TAMING TRITON

KC Kendriks has created another sizzler in her outstanding Southern Cross series. TAMING TRITON, book two, is a strong compelling story and written with heart.

TAMING TRITON
Southern Cross series Book Two
KC Kendriks
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-586-7
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure



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BLURB:
Austin Michaels accepts his brother’s standing invitation for a Caribbean vacation at his island resort. Some time in the sun is just what he needs to map out a plan for his future. He gets lucky and meets a handsome teacher willing to have a little vacation fling with, as long as they can keep things fun.

Steve Guthrie’s secret longings have haunted him all his life. It’s time to face his questions and find the truth of who he really is beyond a staid college professor. His love of the sea prompts him to take a vacation at a Caribbean hide-a-way for relaxation and reflection. A sexy stranger with a tattoo tempts Steve to abandon his plans, enticing him to share a vacation romp.

Now Steve’s the student in a high stakes class of one, and to pass the course, he has to tame his very own Triton.

INTRO:
“You’re early. I need to get a shower.”

Austin's grin widened. “I’ll come wash your back, Steve.”

I put my hands on my hips and stared him down. “You’ll go get something to open that bottle later. It won’t take me long to get rinsed off.”

He set the bottle on the table, opened a drawer, and held up a corkscrew. “They think of everything at the Southern Cross.”

“I’ve known you six hours, and you’re not climbing in the shower with me, Austin.”

His gaze locked with me, gluing my feet to the floor as he stepped in front of me. “Me thinketh the lad protesteth overmuch.”

My heart stuttered, then beat faster. I wondered if he could hear it. “I’m not protesting. I’m taking a shower.”

His right hand reached out, coming to rest on my shoulder, briefly, before his fingers slid into my hair. The breeze coming through the open window cooled my heated face and brought the light scent of his aftershave to me. No musk for Austin, the fragrance was clean and icy crisp, like snow.

My knees started to shake as he leaned closer to me. His eyelids fluttered closed as his warm breath caressed my cheek. A drumbeat pounded in my ears, deafening me, as his mouth touched mine.

I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight.

EXCERPT:
There was a soft knock on the door. I didn’t need a rocket scientist to tell me who it was.

What did I want from him? An explanation? Or did I want to tell him to go have a nice life? I opened the door and took in his worried face. Austin stared at me, and his expression shifted to wariness.

“Steve, what’s wrong?”

Men lie to men all the time. Well, not me. I wasn’t sliding into that gutter. Ever.

“I saw you being very cozy with Colby Denton’s boyfriend.”

He flinched at the accusation, at my sharp voice, but his hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist.

“It’s not what you think. Let me come in…”

“Men lie to men--isn’t that what you said? Should I let you in so you can lie to me?”

“Babe, you should let me in so the neighbors on their terrace don’t get a good laugh, or call the front desk and complain.”

I hesitated a half-second too long, and Austin pushed past me into my suite. “Call Colby and tell him what you saw. Go ahead. Let him tell you didn’t see Theron and me sneaking around.”

Austin jumped as I slammed the door shut behind him. I rounded on him. “I fucking saw what I saw, Austin!”

“Yeah? You saw my brother give me a kiss. Is that really a big deal to you?”

The hot rage of his betrayal died in my belly, cooling as if it had never even existed. His brother? He’d mentioned a brother. My knees threatened to give out on me and I plopped down on a dinette chair. Austin took the seat next to mine and held out his hands, palms up.

“Steve, I’m sorry. I’d have gotten around to explaining how I know Theron and Colby tonight. I didn’t think…I mean I didn’t see any reason to tell you my total life story right away. There’s a lot we don’t know about each, and most of it won’t make any difference while we’re having vacation fun.”

I wanted to believe him, I really did. “So tell me about your brother now, and don’t leave anything out.”

That wary look he had teased at his features, a clear indication he had something to hide. If this Theron were his brother, there shouldn’t be any problem, but the trapped look on his face said more than words ever could. Anger licked at my guts again.

“Lie to me, Austin.”

He shook his head. “No. I won’t. Theron is my foster-brother. Let’s walk over to the main building and you can ask him to verify it. Just don’t cross-examine him because you don’t have the right, and his nerves can’t take it.” Austin reached out and took my hand. I yanked away.

Damn him. “Let’s just go our separate ways, Austin. I can’t trust you.”

Very slowly, he reached for my hand again, wrapping his fingers around mine. This time, something in the earnest way he looked at me, his posture, kept me from pulling back. He took a deep breath.

“I don’t remember my mother. She’s just a name on my birth certificate. I was put into the child welfare system early. So was Theron. We ended up with the same foster family, one that understood gay teens.”

“That’s the real short version, isn’t it?”

To his credit, he didn’t deny it, merely nodded. I had a choice to make. Accept his explanation, or ask him to leave. I knew I didn’t have the right to know every detail of his life story based on our short acquaintance, sex or no sex. The other side of the coin--I’d not told him anything about my life, either. I looked down at our hands. His grip tightened for an instant.

“Okay. So I’m an ass to jump to conclusions and have a little fit.”

Austin’s other hand gripped my knee. “No, you’re not. Theron and I are pretty close. The first time I came for a visit, I thought Colby’s head was going to explode when he caught us…You don’t wanna know yet.”

“The hell I don’t! You’d better spit it out now, Austin.”

“We, um, got a little drunked up. Colby came up to my suite and found us flopped on the bed together, giggling like fools, talking about old times.” Austin flashed me a sheepish look. “Babe, he was not pleased.”

A thought formed, growing stronger as a flush stained his cheeks. I closed my eyes, then opened them slowly. "Jeez, Austin, you and Theron were each other's first, weren't you?"

He didn't attempt to deny it. It wouldn't have worked on me if he had.

"Steve, it was a long time ago. We were two lonely teenagers with the same big secret-we were queers. Somehow the universe gave us to each other to take care of and made us brothers. He and Colby are all the family I have."

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “I get it, Austin. I really do. I’m sor…”

His fingers pressed to my lips. “Don’t say it. Not for this. You don’t know me, so you’re right to question me.”

“For what it’s worth, I just learned a lesson about jumping to conclusions. Never too old, right?”

He leaned forward and kissed me, a tender pressing of his lips to mine. I kissed him back, more relieved than I should be.

This was a vacation thing. I needed to keep it that way.


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Learn more about the awesome books by KC Kendricks on her website and blog. Follow KC on Twitter and check out her MySpace page. Be sure to join KC's mailing list for the lastest details on her new releases and appearances.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from Margaret West. Until then...

Happy Reading!

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

INSIDE THE MIND OF RICK R. REED

Rick R. Reed is a talented author secure in his genre. When asked what inspired him to write TALES FROM THE SEXUAL UNDERGROUND, Rick was happy to share.

"I wanted to write about people who were not just out, but out there, people who lived their sexual lives in ways most of us could only imagine...and for whom the flavor vanilla had absolutely no appeal. I interviewed porn stars, prostitutes, self-proclaimed sex pigs, and delved into bizarre sexual practices. It was eye-opening, arousing, and a lot of fun (but never, never good clean fun). I also include here my favorite dirty stories. They all explore a side of life that exists not in the twilight zone, but in my favorite destination...the sexual underground."

TALES FROM THE SEXUAL UNDERGROUND
Rick R. Reed
ISBN 13: 978-1-60820-140-2 Paperback
ISBN 13: 978-1-60820-141-9 Electronic
MLR Press



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EXCERPT
He knows me, so he knows the best time is a quiet one. We stay in. Dinner, drinks, and of course, the last part, the best part.

He starts off casually, wearing a pair of faded Levis, a white T-shirt worn soft, bare feet, hair still damp from the shower. There's a CD playing, low, maybe Oscar Peterson conjuring up Gershwin from his piano. He's got a few candles lit, but nothing scented. The air in his apartment is clean, with a trace of the soap from his shower lingering.

We sit on the couch and he makes me a drink. He already knows what I like, a dirty martini made with vodka, heavy on the dirt. We laugh about how I like things dirty, but not too much. We keep our minds out of the gutter, at least for now.

After the drinks, the music, the light fading to purple outside, we move to the dining room. Old oak pedestal table, mismatched chairs and cream pillar candles...used before. He makes a light meal, because he knows that later, we won't want anything too heavy weighing on us. A simple salad, arugula, red onion, plum tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. There's a chicken breast, poached in broth, lemon juice and walnuts, some rice. Strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar for dessert. A glass or two of white wine, an Alsatian Riesling.

We linger over the dinner, slow; the candles burn down. The sky outside fades from purple to navy blue, a glow to the south...city lights. We move to the bedroom, undress slowly.

He knows how to touch me. Knows where to make the pressure slippery and where to make it rough. Knows when to move slowly, when to increase the tempo, and when to slow it down again...he doesn't want things to end too quickly. He knows that my nipples are sensitive, and toys with them just hard enough so I will feel the ghost of his caress in the morning. All the while, music, orchestrated to ebb and flow, a soundtrack to our passion. We start off with Bach, Mendelssohn, end up with Crystal Method and Prodigy. Romance to filth. And he tells me, the whole time, about past lovers, knowing it excites me as much as his touch. Like the music, he starts off slow and romantic, telling me about his first love, Ron, how they were playful, in love, existing only for each other...so young. He tells me about a particular New Year's Eve, in a darkened bedroom in Florida, high on pot and champagne, bringing each other the most incredible gifts. But as our passion rises, so does the depravity. He moves on to orgies, nights with strangers fueled by Ecstasy, a frantic, furtive coupling with a Northwestern student in an alley by the el tracks one night in August, fucking each other sweatily while the train crackled and roared above, its human cargo oblivious. He tells me about backroom sex, the smell of poppers, leather, cum and spit in the air, groping, being groped, connecting with shadows. He tells me everything, moving faster and faster, until even his tales and touch blur, and I offer up my seed; it covers my belly in viscous arcs.

And I roll over and look at him...in the mirror. He is me.

He is me.

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Learn more about Rick R. Reed and his award winning books on his website and blog. You can also follow Rick on Twitter and Facebook.

I'll be back Friday with a new release from awesome author Robert Appleton. Until then...

Happy reading!

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

CHANCE ENCOUNTER

CHANCE ENCOUNTER is a plot driven new release from creative author Christiane France and a book well worth reading.

CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Christiane France
ISBN 978-1-61124-061-0
Amber Allure



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BLURB:
In high school and through their first year of college, Jase Thoman and Matt Lester were best friends and lovers. But then Matt’s family moved across country, Matt transferred to another school, and the pair eventually drifted apart.

Now, ten years later, they meet again by chance. Jase is a private investigator, desperate to find his kid brother, Donny, who, in addition to two other teenage boys, has mysteriously disappeared after last being seen at a local gay bar. Matt is an undercover police officer brought in on the case by the local police department in the hope he can succeed where they have so far failed.

Matt is the only man Jase has ever really loved, but ten years is a long time. They’re not the same people they once were, and when Matt tries to pick up where they left off, Jase takes a step back. His first priority is finding his brother. As far as Matt is concerned, Jase feels how he imagines a deer would feel when caught in the headlights of a vehicle with little or no chance of escape—confused, unsure, and at the same time, positive whatever he does will be the wrong thing.

Can Matt help Jase solve the mystery of his brother’s whereabouts, while also convincing him to give their relationship a fresh start?

EXCERPT:
The man hesitated, frowning, but then his smile suddenly broadened, giving Jase the distinct impression the guy thought he knew him. “By all that’s holy… Jeez, I don’t believe it. This is really wicked, man.”
There was no recognition on Jase’s end. But then he constantly met all kinds of different people in the course of his job. Could be they’d crossed paths at some point, and he just didn’t remember. “What don’t you believe?”

“That it’s really you. I guess, after all this time, you’ve forgotten I’m basically a beer drinker, but right now, I’d rather have a nice cold glass of OJ.”

Forgotten? After all what time? As in I’m supposed to know you from somewhere?

Jase narrowed his eyes and looked the dude over more carefully. The lighting in the club was lousy, but somewhere between the glitter, the cheap glamour and false eyelashes, one of which was rapidly becoming unglued, there was something vaguely familiar about the guy. He searched his memory and came up dry. “Sorry, man, I think you must be mistaking me for someone else.”

The man gave a soft, sexy chuckle, raising hairs on places Jase had always thought were hairless. He flipped through his memory banks for a second time. He still didn’t recognize the face, but he knew he’d heard that chuckle somewhere before. Where or when, he couldn’t remember…but something about it reminded him of his college days and March break—cheap motel rooms, heavy breathing, sweat-soaked sheets, and the overpowering smells of stale beer and sex.

“S’okay, Jase. It’s been one helluva long time,” the guy said quietly. “And I know I have you at a disadvantage in this getup. But you were looking me over pretty good, so I figured I should say something fast in case you recognized me and blew my cover.”

“Sorry, man. Like I said, I think you’re—” Before Jase could finish what he was about to say, he realized the guy had used his name. Then, something clicked in his brain and the memories came flooding back…along with a rush of pure sexual need he hadn’t felt in a very long time. “You’re— Oh, my God, it’s— But it can’t be. You’re—”

Matt Lester in the flesh?

Jase stared at the guy standing beside him in shock. He and Matt Lester had been lovers, best friends, and roommates through the last couple of years of high school and the first year of college. Then Matt’s family had moved to the west coast, and a scholarship had caused Matt to transfer to another school. They’d kept in touch for a while and still exchanged cards at Christmas, but between distance and everyday life, they hadn’t seen one another in years. Jase wanted to ask if Matt was back living here in town, or if he was just passing through. However, before Jase could say his name out loud, Matt had him in the kind of lip-lock Jase couldn’t have broken even on a good day.

He let his body go limp and waited for the one guy he’d never thought to see again do the same. At least the idiot wasn’t using force. No tongue, just a firm hold and the pressure of his mouth to keep Jase quiet. Jase felt the rasp of five o’clock shadow against his own freshly shaved skin. He was also conscious of the faint smell of stale, sweaty clothes, and he wondered if living on the street was also part of Matt’s cover. With anyone else, it would have been a total turn-off, but with Matt it was working on Jase like the most expensive aphrodisiac. He was up, he was hard, and he knew with just a little mouth-action on Matt’s part, they’d once again be flying to the moon.

If he’d thought about it—and he had, quite a few times if he told the truth—Jase wouldn’t have expected to still feel this way, not after so long. But it seemed that was the amazing thing about memories. Sometimes they came flying back as fresh as the day they got started, and this one was what—close to nine, maybe even ten years old?...


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Learn more about Christiane France on her website.

Have a great weekend. I'll be back Tuesday with a new teaser. Until then...

Happy Reading!

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

Rick R. Reed Does It Again

By creating another fantastic book, DIGNITY TAKES A HOLIDAY, which is sure to be a best seller. No surprise there since the writing world has only high praise for today's guest author Rick R. Reed. With my limited space, I can only share two;

In their October 2006 issue, Unzipped magazine said:
"You could call Rick R. Reed the Stephen King of gay horror."

And Dark Scribe magazine proclaimed:
"Reed is an established brand - perhaps the most reliable contemporary author for thrillers that cross over between the gay fiction market and speculative fiction."

In spite of this—or perhaps because of it—Rick has been lately turning more and more to writing romance and illuminating the emotional lives of gay men.

To date, Reed has more than sixteen books in print, and his short fiction has appeared in more than 20 anthologies. His novel, ORIENTATION, won the EPPIE Award for best LGBT novel of 2008.

Rick lives in Seattle, WA with his partner and a very spoiled Boston Terrier. Visit Rick on his website to see all his wonderful work.

Here's a glimpse of his latest release.

DIGNITY TAKES A HOLIDAY
Rick R. Reed
ISBN-13: 978-1-61581-721-4 (Paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-61581-722-1 (Electronic)
Dreamspinner Press



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BLURB:
Pete Thickwhistle doesn’t live what one might call a charmed life. At age forty-seven, he’s a flamboyant gay man who believes no one knows he’s gay, still living at home with his harpy of a mother. Worse, he’s still a virgin, longing to find just the right man to make his life complete. Pete’s an upbeat kind of guy, yet he’s never learned that the answer to his motto “What could possibly go wrong?” is always: “Everything.”

Pete’s road to love and happiness is full of potholes, yet he never tires of searching, despite job losses, weight battles, clothing faux pas, and disastrous vacations, parties, and dating debacles. Pete is the ultimate underdog living a television situation comedy, one named Dignity Takes a Holiday.

EXCERPT
The Beginning of the End

“You’re not bringing that, are you? My God, they’ll laugh you out of town.” Helen snickered and pointed at Pete’s open suitcase.

Pete gnawed on a hangnail, staring down at the chalk stripe suit he had just purchased from the International Male catalog. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Other than it looking like one of those zoot suits they used to wear back when I was a little girl… nothing, I guess.”

Pete made a “tsk” sound and shook his head. “You have no fashion sense. If you did, you’d know this is retro, it’s very in. This is how all the guys in Chicago dress.”

“And what about this?” Helen snatched up a black sweater with a gold glitter owl emblazoned across the front. “Retro?”

“Oh, would you just shut up and let me get packed? I have a lot to do, and I don’t need you in here questioning my fashion choices. I’m nervous enough as it is!” Pete put a trembling hand to his forehead.

Helen hurried from the room. Pete wondered why he couldn’t have a mother like other men, someone they called their “best friend” rather than their “worst nightmare.”

But this mystery would have to wait for further pondering. Pittsburgh International Airport was more than an hour away, and Pete would have to “get his ass jumpin’” (as Helen would have so delicately put it) if he wanted to make his flight.

Pete allowed himself to sit down on his bed, closing his eyes and imagining the upcoming trip for a moment. Chicago… Pete pictured towering skyscrapers rising up against a vast expanse of blue waters and thought that his destiny could be made on this trip.

After all, he wondered, as he had so often in the past, what could possibly go wrong?

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Learn more about Rick R. Reed on his Blog and catch up with him on Facebook and Twitter.

Have a wonderful weekend. I'll be back Monday with a new book review. Until then...

Happy Reading!

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

DORIEN GREY - MAN OR MYTH

It is with great pleasure we feature Dorien Grey, an author who weaves a mystery with such cunning you become a major player in his stories.

Here's a little about how Dorien arrived on the publishing scene:

If it is possible to have a split personality without being schizophrenic, Dorien Grey qualifies. When long-time book and magazine editor Roger Margason chose the pseudonym “Dorien Grey” for his first book, it set off a chain of circumstances which has led to the comfortable division of labor and responsibility. Roger has charge of day-to-day existence, freeing Dorien—with the help of Roger’s fingers—to write. It has reached the point where Roger merely sits back and reads the stories Dorien brings forth on the computer screen.

It’s not as though Roger has not had an uninteresting life of his own. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. Washing out after a year, he spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean at the height of the cold war. The journal he kept of his time in the military, in the form of letters home, honed his writing skills and provided him with a wealth of experiences to draw from in his future writing. These letters will be appearing in book form shortly.

Returning to Northern Illinois University after service, he graduated with a B.A. in English, and embarked on a series of jobs which worked him into the editing field. While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading L.A. based international gay men's magazine.

Tiring of earthquakes, brush fires, mud slides, and riots, he returned to the Midwest, where Dorien emerged, full-blown, like Venus from the sea. They’ve been inseparable (and interchangeable) ever since.

He, and Dorien of course, moved back to Chicago in 2006, where they now devote full time to writing. After having published thirteen books in the popular Dick Hardesty Mystery series, the western/romance/adventure novel, Calico, and the imminent publication of the third book in his new Elliott Smith Mystery series, he is busily at work on yet another Dick Hardesty mystery.

For a greater insight into the "real person" behind Dorien Grey, the curious are invited to check out his website and his various blogs: Dorien Grey and Me and A Life in Photos among them. You can also catch up with Dorien at the Author's Den.

Now, "The Butcher's Son", a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award:

THE BUTCHER'S SON
Book 1 of the Dick Hardesty Mystery Series
DORIEN GREY
ISBN 978-1-879194-86-1
GLB Publishing

Buy Link: Available, as are all of Dorien's books, at any bookstore or on-line bookseller.



BLURB:
It's not bad enough that Dick Hardesty has a job he hates and a boss from hell. He's suddenly put in the untenable position of helping the wildly homophobic chief of police in a run for governor. Throw the chief's twin sons--one of whom may or may not be dead--, a series of bar fires, and a crumbling 5-year relationship, and you have the ingredients for the tale of The Butcher's Son.

EXCERPT:
It had turned rather cool by the time we reached the street. We made a circle around to the car to drop off the plastic grapes and then turned toward the Dog Collar. I didn’t much care for the place. It was a big, cavernous dump that boasted 4 pool tables and a downstairs “dungeon” for those into group sex. Like a lot of older buildings, it had very high ceilings, which the management had recently tried to make appear lower by stretching some sort of black mesh fabric from wall to wall.

The clientele, as the bar’s name might indicate, was supposedly ultra-butch. I’ve got nothing at all against being butch, mind you—if it’s authentic. But the Dog Collar crowd was plastic grapes butch. Still, it always drew a good crowd, and was obviously packed tonight.

We were about two doors from the entrance, when we heard a muffled “Whoomp”which sounded like it came from the alley behind the bar, and a moment or two later, the double front doors burst open and a tidal wave of men washed out into the street, running. Shouts of…“Fire!” could be heard from inside and from those in the river of men gushing through the door. Chris and I stood frozen in mid step, then moved away from the buildings with the crowd and into the street. A wide, flat ribbon of smoke unfurled slowly out the top of the door, over the heads of those scrambling to get out.

No dictionary could ever have described the word “chaos” more vividly. Men were running, pushing, tripping over one another as they emerged, turning around to shout for friends still inside. Two or three guys fought against the tide, trying to go back in, but they couldn’t buck the crowd coming out, and the smoke was getting heavy now.

The single fact of that outward-opening, double-door entrance was all that prevented a human logjam forming there, and blessedly anyone who made it as far as the door was able to escape.

In the far distance, the sound of sirens could already be heard. The street was a milling mass of men; leathermen, pseudo leathermen, male strippers in g-strings and loincloths, college types, hunks, average Joes, older, younger; a cross section of the male gay community. Ironically, music still blared from inside the bar.

Small clusters of guys gathered together, some holding each other, some holding others back. Others pushed their way back and forth through the crowd, trying to locate friends. There were obviously many people hurt—most were coughing uncontrollably as they ran out, and others collapsed just outside the door and were dragged away from the entrance and carried across the street to be laid out on the sidewalk, where others huddled over them, doing what they could to help. Some just stood staring wide-eyed at the door as a few snake-tongues of orange fire began to lick out over the top of the doorway, as if tasting the air. The cacophony of sounds, however, could not hide what were too obviously screams from inside. The music had stopped.

Chris and I were totally walled in by the crowd, many still coughing and smelling of smoke, on one side of the semi-circle of onlookers. We weren’t close enough to the front to be able to do anything, and we were sick with the feeling of helplessness. Still they kept coming out—guys at the front of the crowd, which was being driven back by the increasing heat and billowing smoke, would rush forward to grab anyone who made it through the doors and lead or drag them to safety, or run interference to prevent others from trying to reenter the building to save friends or lovers.

We stood there, pressed against those crowded around us, and looked around to see if there was anyone we knew. Chris stood on tip-toe, trying to see over the heads of those directly around us. Fewer were coming out, now. One guy—probably one of the strippers—stumbled through the doorway, totally naked, obviously badly burned, his hair smoldering. He appeared slowly, back-lit by an angry pulsating orange, and leaned against the door frame as though it were a part of his number. Then he pushed himself forward, made it just outside the door, and toppled like a fallen tree onto the sidewalk before those dashing in to help him could reach him. They picked him up and carried across the street, the crowd parting to allow them through. And an instant later, a form appeared, from the other side of the doorway, crawling on all fours, his shirt on fire. He was grabbed and pulled forward by several guys who slapped at his shirt with their hands to put out the fire. They got him to his feet, but he looked frantically around at the crowd, then broke away and ran back toward the door, from which no one else was emerging. Two of those who’d helped him ran after him and grabbed him just before he reached the door, which was by this time engulfed in flame. They dragged him backward as he fought to break free, straining forward and yelling something we could not make out over the incredible din. There were no more screams coming from inside the bar; just crashing sounds and the triumphant roar of the flames.

The first squad car came racing down the street, siren wailing, lights flashing, horn blasting, followed by no fewer than three fire trucks, with the lights of others closing in from both directions. The crowd scattered before them.

And over all the sirens, and the yells, and the dull thrum of the fire, which was now pouring out of the door and had broken through the roof, I heard a voice:

“Dick! Dick!” I looked around and Chris pointed to the guy whose shirt had been on fire, still being held by his rescuers. It was Bob Allen.

Ambulances were beginning to arrive as the firemen rolled out their hoses and the police…several squads of them by this time, began moving the crowd back to allow the arriving ambulances to get through.

We shouldered our way through the mass of guys to Bob. He had blood running down his left temple from a gash somewhere just above the hairline. But his face! I hope I never see another expression on anyone’s face like I saw on Bob’s. The two guys holding him, seeing that we knew him, reluctantly released him. He grabbed us both, one with each hand, and his knees started to buckle. We grabbed him and held him up between us.

He tightened his grip on our arms. “You’ve got to help me go back in!” he pleaded, and suddenly my head jerked up to meet Chris’s eyes, which mirrored my own shock in realizing why.

“Ramón!” Bob said, pointing to the inferno. “Ramón’s still in there!”

There is nothing Dorien loves more than hearing from a reader. Feel free to drop him a note.

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

Happy Writing!

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

FOREST OF CORPSES

P.A. Brown is back with us today, showcasing her latest hot book FOREST OF CORPSES which is the sequel to THE GEOGRAPHY OF MURDER. Both books are gripping suspense with just the right amount of romance. You're sure to enjoy them.

Check out more of P.A. Brown's exciting work on her website.

FOREST OF CORPSES
P.A. Brown
ISBN 978-1-60820-163-1 Print
ISBN 978-1-60820-164-8 E-book

MLR Press



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BLURB
Welcome to the Los Padres National Forest. A vacation from hell.

EXCERPT

Spider

Nobody died today.

That’s a good day in my books, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

Westside had a major hard on for Eastside. War was brewing. Fideo and his WS crew shot up the East Beach, then a week later, on Memorial Day, did the same at a market on Anacapa Street. That time their aim had improved. They dropped two Eastside bangers and a ten-year-old boy out buying milk for his grandmother. Both OGs made it. The kid didn’t. Chalk it up to collateral damage from the drug war.

We canvassed the market and caught a couple of witnesses who saw the whole thing. So we nailed Fideo along with two members of his posse, and tossed their cholo butts in jail. Fideo lawyered up with a good uptown legal beagle, but still sat in lockup, no bail. Then another drive-by took out witness one. Suddenly our only remaining witness “made a mistake.” The paperwork wasn’t dry before the scrotes were back in the hood and the witness was in hiding. Fideo rode with his ese through his hood, crowing how he beat 5-0. His street creds firmly embellished by his latest exploits, he was back, and he was stronger.

And took up his business of dealing drugs, death and taxes without losing a night’s sleep.

Miguel, my new partner, snapped his frustration. “How can we stop these people if no one will testify against them?”

I shrugged. “It bites, I agree. But look at it from their side. Hard to testify from a pine box.”

“God will take care of them.”

“Right.” I rolled my eyes, making sure he couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m sure Mr. Gillespie’s family feel the same way.” Gillespie had been witness number one, a businessman leaving a wife and two young kids behind. He told me when I interviewed him the first time he had to talk. That it wasn’t right that these men could terrorize a neighborhood and get away with it. What kind of example did that set for his kids? Well, I guess his kids learned a valuable lesson there. But probably not the one their old man wanted to give. We had gone to Gillespie’s funeral yesterday, per department regulations. Not surprising, no one from Westside showed or sent their condolences. Not that there was much we could have done if they had. As usual, we had no proof that put any Westside banger anywhere near the vicinity of Gillespie’s untimely death. What we had were two bullets from a 9 mil that couldn’t be tied to any other crimes. A clean gun for a clean hit.

There was a time when my frustration level would have surpassed Miguel’s. Those days are long gone. First thing you learn on the job, leave it at the station. Taking it home with you is the surest way to give yourself high blood pressure and a date with your own duty weapon, or your cardiologist.

There was a time I used to share my world with dead people. The homicides I couldn’t solve would follow me home and make me hold them in my memory. The more brutal they were, the more they clung to me, needing closure I couldn’t give them.

Then Jason burst into my life, unasked and unlooked for. I hooked him up and tossed his ass in jail for the murder of a man it turned out he’d never met. A lot of people would have flipped me the bird for what I did, but Jason wasn’t like that. There wasn’t a vengeful bone in his perfect body. Instead, once he was released from jail, we’d gone out to dinner, ended up back at my place with my dick up his ass, and my heart in his hands. I realized then I never wanted to let this guy go. It took me months to be able to admit my feelings to myself, let alone to Jason. Then, I damn near fucked what we had up permanently when my petty jealousy turned me into a dangerous fool. It probably would have served me right if Jay had told me to fuck off when I got up the nerve to follow him to Los Angeles. He didn’t, and here we are, two months later, sharing a bed and a bath, and hopefully, a future.

Sometimes my dead people still come around to stalk my dreams, but now there’s an anchor to hold onto when I wake up in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding and my mouth dry with unspoken fear; there to whisper soothing words, not press me for explanations I was loathe to give anyone. Even for Jason I didn’t show weakness.

He gave me back my life. So why can’t I give him the one thing he wants? Because I’m a fucking coward who’s afraid of losing control again? Afraid? Fuck that. Alexander Spider isn’t afraid of anything. Or anyone.

The morning after Gillespie’s funeral I got up before Jason. Dressing after my shower, I stood over our bed, studying him while I buttoned my shirt. Sometime during the night he had kicked his covers off exposing his delicious butt, and all I had to do was reach out and stroke the peach soft skin. I knew my touch would instantly wake him up, and I had no trouble imagining those sleepy eyes falling on me and that slow, sexy smile he only gave to me. We’d both been too tired last night to do anything but fall into bed. There was nothing sleepy about my body now. My dick pressed painfully against my briefs and I shifted, trying to ease the sudden constriction.

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I'll be back Wednesday with more suspense by the uber talented Dorien Grey. Be sure to stop by. Until then...

Happy Writing!

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

READY TO TRAVEL OPEN ROADS?

Today we have KC Kendricks, the masterful author of contemporary gay romance. KC writes from the heart with a passion that submerges you into her stories.

KC is a 2008 Amber Heat Wave Winner, and a 2008 CAPA who celebrates love and hope for mature readers.

She lives in Maryland with her partner of almost twenty years. Weekdays are spent working as an Administrative Assistant to the Board, and as the Office Manager of a mid-size corporation.

KC has written more traditional romance under a pseudonym, with one contemporary title a #1 bestseller, several other top-ten list titles, and a few more recommended reads. She is established as a storyteller that delivers rich, satisfying romantic tales that feature strong themes of love, hope, and redemption with positive, upbeat endings.

Here's a little from her latest release I think you'll enjoy.

OPEN ROADS
KC Kendriks
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-731-1 (Electronic)
Amber Quill - Amber Allure



BUY LINK

BLURB:

Tyler Phillips enjoys his small town life. He’ll never get rich working the family business, but he knows there’s more to a man than the size of his bank account. Easing into mid-life, Tyler’s restless for something he can’t find in the little borough of Easton – male companionship.

Noel Springs got caught up in the economic downturn. His job gone, and retirement a lot of years in the future, Noel decides to take a long drive and see some of the country before dedicating himself to finding new employment. The open road is just what he needs right now.

When his car overheats outside the little town of Easton, Noel discovers the local mechanic is hotter than his radiator, and just as eager to blow off some steam.

INTRO: (from Tyler's point of view)
“Nice car. How far back did the trouble start?”

He leaned inside and pulled the release lever. Little lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “About forty-one years.”

I grinned at him, already liking his sense of humor as I lifted the hood. A wave of steam engulfed us. I hastily closed my eyes and stepped back to keep the antifreeze-laden vapor from leaving a film on my contact lenses. “Come inside. We’ll let that cool down so I can take a look at her.”

“You’re going to tell me it’s the radiator, aren’t you?” His clear tenor held just a trace of the west as he followed me into what passed as a reception area and office combined. I opened the soft drink case.

“What would you like, on the house? And don’t panic yet.” Based on the way the steam smelled, I suspected his radiator would be fine, but what was inside it was not.

“Too late. I panicked about five miles ago when the temperature gauge shot up.
You can’t imagine how relieved I was to see your sign. I’ll take coffee, if you have it.”

I popped the cap and handed him a cola. “Sorry. It’s a little late in the day for any to be left in the pot.” I grinned at him. “And I hear that a lot about my strategically placed sign out there on the Interstate.”

His grey gaze held my hazel one captive as I held out my hand to him. “Tyler Phillips, owner-operator.”

Strong fingers closed around mine, holding my hand a moment too long for politeness. “Noel Springs, stranded motorist.”

EXCERPT:

Our bodies brushed, hip against hip, as I leaned past him. I heard the sharp intake of breath as he jumped, and felt his heat when he seized the moment and pressed the long length of his muscled thigh to mine. My mouth went dry, but I didn’t need to speak.

Hidden from public view by our bodies and the car, Noel’s hand stroked across my ribs and came to a stop as his strong fingers gripped my waist. I had my hands full, carefully securing the pie for the ride home. His pelvis bumped my ass, a quick thrust that almost knocked my head against the doorframe. My cock hardened in a rush, straining within its denim prison.

“That’s what you get for bending over in front of me, you little tease.”

I wiggled my butt, and he smacked it, hard. I straightened and turned around, grinning at him.

I looked down. He looked down. Noel returned my grin. His grey eyes gleamed in the sunlight as his pink tongue licked his full, rosy lips.

“Seven-and-a-half, cut.”

"Eight. Cut"

Noel narrowed his eyes. “Top or bottom?”

I grasped his hips, not caring if the whole town buzzed it up on the gossip chain by sundown. “You’re too eager.”

He glanced down at my bulging zipper a second time. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“You know, Noel, I don’t want to get all stupid with you. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of your misfortune on the highway.”

“I know, Tyler. And I don’t want you to think I ever planned to abuse your hospitality. This is just one night. Maybe a little friendly companionship, provided…”

He moved to kiss me, and I jerked away. He looked surprised.

“Sorry, Noel.” Kissing on Main Street might be a bit too much for the neighbors whose good will supported my standard of living. “I keep my private life low profile.”

“Of course. I’m out, and I guess I thought you were, too.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m in sort of a limbo. I don’t care if people know, but this is a small town. I don’t flaunt it in public, but in truth, around here, neither do straight lovers.”

“Got it. When in Rome.” He backed away, his expression unreadable as he climbed into the car.

Maybe I’d tripped some trigger of his, or not, but I’d figure it out when we got to my place. Insides quivering with anticipation, I headed out of town.
Noel remained silent for the remainder of the drive to my home, at least until
I turned onto the long gravel lane that led to the two-story frame farmhouse. He shifted in his seat and fixed that clear grey gaze on me in an incredulous stare.

“Excuse me for asking, but what the hell is a good looking stud like you doing out here in bum-fuck middle America, working as a grease monkey, and living on a farm, for God’s sake!”

The answer that filled my being came out of the still darkness of countless solitary nights.

Waiting for you.

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To learn more about the talented KC Kendricks, visit her website and follow her on Twitter. Of course, she has MySpace and Facebook. KC also has a great personal blog. Be sure to join her mailing list for the latest information.

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

Happy Writing!

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

ON THE EDGE WITH RICK R. REED

I'm excited to have Rick R. Reed back with us, discussing his newest print release ON THE EDGE. This collection of strong stories is filled with an emotional depth a reader rarely experiences. It's a rewarding read and one you won't want to miss.

Now, a little from Rick;

This book is especially for you if you're one of those people who just doesn't cotton to the idea of an e-book and prefers the look, smell, and experience of a real print book. ON THE EDGE collects eight of my stories that were previously only available in electronic format before. Check out the descriptions of each story below (titles are hyperlinked so you can go to their original publisher page, where you can read excerpts, see reviews, and a more detailed synopsis).

ON THE EDGE
Rick R. Reed
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-779-3 (Paperback)
Amber Quill Press - Amber Allure
Amazon Buy Link



Synopsis
In Rick R. Reed’s haunting, mesmerizing, suspenseful, and romantic world, his gay male characters live on the edge, often literally as well as figuratively. In this new collection, you’ll take a wild ride with some of literature’s most unforgettable characters. Along the way, you’ll be moved—to tears, to laughter, to uneasiness, and sometimes, to arousal. As Bette Davis once said, “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

Previously available only in electronic format, these eight stories of Gay Erotica and Romance have now been combined for a paperback edition! Included are the tales...

SUPERSTAR A story about promises made, promises broken, and dreams unfulfilled. Yet ultimately, it’s about realizing that love can come along when one least expects it—and in the unlikeliest of places.

THROUGH THE CLOSET DOOR A tale that brings to painful life the consequences of coming out of the closet when you’re married. Gregory’s mask is slipping, pulled down by the allure of a handsome neighbor and the demands of a desire that only gets louder the more he tries to quiet it.

RIDING THE EL AT MIDNIGHT When the gorgeous and twisted Mark boards a northbound el train, he is looking for love in all the wrong places. Finding Julio aboard that same train, Mark thinks, is the answer to his dreams. But are his dreams nightmares?

FUGUE SLIP into the dungeon playroom of a master and his boy. But in the boy’s mind, a dream state takes him places the master could not imagine...places where the established order turns upside down.

INCUBUS Two men, one predator, and a violent crime equal a journey into hellish nightmare territory. This tale merges horror with a tragic love story and the result is...chilling.

MAN-AMORPHOSIS I awoke one morning from uneasy dreams to find my penis had transformed itself into a vagina... Thus begins the story of a very unusual day...

NO PLACE LIKE HOME Trannies and Psychos and Bears...oh my! Burl discovers—in a hilariously bizarre quest—that there really is no place like home.

POTTERY PETE One long hot summer. Three gorgeous men. And a burning triangle set down in the middle of a factory filled with sweaty men with bulging biceps.

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Thank you, Rick, for sharing your wonderful books. As always, it's a pleasure to have you visit us. :)

I'll be back next week. Until then...

Happy Writing!

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

DO YOU HAVE DEMONS?

Today we have the uber-talented Rick R. Reed with us. Rick's writing talent is unsurpassed, and his books are filled with love, horror and suspense. I think you'll enjoy his step away from the everyday.

Here's a little from Rick:
Well, it's finally here and available both in e-book and paperback editions: my fifteenth book (and fourth with MLR Press), A DEMON INSIDE.

This book continues my goal of combining both the horror and the romance genre into one compelling read. A Demon Inside is as much a romance as it is a chilling horror novel. I believe it will satisfy readers of both genres equally.

So here's a little bit about the book, along with an excerpt.

A DEMON INSIDE
Rick R. Reed
ISBN 978-1-60820-165-5 (print) $14.99
ISBN 978-1-60820-166-2 (ebook) $6.99


MLR PRESS



BLURB:
Hunter Beaumont doesn't understand his grandmother's deathbed wish: "Destroy Beaumont House." He'd never even heard of the place. But after his grandmother passes and his first love betrays him, the family house in the Wisconsin woods looks like a tempting refuge. Going against his grandmother's wishes, Hunter flees to Beaumont House.

But will the house be the sanctuary he had hoped for? Soon after moving in, Hunter realizes he may not be alone. And who---or what---he shares the house may plunge him into a nightmare from which he may never escape. Sparks fly when he meets his handsome neighbor, a caretaker for the estate next door, but is the man salvation...or is he the source of Hunter's terror?

EXCERPT:
Hunter Beaumont awakened drenched in sweat, striped sheets twisted around him. His heart pounded and an irrational fear coursed through him, disproportionate to the calmness of the dark bedroom surrounding him.

He sat up, rubbing his hand over his slick face, and reassured himself with the same words countless nightmare sufferers have told themselves since the dawn of time: “It was only a dream; it was only a dream.” But it was that same dream again. The one that was part memory, part horror movie. The one where he was camping with his parents and he can see the glow of the campfire flickering on their faces. It’s a lovely scene, at first, romantic and warm. His parents’ voices are hushed, his mother’s laugh tinkling, as the two of them huddle together, the fire keeping the darkness of the woods at bay. But then a shadow falls over his mother and father’s faces and their eyes turn in an instant from contented and adoring to terrified. Then come the screams…and the blood, all the blood. That was when Hunter always awakened.

But this time something more than the nightmare had awakened him. Was someone knocking on his bedroom door? Yes, there it was again, an almost tentative tapping. In his post nightmare state, Hunter imagined the worst—that a monster lurked outside, something needing to be invited in. And once inside, it would rip him limb from limb, gorging on his flesh and drinking his blood.

Hunter allowed himself an embarrassed laugh and attempted to pull himself together. He sat up straighter against the headboard and used a corner of the top sheet to dab at the beads of sweat still gathering on his forehead. “Yes?” he called out.

With a creak, the door opened a crack and Lori Schmidbauer, his grandmother’s nurse, peered in. Even backlit, Hunter could see the kindness in the woman’s dark brown eyes and the concern and sadness on her face. She glanced down the hall and then back toward him, gave him a tentative smile.
“Hunter? Honey, I’m so sorry to wake you. Can I come in?”

Hunter pulled the sheet up further, covering his chest. A new kind of alarm began inside, the dread beginning to churn like something alive in his guts. “Is everything okay?”

Lori didn’t respond. She simply tiptoed into the room and sat down gingerly on the edge of his bed. Hunter leaned over and switched on the nightstand lamp. Lori still wore her scrubs and her curly brown hair was pulled loosely into a ponytail. She looked tired. Hunter repeated his question and added to it. “Is everything okay? Is Nana all right?”

Lori clutched his hand, squeezed it, and let it go. “I don’t think so, dear.” She stared off at a point over Hunter’s head and he could see her eyes glistened with tears.

It felt like his stomach dropped a couple of feet. He bit his lip. “Is it time?”

Lori drew in a quivering breath before responding. “Yeah. I think it is.” She stood. “You better come now if you want to say goodbye.”

“Okay,” Hunter whispered, barely able to find breath to put behind the single word. For his whole twenty-two year life, his grandmother had been his savior, protector, shield, comforter, mother, father, playmate, and teacher. There actually was a monster outside his door, and its name was cancer. That monster was about to rip all he held dear away from him.

Lori waited on the bed, watching him. He could tell she was trying to gauge his reaction, to see if perhaps he would need a hug. Lori was the kind of nurse that was free with her hugs. A good woman. But right now, Hunter needed a moment to himself and he told her.

“Sure, sweetheart. Just don’t be too long.” She got up and paused at the door. “I don’t know how much time we have.” Sorrowfully, she nodded, her lips coming together in a line indicating sympathy. She took her time leaving his room, then he heard her quickened pace as she hurried down the long hallway to his nana’s bedroom.

Hunter didn’t know if he could do this. Part of him thought if he just stayed here in bed, he could delay or prevent the inevitable. If he could only freeze time at this moment, he would never have to face a world without Nana in it. He shook his head and chastised himself for being weak.

Feeling numb, Hunter roused himself from bed. He slid into the jeans and sweater he had left on the rocker by the window. He looked outside, where the inky darkness revealed nothing, a void. He knew Lake Michigan was out there and in the morning it would reveal itself in aqua or gray, depending on the quality of light, but right now it seemed as though the huge body of water had vanished. The night’s darkness pressed against his windows like something palpable, aching to get inside.

Barefoot, he padded down the hall to his grandmother’s bedroom. Ever since he had lost his parents at the age of five, this had been his home, and suddenly the big old house seemed strange and unfamiliar, as if he were seeing it for the first time. Here was the portrait of his father, painted when Daddy was sixteen, looking young and vibrant, and not that much different from Hunter: the same smile and auburn hair. And there was the old Oriental rug, its pinks, blues, and grays faded, leading the way to the door to his grandmother’s bedroom, which yawned open. Hunter stood for a long while, staring at that doorway and breathing in the smell of sickness that emanated from the room. “Go,” he whispered.

He ducked into the room. Nana lay propped up on her old four-poster bed, the one she had had since marrying Hunter’s grandfather about six decades ago. She looked small and shriveled, vulnerable and nearly lost among the pillows, blankets, and quilts that never could keep her quite warm. Her hair looked like gray straw and parts of her scalp peeked through. A few days ago, they had taken her off the IVs and oxygen, knowing there was no hope. The medical detritus stood in a corner of the room, looking like defeated soldiers.

Lori stood near the bed. When she saw Hunter, she leaned down and whispered to Nana, whose eyes fluttered open at the sound of the nurse’s voice. Although she had not been completely coherent for the past couple of weeks, a combination of the morphine she took to manage her pain and her own failing memory, her eyes brightened when she saw her grandson. She even managed a weak smile, which vanished almost as soon as it arrived, as if the effort to maintain it was just too much for the old woman.

It probably was.

Lori stepped away from the bed and donned a fleece she had left on a chair nearby. She hugged herself and then said, “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m going to run downstairs and call Dr. Blackstock.” She squeezed Hunter’s shoulder as she left the room.

Hunter sat down beside his grandmother on her bed. “Nana?”

“Hunter,” Nana croaked, her voice only an echo of the vibrancy it once had. She tried to lift her hand to his face but it appeared she didn’t have the strength, letting it drop back down to the bedding. She closed her eyes and swallowed; the latter action looked painful and Nana winced.

“Don’t talk, Nana. If it hurts, don’t talk.” He picked up one of her withered hands and covered it with both of his own, trying to impart some of his own warmth to the frail appendage, feeling now as if it had been made of parchment and bird bones. She nodded, staring up at him. She licked her lips. “I just want to go to sleep now. I’m ready. Can you tell the nurse?”

“Sure.” Hunter smoothed her hair away from her forehead and leaned in close. He bit his lips, not wanting to cry in front of the old woman. What if she didn’t know this was the end? He couldn’t be so cruel as to reveal that to her. And even as he thought these things, he knew—deep in his heart—that Nana knew perfectly well what was happening.

“Sleep. That sounds good.” Nana’s eyelids fluttered and closed. Hunter thought she had fallen asleep and simply sat with her for several minutes, holding her hand. Finally, he thought maybe he should creep away, hoping against hope that this was not the final moment. Lori could have been wrong after all.

But then Nana opened her eyes, and Hunter thought he needed to speak while there was still time and before he gave in to the tears and sobs that were clamoring inside. He gathered the old woman up in his arms and pulled her close. Placing his lips close to her ears, he thought for a moment, grasping for something profound to say, but finally decided on only:

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Nana whispered. She slumped back against the pillows.

Hunter covered his mouth. Was she gone? But her eyes opened once more, about half-mast, seeking him out even though his face was only inches from her own.

“Beaumont House,” she croaked.

“What?”

“Beaumont House. Promise me you’ll burn it.”

BUY LINK

Want more Rick Reed? You can find him on the internet at his website, blog, Facebook and Twitter. Be sure to check Rick out and learn more about this ingenious author.

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

Happy Writing!

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

IT'S A HUGE CELEBRATION!

Aspen Mountain Press is celebrating its Fourth ANNIVERSARY!! They've slated several days of chats, blogs, contests and more at a variety of places. Check out the list below and mark your calendars. It's a great opportunity to win cool prizes.

July 23rd kicks off the Anniversary parties with a sneak peek into the first three books to be released from AMP's new imprint line. Come on over to the AMP Community Loop for an opportunity to win more prizes.

July 24th is celebrating the Del Fantasma line and its authors. Love Cody, the vampire bartender matchmaker? Then this day is the one for you at the AMP Facebook Fan Page.

July 25th celebrates the horror, thriller and mystery writers from Aspen Mountain Press at The Romance Studio - from 10 am-6 pm ET.

And from 9-10 pm EST, join AMP authors for a live chat at Romance Junkies.

July 26th meet the M/M Authors and their fabulous books at at Raine Delight's Reader Loop from noon-8 PM ET.

July 27th celebrate with the Cougar Club line when the authors share yummy Cougar Club excerpts from their books at TRS_Blue Yahoo loop from 12 pm-8 pm ET.

July 28th celebrate with shifters, space pirates and other paranormal/Science Fiction stories. Meet the authors and read some yummy excerpts this day at Romance Excerpts Only Yahoo Loop 8 am-8 pm ET.

July 29th is hot erotica at Lizzie's Tea Room from Noon-8 PM ET.

And from noon until 9 pm, you can catch more erotica authors at FARChatters!

So it's erotica all day long, all over the web with AMP authors!

July 30th if you love vampires or a good fantasy story, then this day is for you! Celebrate with all AMP's vampires and fantasy characters, along with the authors are at LR Café from 8 am-5 pm ET.

July 31st meet the new Aspen Mountain Press authors. These authors are brand new to the stable would love for you to get to know them. Check out their upcoming books at the AMP Community Loop all day.

August 1st is their HUGE party on the Community Yahoo Loop. Come on over and party with all the AMP authors.

Prizes galore will be given away and if you haven't joined their newsletter, friended them on Facebook, twitter, and My Space, then please do so. You'll have extra chances to win just it as well as joining in on the chats, blogs and other fun stuff planned.

Keep an eye out on their blog and community loop as Aspen Mountain Press celebrates its FOURTH Anniversary.

I'll keep you posted on additional opportunities to win!

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.

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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

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...

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



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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…

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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...

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



BUY LINK

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.

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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...

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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