that?”

“What – you want to write a program for it?” Nic couldn’t believe the tone of his voice, the bickering in it, the hostility. But he couldn’t hold himself back. He could feel his anger rising in the face of Aidan’s aggression.

“No, just interested.”

“I knew him closely for a month or so.”

“So … an acquaintance might be known – let’s say – for a week, a friend for much longer. People like that kid come somewhere in between. So let’s look at the other parameters. At what stage does the kiss come in? And how many weeks for a quick fuck? I assume that’s what he was?”

Nic was shocked at the crude language from Aidan. He didn’t think he’d ever heard him swear much, and somehow it didn’t sit comfortably with him. He was amazed that his companion was disturbed enough to use it. The sidewalk was quiet outside the bar, there were very few people around at this time of the morning, and luckily none of them seemed interested in a sudden altercation between two young men. But Nic was damned angry, as well. What had happened to the comfortable mood of just a short while ago?

“Jesus, Aidan, you are so damned offensive! How dare you talk to me like that?”

Aidan felt something harden inside of him; a sharp spike of pain in his gut. “It’s an unforgivable abuse of people, Nic. You’re in the spotlight, it’s only natural that they come to you, but then you use them –”

“What? What sort of guy do you think I am?”

“Am I wrong?” Aidan’s face was flushed. He felt the pain again, and it was all mixed up with the anger. The destructive, white-hot anger that he knew would consume him; that would leave him panting and alone, and plunge him back into the maelstrom of his miserable, broken nights. “When they come fawning over you? Do you send them home before or after you’ve had your fun?”

“If it’s offered, why not?” Nic snapped back. “They’re adults – they can make their own decisions, can’t they?” And that’s not what he meant to say, because it wasn’t strictly true, he did care about the people he came into contact with, but, boy, did he hate people who made him lose his temper!

And Aidan was relentless. “That's your philosophy in life, is it? Take anything and everything that comes your way?”

“Is this because you have a problem with me and guys? How dare you!”

“No – not that –” Aidan’s anger faltered for a second, but his words continued to spill out. He was sickeningly fearful of going too far – but he couldn’t stop himself. “I don’t care who you fuck. It’s your promiscuity that’s so disgusting.”

Nic gasped. He couldn’t believe the bolt of pain that shot through him. “Who the fuck do you think you are, saying that? What if I am promiscuous? At least I’m connecting with people, not always hiding away behind a damned screen, judging things you have no real fucking knowledge of!”

Aidan’s eyes flashed in anger. Nic couldn’t help himself, either, or his reaction to this man; he saw the gold glints inside the deep brown irises, and he felt a rush of fury to his brain, of desire to his groin – he’d never known such conflict inside himself. Aidan’s sharp voice cut through all of it, harsh and low. “Connecting? That’s what you call it? Fucking everything in sight?”

“Don’t knock it 'til you’ve tried it!”

Aidan drew a deep breath, but it didn’t calm him at all. “So you say I should try it?”

“Maybe you should, then you wouldn’t be so fucking holier than thou.”

Nic’s next words were lost as his breath was crushed under Aidan’s hands, hands that pressed hard on his chest, pushing him back against the wall. He was shocked at Aidan’s strength – the muscles he’d guessed at under the shirt were tight and perfectly controlled. Aidan bent his arm across Nic’s chest, forcing him back against the cold brick, and the other hand gripped his chin.

And then he kissed him.

It wasn’t just a kiss – it was like a declaration of war! Nic didn’t know how someone could kiss so passionately and yet so damned aggressively! He was paralyzed, and for that moment, totally submissive. The whole smell, the whole feel of Aidan was suddenly swamping him, his face pressed against Nic’s, the mouth moist and sweet but hard at the same time, his tongue forcing through Nic’s shocked lips, to probe at his own, to run fiercely around inside his mouth, seeking out the corners, the curves, the taste. Aidan’s hand moved from his chin and gripped him by the shoulder, hard. The other hand released the hold on Nic’s chest and thrust behind his neck, tangling into his hair, tugging Nic’s head forward into Aidan’s embrace.

Nic could do nothing but respond. Fuck, he wanted to do nothing but respond. He’d never had a kiss like it, from man or woman! Almost shamefully, he felt his erection pressing hard against his leg, and knew that Aidan would feel it too. He felt an answering pressure from the other man’s thighs, but before he could find out if Aidan was as aroused as he was, the invading mouth wrenched away.

“Jesus…” gasped Nic. The movement of his fingers to his lips was completely unconscious. He thanked God he was still propped against the wall, doubting his legs would hold him up otherwise. His cock was swelling and aching beyond belief, straining against the front of his pants.

Aidan’s gaze darted down to Nic’s groin then back up to his face. “You want to fuck me?” he hissed. His lips were swelled with the kiss, his eyes bright like ice in sunlight. Like a reflection in a sharpened knife, Nic thought, his mind still reeling. Aidan stepped back, away from Nic, swaying slightly.

Nic’s voice wouldn’t work, though he knew that his body screamed its own answer. Aidan never gave him any chance to reply, anyway.

“You do, don’t you? Well, why wouldn’t you? I’m just another employee to you, another body, another consumable! But you can just get over it. Because – unlike all those other bodies – I don’t want to fuck you!”

Aidan was very pale and shaking, as if he wasn’t quite sure of his control – Nic could see a tremor in the pulse at his throat. He turned around abruptly and started to walk away. Nic watched him in complete, stunned amazement; the straight back, the finely shaped legs, the most perfect ass he’d ever seen … and the fists, clenched so tightly at Aidan’s sides that the knuckles were white.

Nic stood slumped against the wall, gulping in the early morning air like a drowning man and trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

And what the hell had all that meant?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GOLD WARRIOR
Clare London
Dreamspinner Press



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BLURB:
Maen is a Gold Warrior, defender of Aza City, a world controlled by the Queen and her womankind where the best of men are maintained for the military and the women's pleasure. A favorite of his imperious Mistress and a leader among his men, Maen is too cautious to seek casual sexual satisfaction and so stays alone, taking his comfort in ensuring a stable and controlled world. That world is thrown into disarray by Dax, a bold and challenging new Bronze soldier who excites Maen with his fierce hero worship and leads them to a forbidden affair. They find themselves thrown together in a dangerous and hostile environment without the support of the City and far away from their loyalties, and Maen finds himself risking everything for Dax – his position; his loyalties; and eventually, his life.

EXCERPT (NC17):
“Touch me!” Dax hissed, urgently. His chest heaved in great, shuddering breaths, and his mouth pressed on mine again. His hands slid around my waist, scrabbling under my vest to feel my skin against his. His fingers were like firebrands: he broke from me, gasping, as if he felt the heat, too. “Touch me - and then I can touch you! How long have I waited for you to see me like this? I’ve admired you since I first saw you; since I was so scared of you, so feared of your displeasure. I never thought I’d be worthy of you, but I’ve listened to every word you said - I’ve tried to be a fine Bronzeman.”

“You have! You are,” I gasped. “But this is wrong -”

“I can’t have mistaken it all!” he cried. He grabbed at my hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart was hammering even more loudly than my own. “The look in your eyes, sometimes, when we talked like companions, not soldiers - did I imagine it? I begged for it. These feelings have always been in me, whenever you were with me… it’s been a torment, since the day I joined the Household. At first, I didn’t dare hope you had the same respect for me, but I sought you out regardless - wanted to be near you. Maen, I wanted to be a Silver Captain - so very much! To do you honour, but also so that I could have you, like they all use each other. So that I could feel you take me, your body covering mine, your hands on my ass, your cock inside me - if you so wanted -”

If I so wanted? I felt that my body was alight with desire; that if I didn’t crouch between his legs and slide my fingers up into him right now, I’d expire from the frustration. It took only that second - only that first, hungry kiss - to know that I’d wanted nothing but that, since the day I saw him.

“I’d have put up with their pawing,” he ground out. “All of them - women and men. They want me, I know. I can smell it on them when I pass, do you think I don’t notice? And it’s all the same to me - it’s nothing much to want, or to hate. But to have you - ! I’d do anything. I heard the Silvers at night, and that’s what I wanted with you. I knew that to be more true than anything else in my life.”

“But you’re still a Bronzeman, not yet a Silver,” I protested. “It’s the most hideous crime…”

He ignored me, and couldn’t I admire that youthful arrogance? His mouth sucked at my neck: his fingers pinched at a nipple, up under my thin vest. And when his hand cupped the front of my trousers and squeezed my agony there, I heard him suck in his breath.

“You mean you can’t touch me like this. You can’t have me.”

“No,” I groaned. “You’re not for me. You’re only for the Ladies - for the Mistress. You could satisfy yourself in the Household, with them. You’ve no need of anything, Dax - no need of anyone else.”

“I don’t want them,” he hissed, holding me tight in his palm, pumping at me. To my shame and my increasing delight, I leaned into him eagerly, bucking my hips, straining for his touch. My hands grasped at his buttocks, feeling the muscles clench under the thin fabric of his trousers. “I don’t want the Ladies,” he muttered, “with their soft, urgent bodies, and their begging for my seed, not in the way that I want you!”

It was too much - I couldn’t think straight. I despised the way that my body no longer followed my commands, and yet I felt inflamed with the thrill of him; the desire for him. I was becoming a man that I barely recognized! My fingers were at his hips, and he was fumbling at his trousers opening, trying to wriggle the cloth away from his skin so that I could touch more of him. He was panting, softly. “Is this all my imagination, Maen? Am I the only one who wants this? Are you angry with me? It’s commonplace in the barracks - I know what men do, even you, I’m sure -”

“Don’t be stupid, Dax!” I spoke harshly, because it seemed I had no control over my voice, either. “You’ve never had a man - it’s not an easy thing -“

“Do you want me?” he said, bluntly, his voice urgent and thick with desire. “Because I want you - I want to couple with you. I never wanted anyone before, not like this. I want your mouth on my cock and your hands caressing me. I want to wrap my legs around you and feel you push into me, possessing me. I want to give you pleasure, Maen: I want you inside me. I want everything! I’m not going to be very experienced, of course, but I know I can learn - I can make it good for you -”

I groaned aloud. “That’s not what I meant.” Foolish man! As if it had ever been my concern, for coupling to be good for me! My heart ached that he should care for that. “You’re talking nonsense, Dax - it’s the fear of this time; the strangeness of our situation. We can forget this, now, then perhaps when you’re Silver, we can think again -”

“No!” he snapped. “It was bad enough in my Training, taking those Devotions, allowing the Ladies to Call and use me when they wished. Don’t you see what the Bronzemen become, Maen? They’re breeding animals, that’s all, until they’re older and more manly, and then they’re pumped full of the Devotions until they become dullards - muscle-bound, fodder for the battles of the City. I don’t want to wait for you until my brain is dull and my body’s a tool for others - I never did! All right, I never thought I’d have any other choice, but we’ve escaped that, now. And don’t tell me you can’t feel the difference in you, here at the Place. I want to share this time with you - this bright spark of my flame, before it’s caught in duty and death and snuffed out - ”

He shifted suddenly, pressing himself back against me and trapping my leg between his. His own arousal was very fierce and very hard, dragged halfway out of his clothing, the heat of his flesh pressing insistently on mine, and making me gasp.

“I want you here, Maen. As we are now - as the men we are now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

See you all tomorrow when we gaze into the crystal ball. Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

ALL THE WAY WITH CLARE LONDON

Today we feature my favorite book by Clare London. An outstanding story, FREEMAN grabs you from the beginning and holds your interest and heart all the way.

FREEMAN
Clare London
MLR Press
ISBN 978-1-60820-004-7 print
978-1-60820-005-4 ebook

BUY LINK



BLURB:
Freeman's return to the city is quiet, without fuss -- the way he likes things. But, he's missed by more people than he thought: his ex-wife, his ex-lover, and his ex-business partner. One wants friendship, another one intimacy. The third just wants him the hell gone again.

Freeman -- private, controlled -- hasn't time or appetite for trouble. But, when he strikes up an unusual, ill-advised friendship with young, lively, amoral Kit, it seems trouble comes looking for both men, ready to expose secrets that can destroy the fragile trust they've built. Freeman's more ready for the challenge than anyone realizes when the choice comes down to peace or Kit's life.

EXCERPT:
I listened carefully for any undertone in his words, knowing I’d get no more explanation if I pushed him now. He sounded honest; he sounded bitter. Whoever and whatever other people might think he was, Kit himself thought he was no-one special. I lifted my hand off his and stepped back. Reluctance tugged at me like something sticky. I looked over to my coat, hanging on the back of the couch.

“You’re going out?” Kit followed my gaze and frowned. Maybe he was still nervous; maybe suspicious of me.

I nodded. “I’ve got work to do today.”

He let out a short breath, like he’d been holding it. He looked restless again. “I thought… you might be… you know. Going back there.”

“Work,” I repeated, calmly. “Just work.”

Kit smiled, brightly. “I’ll come with you. Help you out with…” For a second he looked sheepish. “…your work. Whatever.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “You need to rest. I’ll give you my mobile number and you’ll be safe enough here until I get back.” I regretted using the word ‘safe’ even as it escaped my mouth – and the implication that he might not be - but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I can stay?”

“Yes, of course.” The pleasure in his face lit up his eyes and broadened his smile. I walked over to the couch and pulled on my coat.

“Freeman?” I turned back to face him. He’d moved behind a chair, as if he needed distance between us. Protection. “The sex business… you know? The parties. With George. It’s over.”

“Over?”

He bit his lip as I’d so often seen him do. “After… well, last time you were in the club. After that party, I told him I didn’t want it anymore. Didn’t want him fucking me.” He rushed on, maybe afraid that I’d say something provocative about George. “He didn’t seem bothered, actually. Just sent me off to work as usual.” He shook his head gently: a different kind of confusion. “Don't know why he didn't ask me to return the keys to my room right then. But he let me stay on, regardless."

I let out my breath, quietly. I was imagining his conversation with George, delivering his terms. His simple, bold bravery.

“I want to clean up my act, Freeman.” He sounded belligerent but his eyes pleaded with me to understand. “Want to start again.”

I nodded. “That’s good. Good for you.”

He moved out from behind the chair and started to close the distance between us again.

“Not doing it just for me. I’m doing it for you, too.”

For me?

“Freeman, I don’t just want to be here, I want to be here with you.”
I think I was shaking my head, though I wasn’t moving out of his path. “It’s your decision what you do with your life, Kit.”

He laughed, still walking across the room, only a couple of feet from the couch by now. His slim body swayed with easy, graceful movements. “Yeah, seems like that’s your style. Don’t tell a person what to do, but when you don't approve, your face looks like you swallowed a wasp and won’t tell anyone it stings like fuck.”
I laughed aloud, then.

He seemed pleased. “That’s true, right?”

“Yes, maybe,” I agreed.

“I know it’s my life, my decision.” We were laughing together as he came close enough to put an arm out to me. “Hell, if I wanted to, I could fuck a different man every one of the twelve days of Christmas, right?” I was still laughing when he slipped both arms back around my waist and pressed his belly against mine. He looked up into my face. “But none of them would be you, Freeman. I want you.”

I was silent – the laughter dried in my throat. I looked down into his face and all I could see were those dark, wide eyes. His expression was an equal mix of terror and determination. He looked like the fragile Kit I’d seen in the club on the first night I met him – like the aggressive Kit who’d argue with me whenever he felt like it – like the surprisingly mature Kit who’d grin at me without prompt and talk to me without pretension or suspicion. They were all there, challenging me. I could hear his soft panting breath – I could smell him, smell the body wash from his shower and the freshness of my clean linen and every small, warm, human, bodily pulse that I’d come to recognize from him.

He lifted his chin with both defiance and nervousness. “I don’t know how to get you, Freeman. Don’t laugh at me. Don’t get mad. I think you want me too, but you won’t make a move. I just don’t know what to do.” He flushed, and then before I could answer him, he leant up and forwards, and with a slow, hushed inevitability he kissed me.

My heart may not have stopped physiologically but it did emotionally. I felt the pressure of the soft, damp lips and the bold, hot tongue licking at mine. I opened my mouth because I was startled, and his tongue slipped in greedily to explore me. No – I was lying to myself, the worst sin of all. I opened my mouth because I wanted him, inside me. I wanted to taste him – to plunder him – to explore him, too. My hands darted up to grasp his shoulders – to push him away – but somehow they lost their way and became entangled in the hair at the back of his neck. It slipped through my fingers but I got enough of a hold to tug his head nearer, to tilt him so that we fit better together. It didn’t take much. I felt as if we breathed the same breath, shared the same gasp.
“Freeman…” His murmur was in my ear, his delighted laugh like a caress. “Fuck, you taste good.”

We kissed some more, because now it truly was a mutual pleasure. I pressed his head back as I leaned in to him, ran my fingers along the line of his jaw, watched the convulsive jerk of his throat as he swallowed. His eyes were half-closed and so he didn’t see me as I gazed at his face, following each line, each stretched muscle, each flickering eyelid. I kissed the sides of his mouth; I kissed the rich, full softness of the middle; I kissed the skin of his cheek, just below his ear. He tasted just as I’d imagined he would – cool and hot; sweet and piquant. Remarkable. He kissed me back, hot and eager and clumsy, his fingers stroking the tendons in my neck, his lips sucking at mine. I could feel his heartbeat speeding up, thudding against my torso. He made soft, gasping noises as his mouth moved against mine.

We broke for air, long before I had any trouble breathing but long after we could have called it a momentary distraction and laughed it off. Kit’s eyes were gleaming. I saw his chest heaving underneath his thin shirt. His fingers played with the hem as if he were getting ready to peel it off. “Wow,” he whispered.

“Kit,” I murmured. His name sounded different to me, somehow.

“Wow,” he repeated, and laughed shakily. “Shit. It’s so different. You. This. I wanted to do it – but it’s not what I thought.” I frowned and he flushed. “No, Freeman, I mean it’s good! So very, very good. Better. But it’s like an ache… inside. Hurts me.” He laughed again, his hand against his chest, his voice shaky and self-conscious. He looked like he was searching for something more articulate, but whatever he said, I already understood.

“I won’t hurt you,” I said. My voice sounded different, too. Hoarser… richer.

“I know you won’t,” he replied quickly, grinning. He was shivering again, but he seemed pleased about it. He started to pull up his shirt, like before.

“No,” I said, gently. I slid my hands down from his shoulders and grasped his wrists. “No, Kit.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be sure to join us tomorrow for with our last bit on the amazing Clare London. Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com

LIVE WITH CLARE LONDON

This week we feature multi-published Clare London, an awesome writer you'll want to read over and over again.

Clare's forte is M/M. Here's her bio which explains why:

Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash and waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in her frenetic, all-male family home.

All the details and free fiction are available at her website. Visit her today and say hello! For more info on Clare and other talented authors, check out her blog.

Clare's work has won many awards with the most recent being from Love Romances Cafe for Best GLBT Author and Best Contemporary Book: True Colors.



Also The Rainbow Awards on Elisa Rolle's blog, TRUE COLORS was nominated as one of the Jury's Choice. It didn't win, but it's a lovely button. :)



Now it's time to show you what all the praise is about.

TRUE COLORS
Clare London
Dreamspinner Press



BUY LINKS:
E-book
Paperback

BLURB:
From the very first, Zeke Roswell and Miles Winter are like oil and water. After a tragic fire claimed his brother's life, Zeke's personal and professional life spiraled out of control, and now he has no choice but to sell his gallery to cover his debts. Enter successful entrepreneur Miles, who buys it and plans to make a commercial success out of Zeke's failure.

Their initial hostility stands no chance against the strong passion that ambushes them. Zeke's talent and lust for life intoxicate Miles, and Zeke finds Miles's self-assurance and determination equally fascinating. But it's not until an unsolved mystery of violence and stolen sketches threatens to sabotage any chance at happiness that Miles and Zeke realize they have a chance at all.

EXCERPT:
Miles didn’t know what made him start on up the stairs without calling or knocking.
When he reached the top, he looked across the landing, searching for Zeke. The door to the studio was wide open and he could see inside. There was a table set up in there now, and a couple of display stands, though there were no pictures or plans in view. The overhead light was off, and the only light in the room was from a thick church candle, anchored on a china plate and balanced rather precariously on the edge of the table. There were two coffee mugs there as well, and another empty plate.

Miles took a tentative step forward and peered further in. Over by the window, he saw Zeke with his back to him, one arm braced against the wall, facing out toward the city view. His body was silhouetted against the darkening sky outside by the single, flickering flame of the candle. His hair was tied back this evening, a short but vivid trail of dark curls against a white T-shirt that was too short, as usual; it rode up around his midriff. He wore those damned sweat shorts, though probably another pair, but the same style. Miles stared at the gap of fresh skin between shirt and shorts; followed the lines of muscles down the back of Zeke’s thighs; gazed at the slight glimmer of sweat in the hollow behind his knees, as it caught what little light there was.
His heartbeat stuttered and re-settled to its regular rhythm.

Almost immediately afterward, he noticed the other pair of legs. Another person stood in front of Zeke, largely hidden by him. The four limbs were closely pressed together and there was the shadow of fingertips at Zeke’s waist. Miles realized the other person must be extremely close, because he couldn’t see a separate face, couldn’t see easily which arm might be which.

With a wash of cold shock, he also realized how stupid he was, for the pair of them were obviously kissing. Zeke’s head dipped against the girl’s and her other hand gripped softly behind his neck, tangling into his hair, tugging him further against her. Miles saw the muscles of Zeke’s shoulders tensing as he pressed her body up against the wall more tightly, pushing his chest against her, his mouth so obviously working on hers.
Miles heard a soft gasp; a moan swallowed by another eager mouth.

Zeke’s free arm was hugged in front of his body, the hand hidden from view. The girl’s legs were parted against his hips. Miles imagined him flipping open the button of her jeans; he had visions of Zeke sliding his long, supple fingers down into her clothes; of touching her curls; of stroking parts that were hot and sweaty, and sensitive to every finger’s touch….

His shock became even colder as he watched the hand on Zeke’s waist slip down to his ass, and squeeze him confidently through the sweat fabric. Miles saw the muscles of Zeke’s shoulders shiver with pleasure, and his back arch under the touch. But there was something about the darkly tanned skin of the companion’s bare arm, seen clearly for the first time—something that jarred. There were strong tendons stretching to grasp at Zeke’s body, and soft hairs glinting in the evening glow.

It was a masculine hand; a young man’s hand. Miles had assumed it was a girl, but it was male.

He knew he had to leave. He had invaded Zeke’s privacy. Carter had tried to tell him Zeke was busy; he just hadn’t realized with what. He felt sick, and wondered briefly why a genuine error should make him feel so unstable. He wasn’t aware of making any noise as he turned to go back downstairs, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the figures straighten up and turn in his direction.

“Miles?” It was Zeke’s voice. Miles cursed every God he’d ever read about, and paused, his hand on the doorframe.

“Hold up, Miles. We’re just finished here, you know? Marco’s just going. Aren’t you, man?”

Miles stood, transfixed, staring at somewhere between the stairwell and the floor, as he heard the disgruntled mumbles from Zeke’s companion, and Zeke’s own careless laugh. “Not now, Marc baby. Yeah, I know. But first it was Carter calling, and now it’s my boss. I don’t have the time tonight. I’ll call you. Come on, man….”

Some rustling clothes; Miles heard a zipper being wrenched up. There was a jolt to his elbow, and a young, dark-haired man pushed past him, none too gently. Miles had the brief impression of a scowling, Mediterranean-cast face, and a body that obviously worked out; then Marco was gone, lumbering down the stairs in a rather unattractive sulk.

“Christ, don’t you ever knock?” growled Zeke. He came to stand next to Miles with a wry smile on his face. His cheeks were flushed; his lips plump and moist. “Guess that was useful for me, though. He’s a little too clingy for my liking.”

“I interrupted you… both. I’m sorry. I thought with Carter gone, you were free.”

“You met Carter?” Zeke looked at Miles with interest. “Good. I told him some stuff about you. Probably best he sees you for real, or I may be blackening your name needlessly, eh?” He laughed, easily enough.

Miles leaned a little away from him. He hated him, briefly, suddenly, and had never known such a reaction in himself. How could Zeke be so cool after such embarrassment? How could he just abandon the sensual anticipation of that make-out session, and dismiss his lover so swiftly? How could he chat so calmly to Miles about other people entirely; how could he laugh as if nothing had happened there? Miles wished he could wipe his own embarrassment from his mind—the strange, churning feelings inside his stomach that he was sure were showing on his face. He’d never known such discomfort.

Nor had he ever felt such desire. A desire that wracked his gut, demanding that he be where that young man had been, just moments before: wrapped around Zeke Roswell, with Zeke’s tongue in his mouth, and Zeke’s hand down the front of his pants.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A GOOD NEIGHBOR
Clare London
Amber Quill Press-Amber Allure
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-574-4
Gay / Contemporary / Romantic Comedy



BUY LINK

BLURB:
Dylan admits it himself, he's a relentlessly single man in a small town, consoled only by being a good teacher and a devoted nephew to his Great-Aunts.

When the Aunts take a hand in matchmaking him with Josie, the girl along the street, Dylan doesn't tell them what kind of soul-mate he's really looking for - and the fact that he's already found the man in question, Josie's brother Neal. But a secret affair can't go on for ever, can it? Finally faced with a heart-wrenching decision, when his chance at love seems to be moving even farther out of his reach, maybe it's time for Dylan to own up to what he wants – and what kind of man he really is.

EXCERPT:
The door opened abruptly. For a few seconds, I just stared. My heart was hammering, fierce as anything. But the smile that greeted me was broad and mischievous and full of a welcoming love for life. It was also very familiar. Dark, strong features. With a mental nod to the Aunts, I stepped inside. My sight began to adjust to the change, the hallway furniture throwing elongated shadows across the pale, waning sunlight, and then the front door slammed behind me as if cutting me off from the life outside…
And I was plunged into another one.

I never had a chance to speak. The bouquet was snatched from my hands and flung onto the low table by the door. I was pushed back against the wall and a hard, flat chest pressed against mine, hot breath panting in my ear, broad hands reaching to push my jacket off my shoulders. Strong hands. Impatient.

“Fuck.” The voice was harsh and masculine. A man’s face brushed against mine, the jawline rough with a half-day’s stubble, the eyes gazing hungrily at me. “You’re early! I thought we said tomorrow.”

I laughed aloud, partly from protest, partly from the sheer joy of the touch. He was a few inches taller than I was, his body stocky, his shoulders broad. As he opened his arms to wrap them around me, the faded fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his chest, accentuating the sinewy planes of his torso.
“The Aunts insisted I come over today. I didn’t know when you were planning to arrive. If you were. Look, I can go…”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” he snapped, but his eyes were dancing with pleasure, not anger. The hallway smelled of furniture polish and the lingering aroma of warm toast. Up close, I could also smell strong coffee on his breath, but then he always drank too much of it, a symptom of his commitment to ridiculously long hours of writing and traveling. His face nuzzled into my neck, his skin warm, his thick curls uncombed and brushing his shoulders, just the way I liked it. I ran my fingers into it, tangling tightly, tugging back his head. Hard, just the way he liked it.

“Neal.” I groaned. His neck was taut, the Adam’s apple flexing as he swallowed. My lips tingled with the need to kiss it—to kiss him. “Thank God you’re here.”

He shook himself free of my grip, though I’d never intended it to hold him back. “Idiot. Of course I’m here.” He laughed raggedly, perhaps still impatient with me. He was panting slightly and couldn’t seem to keep his hands off me, grabbing, stroking, tugging at the soft fabric of my single decent shirt. A button slipped open and his fingers slid in against my bare skin, catching one of the swollen nubs of my nipples underneath and twisting it. It was painful—it was impossibly exciting. “Every damned month, right?” His voice was low and hoarse, even though we couldn’t be overheard. “If it’s humanly possible—wherever the hell I am—I’ll get here. I don’t want to miss it. Miss this. You know I don’t.”

That wasn’t entirely true. I hoped and I prayed—but I never really knew. And, God help me, I certainly never expected. But did I want to discuss that now? My fingers clumsy with excitement, I helped him open the remaining buttons of my shirt and I shrugged out of it. He took a shaky step back, one of his hands still gripping my wrist. His wild gaze sent goose bumps across my flesh. When he licked his lips, my whole skin shivered with anticipation.

“Dylan.” His eyes widened with eagerness. “Look at you. Christ.”

I started to laugh from nervousness and I swallowed it quickly. “You’re the idiot. I’m not… Well, I haven’t been to the gym much this month, you know…”

He laughed and let go of me. I watched him peel his shirt up over his head, my gaze fixed on the tensing muscles of his stomach. He was well toned for a man whose job was usually associated with long hours at a computer screen. The broad shoulders ran into a slender, wiry body. Plenty of strength there, I knew, the result of his hectic lifestyle and his personal enthusiasm in following a story physically as well as literally, taking him to all parts of the world. Dammit, he didn’t need a budget gym membership like some of us.

“Dylan,” he whispered. He was smiling, watching me watching him. He lifted a hand to his chest, teasing at one of his nipples, and I heard him suck in a short, fierce breath. I shuddered, instinct taking control of me. Dark hairs dusted across the skin of his pecs, then ran in a trail all the way down the center of his torso to his navel. And below. The skin was slightly tanned but there was a stretch of pale skin just showing under the waistband of his sweats. Long legs and strong feet, bare feet. I knew there’d be nothing else on under the sweats, and I was suddenly breathless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'll be back tomorrow with more from Clare. Until then...

Happy Writing!

Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey...Hotter than Hell
www.sloanetaylor.com