The Loose Id

Have a Happy Steamy New Year: We Double Dog Dare you

Tue, 05 Jan 2010 04:27:46 GMT

Have a Happy Steamy New Year:
We Double Dog Dare you.

~ * ~

Double Dare
Jeanne St. James
Genre: BDSM Multicultural Menage
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Double-Dare.aspx

What could be better than waking up next to a hot guy? Waking up sandwiched between two of them.

Quinn Preston, a financial analyst, is not happy when her friends dare her to pick up a handsome stranger at a wedding reception. What better reason to give up men when her previous long-term relationship had not only been lackluster in the bedroom but he had cheated?

Logan Reed, a successful business owner, can’t believe that he’s attracted to the woman in the ugly, Pepto-Bismol pink bridesmaid dress. And to boot, she’s more than tipsy. After turning down her invitation for a one-night stand, he finds her in the parking lot too impaired to drive. He rescues her and takes her home. His home.

The next morning Quinn’s conservative life turns on its ear when Logan introduces her to pleasures she never even considered before. And to make things more complicated, Logan already has a lover.

Tyson White, ex-pro football player, is completely in love with Logan. He has mixed emotions when Logan brings home Quinn. But the dares keep coming...

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, BDSM theme & content, male/male sexual practices, ménage (m/m/f).

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Double-Dare.aspx

~ * ~

King in Check
Treva Harte
Genre: Cowpunk/Futuristic Western
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/King-in-Check.aspx

Mosquito has never seen a more beautiful man than Rey. On the run, Rey is forced to depend on the mysterious young boss of his old home. Both of them have learned to lie during their lives. Honor, country, even sex doesn’t mean anything in their world.

When Rey decides to trust in Mosquito’s aid, and they search for help, they have to discover who will betray them and who they can trust...or even love…or else they’ll be dead.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/King-in-Check.aspx

~ * ~

Utopia-X 4: Finding Utopia
KZ Snow
Genre: GLBT Futuristic Romantic Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/UtopiaX-4-Finding-Utopia.aspx

When demon-angel-human hybrids fall in love, it makes them a little crazy. That's not the worst of it for Regenerie's Coven of Three. Now that Win, Tole, and Zee are involved in passionate relationships, they can't generate enough sex-energy with each other to activate their indispensable oracle, the Celestine.

The Dark Elves of Bildezir couldn't have picked a better time to attempt a takeover of the Utopian Metroplex. Regenerie’s leaders have gone off to seek a solution to their quandary. Their employee Pablo, left behind, decides to party -- a little too hard. There's ample evidence he's committed a serious indiscretion. Both the Coven's headquarters and Pablo's bond with Win end up in shambles.

And here come the elvish warriors.

Kicked to the curb, Pablo has his hands full. He must prove he didn't betray Win during his night of drunken revelry. And he must figure out how to save both the Coven and the metroplex from a power-hungry, sexually ruthless enemy armed with magic.

What does Pablo have, aside from his love and devotion? A twink named Skeep, a horny mongrel humanoid, and a big blue orb. Good luck.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/UtopiaX-4-Finding-Utopia.aspx

~ * ~

Hostile Takeover
Eve Vaughn & Shara Azod
Genre: Multicultural Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel Plus
Price: $7.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Hostile-Takeover.aspx

The advertising business can be brutal...

But Lydia was the perfect woman to tackle any challenge thrown her way. Having overcome a painful past, she's determined to make a life for herself on her own terms. Her plan to stay focused on her career and lead a life without the taint of love hits a snag in the form of her equally determined and very sexy boss, Ryder.

Success takes perseverance...

And Ryder has the drive to make his goals a reality. Having built his advertising firm with nothing but his hard work and fortitude, he's used to getting what he wants. And he wants Lydia. Using the same principles in his business strategy to win her, he fails miserably. Frustrated by Lydia’s steadfast refusal to acknowledge the scorching attraction between them, he devises a plan to get her alone: a weeklong business trip on a tropical island resort where the days are hot and the nights are downright steamy.

Ryder knows it will take more than flowers and candy to win Lydia--heart, body, and soul. She'll need a little push, a dose of persuasion, with a pinch of heady seduction. In matters of love and business, sometimes a hostile takeover isn’t as bad as it sounds.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Dubious consent.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Hostile-Takeover.aspx

~ * ~

EXCERPT: Cameron Dane's Quinn Security: Saying I Do

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 04:42:31 GMT

An Excerpt from Quinn Security: Saying I Do

Cameron Dane
Genre: LGBT Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Quinn-Security-Saying-I-Do.aspx

When Rhone Quinn caught Adam Reyes picking his pocket in Finding Home, he never dreamed the young man would become his best friend, his business partner, or that Adam was secretly gay and falling for him. What really knocked heterosexual Rhone on his ass was discovering Adam's feelings, and realizing he felt an equally fierce attraction and love.

Fast forward two years. Rhone and Adam are engaged and headed to Vermont for their wedding. Nothing can mar this beautiful occasion. Right?

Wrong. A bride staying at the hotel fuels Adam's fears of losing Rhone to a woman; a feuding couple that Adam and Rhone run into every time they turn around sparks disagreements between them; and a hotel employee's strange behavior spurs Adam's professional curiosity and later rouses his protective juices.

What was supposed to be a week of celebration and hot lovin' quickly turns into a Quinn Security investigation. Now all Rhone and Adam need to do is get a bickering couple to admit they're in love, help a sweet young man out of a terrible situation, and maybe, just maybe, Rhone can get his fella to the chapel on time to say "I do."

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

Adam's gaze strayed to his jeans wadded up on the floor, and his heart fluttered with renewed nerves. "Wait." He didn't move with Rhone. With a tug against his partner's hold, their twined fingers separated. "Give me a minute." Looking into Rhone's pale eyes, Adam worried the inside of his lower lip. "I'll." While pointing at the door, he took a step back. "I'll make sure everything is locked up tight, and then I'll join you."

Rhone's stare narrowed, but when he opened his mouth, he just said, "Okay. Don't be long. I'll get the shower going."

After Rhone disappeared into their bedroom, Adam gathered up the used convenience packet of lube, tossed it in the trash can under the desk, and then emptied the contents of the front pocket of his jeans into his hand. Among the loose change and a folded slice of wrapped gum, the band of black enamel with a thin line of matte silver running down the center winked up at him like the brightest of stars.

Should I?

God, Adam had something so great going with Rhone right now. More than he ever could have imagined or hoped for when their relationship had changed from best friends to lovers two years ago. More than he would have dared dream twelve years ago when Rhone caught Adam trying to steal his cell phone and offered him a job in his business-Quinn Security and Investigations-part of which Adam now owned, along with Rhone, his brother, Canin, and Canin's wife, Kasey.

Adam loved Rhone so goddamned much. He shook just thinking about pushing for a change in their relationship and possibly scaring Rhone away.

You want it, Reyes. You've wanted Rhone for your own in every way from practically the day you met.

In his mind, Adam could hear Rhone on the night their relationship took this new, intimate turn. "Be the man I know you are and tell me what you want."

Now, Rhone's voice drifted to him through the walls of their apartment. "Adam? Where are you? Get your fucking sweet ass in the shower right now!"

Adam let his jeans fall to a heap on the floor, then dropped the change and gum too, and slipped the band on his thumb. "I can do this." He psyched himself up under his breath, strode through the bedroom, and then into the bathroom before the shaking got so bad Rhone would think he was ill rather than nervous and excited.

Rhone shoved the shower curtain open right then and stopped Adam dead in his tracks. "There you are," he said. A quick smile turned his face from harsh lines to breathtaking. "Damn, I was about to go see if you were installing new locks. What was the holdup?"

Adam took his fill of the big, tan body before him, slick with water. God, the man was so stunning, he tongue-tied Adam, as he often did when they were naked together. Wires and plans tripped in Adam's brain, and instead of exhibiting suave and cool, he thrust his thumb in Rhone's direction and blurted, "Will you marry me?"

Rhone stumbled into the shower wall at his back.

"I got this ring for you." Adam rushed forward. He slipped the band off his thumb and held it up. "It's not an engagement ring. Well, I guess technically it is. I didn't know what I was supposed to get you as a symbol of my proposal; obviously not a diamond, although I suppose I could have gotten you something with a diamond, but I don't think that's your style, so I didn't. You don't even have to wear this if you don't want to. I guess it's more a wedding band than an engagement ring. Oh God"-heat flamed up Adam's nudity, and mortification chilled it in reverse-"that assumes you're going to say yes, and you don't have to."

Clamping his runaway mouth shut, Adam forced himself to take a deep breath and get control of his words. "There's no pressure, Rhone. I love you and want to be with you, no matter the circumstances. I want to marry you, though, if you'll have me. I'd like our commitment to be official." The guy still hadn't moved a muscle since Adam had sprung the question, and Adam's stomach started to knot up in tight bundles. "Rhone?"

Rhone jerked to life, and his gray eyes swam with wetness that didn't have anything to do with the shower. "Christ, baby, are you kidding me?" He leaped over the edge of the bathtub and stumbled right into Adam's arms. "Yes." Rhone captured Adam with a clinging, slow kiss, and Adam's heart seized painfully with that one small word. "Fucking goddamnit, of course I'll marry you. Jesus, you shocked the hell out of me, though. Maybe more than the first time I realized I wanted you as more than a friend. Give me that." He took the ring out of Adam's hand and slipped it on his finger.

A perfect fit.

Adam brushed the pad of his thumb back and forth across the metal, letting the heat from Rhone's body absorb into the ring and into him. "It looks nice on you."

Clearing his throat, Rhone said, "Yeah, it does." He lifted Adam's bare hands and looked each finger over. "What about you?"

Stricken, Adam's mouth gaped. "I don't. I didn't."

"Right. I'm an idiot." Rhone closed Adam's mouth for him. "Of course you didn't buy one for yourself. That's my job. I like what you chose." He dropped his focus back to the new piece of hardware on his tan hand, and his voice thickened with emotion. "The colors are like your eyes and my eyes. I'll get you the reverse. The silver around the black. It'll be like showing the world that I'm protecting you, and you're protecting me."

Slashes of heat burned across Adam's cheekbones. "I was kind of thinking that too when I saw this one in the store." He lifted Rhone's hand and nuzzled into it. "Thank you for saying yes."

Dipping down, Rhone planted kisses on each line of red marring Adam's cheeks. "Honey, you don't have to thank me. I'd have married you the night we hooked up and any night since. It's not legal here, though, and I want it to be legal. I guess that's why I didn't ask you before." His pale eyes darkened to slate, and he nodded, as if to himself. "Yeah. We'll go to one of the states where it is legal."

Adam linked his hands at the small of Rhone's back. As he looked up at his fiancé, he knew every bit of adoration coursing through him shone in his eyes.

He listened to Rhone slip into his take-charge, organizing mode, and took mental notes regarding the to-do lists he created out loud. When Adam got a chance, he slipped in, "Whatever you want."

Adam didn't need to say anything else right now.

Rhone had said yes.

The details didn't matter.

EXCERPT: Mechele Armstrong's Settler's Mine 5: The Man

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 04:41:40 GMT

An Excerpt from Settler's Mine 5: The Man

Mechele Armstrong
Genre: Futuristic Multicultural Menage
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Settlers-Mine-5-The-Man.aspx

Colton returns to Settler's Mine searching for his mate who he'd abandoned years before. He'd been on his way earlier, but once he and Larkin mated, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves and it delayed his trip.

Michipi has made a new life for herself at Settler's Mine and doesn't want to trust Colton again, no matter how sincere he seems. Especially with his new mate receiving all the perks of the heartstone glow that she never got.

While Michipi enjoys being the subject of being two men's desires and what they have to offer, however good they both are she can't get past Colton's past betrayal and denies the future of their mating. When an old enemy resurfaces to make an attempt on Colton's life, Michipi is forced to realize that she needs both men in her life. But has the knowledge come too late, and at too high a cost?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices, menage (m/m/f with homoerotic content).

~ * ~

"Ship's docking is complete. Welcome to Settler's Mine. A list of rules and regulations is available. Please read them carefully. Ignorance doesn't excuse you from being shot."

Colton snorted at the recorded message as he docked into port. 'Course with Zelda, anything was possible. How many people had she shot? Probably a few. And those she didn't shoot, her big mate, Bren, could rip apart.

The computer voice message reminded him of where he was headed. And what he was there to do.

Do you really want to do this?

No. He didn't want to face what he'd done in the past.

Not now. Not ever.

But it was time. Past time. He'd been headed here a few weeks ago but had gotten delayed.

He finished the docking procedures. Secured his ship. Turned to face the man who had delayed him, who lay relaxing on a bunk behind him. Larkin had been snoring up until docking had commenced. He now looked delicious, reclining back against the mattress. Looked so at ease with the world. He didn't have an uptight bone in his body. Just a permanent hard-on. "Coming?"

"If only." Larkin sat up, shifted to his feet, and stretched his long body out, muscle by muscle.

Colton's cock hardened at his lover's movements. He wanted to feel those roped muscles around him. Wanted to feel that mouth sucking him off until the little death took him. Maybe they had time for a quickie.

Larkin grinned. He'd shown before he knew how his body affected Colton, and exploited Colton's reactions to the fullest. "I know what's on your mind. Naughty."

"You started it."

"Did not."

Larkin approached him and pulled Colton against his body. Rubbed his cock against him. A hard erection tantalized Colton with the promise of what could happen. What would be tantalizing. "Did too. You always do."

Colton shrugged, not arguing, rubbing back against the cock against him. Larkin was usually the instigator. But that didn't mean that Colton couldn't enjoy what Larkin brought to him. A sensor sounded from the controls, indicating they could disembark. Colton kept quiet, but the rubbing stopped anyway.

Larkin pulled back, suddenly serious. Studied Colton's face. Not his usual jovial attitude. His ever blue eyes gazed down into Colton's own. "Are you nervous?"

To anyone else, Colton would have denied the emotion. But this was Larkin, who seemed to know him better than he'd ever been known. "Yes. A little."

"Where is she?" Larkin's face grew even more subdued. Grim. As if he should be singing a dirge. A look that Colton wasn't used to seeing on his lover. He wanted the smile back on Larkin's face.

Larkin asked like Colton should know specifically where the woman was, even though it had been years since he'd seen her. "She's on the Mine." Colton exhaled deeply. Turned his head as if to look past the door that separated him from her. His skin prickled. He hadn't seen her in so fucking long. "Somewhere." Truth was, if she had her way, dirges for him would be playing. Not that he blamed her.

"Should we find her first? Or get checked in?"

Colton's erection deflated. Larkin might not give this a rest until they'd settled the whole affair. He'd been like a Wolfton with a bone since he'd found out. Colton grabbed a bag. "Get checked in. The Mine requires that. Then we scope her out. See what's shaking. And." Then what?

He wasn't sure what came next. It wasn't going to be a pretty reunion. No nice little words. Loving glances. More like metal things thrown his way. At his head. His hand tightened. He'd give her some leeway. But she'd have to come around to his way of thinking. Or else he'd play dirty. Nothing Larkin needed to know. Or maybe he did. Since Colton would be coming clean soon and all. Bore thinking about. But somehow it seemed wiser to tell Michipi first. After all, technically, she'd been his mate longer.

Larkin reached out to grasp his chin, bringing Colton's attention back to him. "Whatever happens, we will get through this together. Reclaim our mate together."

A mate who Larkin had never met. If only it would be that easy. But that was unlikely. Maybe he should try to tell Larkin that? Larkin didn't seem to understand the situation he was being brought into. "I don't think it's."

Larkin reached out and put a finger against Colton's lips. "I know it's not going to be easy. I'm not naive. But we will do it. We have to."

Ah, the hope and wonder in the young. It did make them naive. The optimism brimming from Larkin might have been catching had Colton been a younger man. Colton smiled, a little bitterly. He'd never been that young. Or that hopeful. Life was what it was. A bitch. Hadn't that been why he'd left her? Or what he'd told himself to justify the mistake? "You're so fucking young." He knew the reaction he'd get.

Larkin smacked him across the chest. Then continued as if Colton hadn't said that. "Sooooo." Larkin rubbed a finger across Colton's lips. It tickled, making Colton shake his head, removing the touch. Yet his skin burned where Larkin had stroked with electric snaps of fire. "What's she like?"

"An angel." The words tumbled from Colton's mouth before he thought about them. "A pure angel." The description felt right. His chest tightened. He hadn't seen her in so long. She might have changed. But the memories he had of her were good ones. Some of his best up, until he'd met Larkin.

"What's that?" Larkin looked confused. His nose crinkled up in that adorable little-boy look that he attained sometimes. "An angel?"

Youth might have hope, but it didn't have everything. "They were from a planet called Earth. They were.beings of light."

"Like a catavar?" Catavars were beings that inhabited caves on a distant planet. They glowed with bioluminescence.

"Not exactly." Colton rubbed his lips, still tingling from the other man's touch. Made it hard to think about explaining something that Larkin didn't know. "They were supposed to be ethereal. Cherubic. Innocents. Pink cheeks. Harps. Wings. They helped a God do his business." Probably not the greatest explanation, but one that would make sense to the other man's frame of reference.

"Ah. She has wings?" Larkin arched a brow. "I never expected to be with a creature with wings. That could get interesting."

Colton eyed him. No one had said they would be with her at all. She was as likely to fuck them up as to fuck them. "No. Nor does she own a harp. Or have a halo. But she was beautiful. Golden-well, not that color exactly. More purple. But what I remember of her is reminiscent of an angel. Her hair is purple." Her skin had light lavender undertones too.

How much was memory and how much was supplied by his dreams? He didn't know. Hell, he'd thought about her every day since he'd left her. Larkin might have brought her draw on him to the forefront during the weeks they'd known each other, but the truth was, she had never been too far out of his mind.

Would she be able to say the same?

"She's going to be mad. Say things. Throw things." Colton had no idea what she did now for a living. But if there were sharp knives and pots involved like there had been back then, he'd probably be wearing them. "You can't protect me. She deserves her.anger. For a while, at least." She deserved so much more than him. So much more than anger. Somehow he'd find a way to give that to her. Hell, he was giving her Larkin in a way. And Larkin was much better than Colton had ever been for a relationship.

Larkin pursed his lips together. "I can't promise I won't defend you. If it gets bad. Too bad." Larkin couldn't promise a lot of things. His hair trigger temper might make this situation dangerous. Even more so than the journey they'd taken to get there.

"Keep yourself in check." An easy thing for Colton to say. Not as easy for Larkin to do. He tended to act first and think later. A fact that bore attention.

Larkin moved back in Colton's space. "I'd rather check you. Maybe.we get checked in and"-he pushed himself against Colton again. Ready. Hard. Wanting. As usual-"we could check each other out. Before.we find her."

It was the first time Colton had seen Larkin willing to let this conversation go for fucking. Colton was more than ready.

His stomach bottomed out. He could lose himself in Larkin's body for a while. But knowing he was this close to her, would he be able to focus completely on Larkin? Could he find the solace he sought in a man's body when a woman had come to the front of his mind? He didn't know. Was he willing to try? His cock pulsed. His libido was willing to give this a try, even if his mind had doubts.

Larkin leaned in to nuzzle him. "Check each other with our cocks." As if the previous comment weren't clear enough for Colton.

His cock wanted to grind back against his lover. To press against the man and lean him back in the shuttle. Take him then and there. Press inside him. Colton pushed him back, and his mouth swooped in for a kiss. A taste. He'd content himself with a taste. That was all.

Only it didn't work out that way. Because once their bodies roamed together in a delicate dance of spacing, electric heat fused inside of him.

His tongue battled with Larkin's. Growing faster and deeper with each assault. He tangled his hands in Larkin's long hair. Kept his head down so he could plunder the man's mouth. Tried to drown himself in Larkin's essence. The good essence that had been so lacking in Colton's life since before Larkin. Since before.her.

He couldn't get enough of the kiss. Of Larkin's taste. His breath rushed from his chest like a freight train as he panted.

Larkin's hands pressed on his torso. Pressed against the scar that remained. The scar that reminded him of his prior life.

Colton released Larkin from the kiss.

Larkin looked dazed. A little tremulous. That Colton could make the big, happy-go-lucky man react that way was a wonder. "Oh."

Not the most intelligible comment.

He reached down to undo Larkin's leather pants.

Larkin's head went back with a groan. "Colton." He panted. "Shouldn't we be checking in? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But I've heard stories."

"No one can get in." Colton finished undoing the zipper and slipped his hand inside Larkin's pants. His breathing sped up, and his heartbeat tripled. Commando. Larkin had often gone out that way in the past, tempting Colton to no end. Should have known he'd do it today. Bastard. What a lucky bastard Colton was. To be tempted by him.

Colton's hand slipped up and down the smooth, hardened rod. Several times. Cupping him, but not entirely. Too big for that.

Larkin moved his legs apart, letting the hand come fully into his pants. Shifted his weight. His face looked like a study in pain. His eyes rolled back as Colton found a sensitive spot, the tip of his cock. Larkin said something in a language that Colton didn't understand. Then he continued. "Let me suck you."

Like he had to ask.

Colton stepped away, removing his hand from Larkin's cock. "You may." He reached down to undo his own pants, but Larkin's hands beat him to the top. They undid the snap and slipped down the zipper.

Larkin's face darkened with desire as Colton slipped the pants down to his ankles. He started to take off the boots but stopped as Larkin looked up at him.

Larkin licked his lips.

He didn't come anywhere near Colton. Didn't touch him. Didn't come within a foot of him. But Colton felt the zing of that lick all the way down to his cock. His cock jerked, which made Larkin grin. The man didn't even have to touch him and he was lost.

EXCERPT: Cherise Sinclair's The Dom's Dungeon

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 04:40:43 GMT

An Excerpt from The Dom's Dungeon

Cherise Sinclair
Genre: BDSM Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/The-Doms-Dungeon.aspx

Foster child. Teenage whore. Now a veterinarian, MacKensie's turned her life around, but the scars remain. She saves her affection for the animals who never judge or scorn her, but it's time to get out, move on from her past in Iowa. So, she arranges a vacation exchange to job hunt in Seattle.

Although the house is lovely, one room is locked. Her years in foster care have given her two 'gifts': a neurosis about locked doors and the ability to open them. After she gets into the room, she's appalled.and intrigued. Chains and manacles, whips and paddles, odd benches with straps.

When Alex returns home days early and finds MacKensie draped over the spanking bench in his locked dungeon, he's furious. But her wariness arouses his protective nature and curiosity, so he strikes a deal to keep her close-she'll act as his submissive in exchange for a place to stay and help finding a job.

He'd planned to use the veterinarian to deter an ex-girlfriend, not replace her, but with MacKensie's compelling mixture of strength and vulnerability, the little sub slides right into his well-defended heart.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play, BDSM theme and content (including/not limited to bondage, spanking, tethering), exhibitionism.

~ * ~

Alex parked next to the cheap rental in his driveway. Obviously the exchange person had arrived. Had Butler liked her? Finding the woman's mangled remains in the foyer would really top off the day.

Hopefully he could work out some arrangement with her. By the time he could get a flight, the conference would be almost over, so he saw no point in pursuing that plan. Damned if he'd take up residency in some hotel in his own town. She'd just have to see reason. The house was big enough they didn't have to run into each other, or maybe he'd give her enough money to rent a hotel.

He walked in and called, "Hello."

Silence.

Then with a woof of delight, Butler appeared from around a corner, skidding on the slick marble tiles in his excitement. Alex chuckled as he petted the squirming beast. They'd lived together for a good five years, ever since he'd found the dog skulking around the garbage bin at the beach house. His mother hadn't been impressed, but dignity ranked high on her list of priorities and was nonexistent on Butler's.

"So where's our tenant?" Alex asked as he tugged gently on Butler's ears. He didn't hear any noise in the house, so she was probably upstairs unpacking. As he headed toward the stairs, he felt a warm trickle from under the dressing the emergency-room nurse had applied. Apparently his stitches hadn't appreciated being rubbed against a car seat. Turning, he headed for the dungeon, where he kept most of his first-aid supplies. Might as well patch himself up, although that might prove difficult, considering the wound was on his back. Maybe he'd grab some gauze and tape and see if he could get the woman to slap it on. She was a vet, after all, which was one of the main reasons he'd chosen her.

He went down the hallway to his dungeon and stopped. The door stood slightly ajar, and he knew he'd locked it before he left. In fact, he'd even checked it before leaving. Anger unfurled inside him, growing hard and fast. The terms of the vacation trade were spelled out clearly in the contract, including the locking of nonessential rooms. She'd deliberately broken in.

He couldn't hear anything inside, but he'd soundproofed the room years ago.

Placing a hand on the door, he silently pushed it open. Not difficult to spot her. She'd draped herself over the spanking bench, head hanging down on one side, legs on the other, with her ass-a pretty, round ass-up in the air.

Well, well. A trickle of humor dampened the anger. Now wasn't that an appropriate position for someone richly deserving punishment?

He'd enjoy turning those cheeks a nice pink.

He walked over silently. Before she could move, he set his hand on the back of her neck, holding her firmly across the horse. She gave a yelp of surprise. Her thick, wavy golden hair hung almost to the floor, concealing her face. Maybe five-five or so, she had a nicely toned body.

Since he'd adjusted the horse for Cynthia's taller body, this smaller woman's arms and legs dangled, giving her no leverage to struggle. Although she was certainly trying.

He didn't bother to listen to the sputtering and cursing coming from the submissive under his hands. And that she was submissive, he had no doubt. Someone might have played on the spanking horse, possibly, but the way she'd positioned herself so carefully, and the tiny wiggle she'd given when finally in position, spoke of a person imagining herself helpless and being excited at the idea.

A Dom had a duty to give a submissive what she needed, not always what she wanted.and to administer punishment as required.

"I locked this room before I left. You broke in." A sub always needed to know the reason for the punishment. He gave her a hard swat, precisely placed on the fullest part of her buttocks.

What is the owner doing home? A second later, the man's hand hit Mac's bottom, the stinging pain almost extinguished by her shock. He hit me! She struggled furiously, but his large hand gripped her neck and pressed down unyieldingly.

Naked and caught. Humiliation swept through her in a hot wave. "Let me go!"

He didn't respond to her struggles or shouts, as if what she said was meaningless. His voice deep and controlled, he said slowly, "I trusted you with my house and my dog. Rather than respecting that, you break into a locked room and make yourself at home. Your punishment is five swats." His hand slammed across her bottom again.

And again.

The burning pain swamped her mind. The fiery sensations on her bare skin hit each time in the same spot. At the fourth blow, her eyes filled with tears. His hand felt hot against her neck as his grip on it eased slightly. From deep inside her, guilt and shame welled up, choking off her yells. She shouldn't have opened a locked door; she'd betrayed an agreement, a trust.

But spanking? No one had ever spanked her. Ever. Foster children got time-outs; children who belonged got spanked.

As he gave the final swat, a shudder ran through her, leaving her trembling inside and out.

He still held her firmly with one hand; now the other stroked down her back, a firm, knowing touch. Not sexual but.assessing. When the hand reached her stinging bottom, she hissed with the increased pain.

"I want you to remain in this position-what was your name?-ah, MacKensie. Is that clear?"

"Yes." She couldn't manage more than a whisper as the magnitude of her terrible blunder struck her harder than his blows. Oh God, what have I done? She'd not only broken the Exchanges contract, but more. Her neurotic need to open doors had destroyed her new start. How could she get a job as a vet out here if he turned her into the police? Or he could do something worse.

After Exchanges sent Fontaine's bio, she'd checked him out on the Net. He was not only richer than God, but he mingled with the elite in Seattle society. He could easily destroy her reputation. Who would hire her if he denounced her?

Footsteps moved away and returned. Then his hand pressed down on the small of her back. "This won't feel good, but it will help the pain and redness." She had only a second to wonder what he meant before he began to massage lotion into her skin, right where he'd hit her. As pain flared back to life, she jerked, arched, tried to kick-and got a swat on her burning butt.

"Lie still." The sheer authority in his voice made her force herself back down. "Good girl." His touch gentled, and the pain eased, leaving only a hot throbbing in its wake. "Up you come now." He lifted her off the bench. Broad hands gripped her upper arms, steadying her when she wobbled.

After a breath for courage, she looked up into a strong face and piercing blue eyes. His short dark brown hair lightened to gray at the temples. He had sharply chiseled features and a stern jaw with a cleft in the chin. A white, tailored shirt with sleeves rolled up displayed muscular forearms.

Still holding her by one arm, he cupped her cheek, using his thumb to brush away her tears. "Almost over, pet," he murmured, then stepped back. "Kneel and apologize." His voice had turned cold, eradicating for a frozen moment even the thought of arguing.

But kneel? Did he think he lived in some feudal century or-her mind flashed to the BDSM clubs she'd visited and the submissives at their master's feet. Frak, she'd not only found the Dom's dungeon, but she'd found the Dom to go with it.

Still.if this guy thought she'd kneel, he could think again. She gave him a scathing look and headed for the door. Could she arrest him for hitting her? Probably not, considering she'd broken-

"MacKensie."

She glanced back.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "If you leave, I'll report this through legal routes. If you stay, perhaps we can discuss alternatives."

What kind of alternatives would a man demand? Oh she knew exactly what, and a cold hand squeezed her chest. She wouldn't be a whore again. Never. But stalling couldn't hurt. Maybe his anger would cool a little. "What alternatives?"

He pointed at the floor in front of him. "Apologize."

Fine. She started back across the room and almost groaned when the room blurred. No food since breakfast, too long in the Jacuzzi, and this. Her legs buckled as she tried to kneel, and she landed painfully on her knees. She gritted her teeth against the pain.

He bent over and lifted her face. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

She nodded, confused. Beat me and then make sure I didn't hurt my knees? Was the man bipolar?

After caressing her cheek, he stood. And waited.

Damn him. She forced the words out, the taste of the apology bitter in her mouth. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have opened a locked door." She stopped.

"'Please forgive me, Sir,'" he prompted.

Oh honestly. Her hands tightened into fists. If she thumped him in the balls, she could run and. And what? Escape onto the street bare-ass naked? Assuming her legs even held her up, because right now that wasn't looking likely; she could feel fine tremors sweeping through her. "Please forgive me, S-sir." Her voice broke at the last word.

"Very nice." He paused. "You have my forgiveness."

Relief swept through her so powerfully that she shuddered. Now if he'd just let her leave.

He walked across the room-maybe she should make a dash for it?-and returned. A warm, incredibly soft blanket wrapped around her.

She pulled it closer and pushed to her feet-too quickly. Cold sweat broke out on her skin, and a hum filled her ears. She took a step and squinted, hoping to see a chair. Sit. Must sit. Not faint. Her legs gave out.

He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. Shifting her in his arms, he winced and said under his breath, "Damned knife," then pulled her against his chest. Carrying her. No one had ever carried her. Ever. Even when she'd been little. Her foster mother hadn't believed in coddling children.

She didn't even feel unsafe being held so high. His chest was solid muscle, his arms like iron bars under her shoulders and legs; the world probably would end before this man dropped her. He walked over to a chair she hadn't noticed in the corner of the room and sat down.

When her weight landed on his thighs, her butt burned, and she jumped. What in heaven's name was she doing? "Let go of me." As she pushed against his chest, the blanket dropped away from her, baring her breasts. Dammit.

"I'll let you go when I know you can walk across the room without passing out." His arm tightened, keeping her in place. When his hand rose, she forced herself not to cringe. Her fingers curled into claws to rip him apart if he tried to grope her.

He huffed a laugh. "Quite the little cat." His hand slowly lowered to stroke her hair with a disconcertingly gentle touch. "Gently, pet. Take a minute to get your bearings. Then you can get dressed. And we'll talk."

Oh, she heard a definite threat in that last phrase. But as the warmth from the blanket and his body sank into her, her muscles melted as if the trembling had used up all her energy.

He leaned back in the chair, settling her more comfortably. "Tell me. Has anyone ever spanked you before?"

"No." Her cheek rested against the softness of his shirt. She could hear the even thud of his heart under her ear; her pulse still raced twice as fast. "Never." And it would never happen again. Yet the memory of his hand holding her in place, the feeling of being overpowered, made her feel weird. Lost.

"Have you been around BDSM before?"

She tried to push away, and he eliminated her struggle to move before it hardly began. She glared at him.

"No, you're not getting up yet," he said. "I want to see some color in your face first."

Her teeth ground together, but she wasn't totally stupid. The little flickers of blackness at the edge of her vision and the numbness around her lips and fingers said he was probably right. She'd pass right out before she got to the door, and wouldn't that be the perfect end to this disaster? She pulled the blanket tighter and prepared to wait him out.

His scent surrounded her, a rich blend of exotic cologne and masculine fragrance that blended with the scent of leather. His voice deepened. "MacKensie, have you been around BDSM before?"

"I went into a club three times."

EXCERPT: Nicole Kimberling's Baby, It's Cold Outside

Sat, 02 Jan 2010 04:39:50 GMT

An Excerpt from Baby, It's Cold Outside

Nicole Kimberling
Genre: LGBT Romantic Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Baby-Its-Cold-Outside.aspx

Small town Pacific Northwest reporter Peter Fontaine wants to level up. A job offer in Austin seems to be the answer to his prayers, but there's one catch: his boyfriend, Nick Olson, artist, recluse, and snow-loving outdoorsman.

When Peter agrees to go to the Freezing Man snow sculpture competition, he thinks he's going to get a lesson in making love in a hollowed-out snowball in the woods. He thinks he'll either find a way to convince Nick to come to the Lone Star State or be forced to say goodbye. But one frozen corpse derails Peter's personal plans entirely...

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

Dying in an avalanche was one fear that had never plagued Peter Fontaine. But glancing up at the walls of snow rising on either side of Nick's Audi, Peter thought that might have been an oversight. Nick's expression remained unconcerned as they wound their way through a narrow canyon of snow. Peter's chest tightened. The snowy walls seemed to be leaning toward him. A chunk of white fell to the wet black ribbon of road. His heart hammered as he envisioned himself being buried beneath the building-sized blocks of snow. Sweat beaded his brow. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the back of the passenger-side visor.

A gray-faced ghoul stared back at him.

From the driver's side, Nick asked, "Are you all right?"

Nick, of course, looked absolutely handsome. Through a vigorous regimen of snowshoeing, he'd retained his summer tan all the way till Christmas and beyond. His brown hair was streaked with straw-colored highlights. He wore a trim beard and mustache. It kept his face warm in the winter, he claimed. His pale blue eyes seemed like they could have been made from winter sky.

"I think I might be feeling a little confined," Peter admitted. "How stable do you think these walls are anyway? Have any DOT snowplows gone missing in the last few weeks?"

Nick gave him a level glance. "We're almost there."

"Seriously, this is like driving down a Manhattan alley," Peter heard himself say, heard the note of hysteria in his voice, and yet was unable to stop himself talking. "Have I mentioned how much I hate Manhattan alleys?"

"Maybe you should try to think of something else."

"Like what?"

"Tell me about the article you're going to write."

"What article?"

"You always write an article for the Hamster about every place we ever go." Nick smiled easily, carelessly, as if he had no fear whatsoever that he would be imminently crushed under tons of snow, which was probably the case.

Peter took a deep breath.

"I think it will go something like, Anyone who stays in Bellingham for very long will become familiar with the number 542. You see it on bumper stickers, T-shirts, and even occasionally on "scenic highway" road signs. Highway 542 goes fifty-five miles east and five thousand feet up from Bellingham Bay to the Mount Baker Ski Area. If you're lucky enough to not be suffocated in a freak highway avalanche, you will reach Artist Point-"

"We're not going that far," Nick said. "The sno-park is just past Glacier."

"Hooray," Peter weakly rejoined.

"Once we turn off the highway it will be more open. I promise," Nick said. "I didn't realize you were so claustrophobic."

"I don't think it's claustrophobia so much as fear of being buried alive."

"If you want me to take you back to Bellingham, I can do that and still make it back up in time for the festival."

Peter shook his head. "I really want to be there. I can tough it out. I promise."

Nick nodded but seemed worried.

"It's just that I don't ever remember you saying you liked snow camping."

"I like the idea of snow camping," Peter offered. "And I want to be with you for New Year's Eve, and this is where you're going to be, so."

Nick broke out in the sort of smile that had once made him the darling of the Manhattan gallery scene.

"I really think that after you get used to the cold you're going to like it. The Freezing Man festival is a lot like Burning Man, only colder and with fewer hippies on acid-and with more snow sculpting."

"But there will be some hippies on acid, right?"

"Only if you invited your friends."

When Nick had first proposed the idea of spending New Year's Eve huddled together in a recently erected igloo, Peter had been torn.

Because their families lived in different states, they had decided to spend Christmas apart. Nick had entertained his cousin Kjell's family at the Castle, the enormous, cliff-face domicile that Nick had inherited from his first partner. Meanwhile Peter flew to Austin to visit his folks, who had moved to Texas once Peter graduated from college.

One guest at the Fontaine Christmas barbecue, Larry Polk, happened to be a newspaperman. He happened to offer Peter an interview at the Austin Chronicle. Peter happened to accept.

He'd been drunk at the time, but he'd agreed to the interview again, sober, three days later.

"The Hamster is too small a venue for an award-winning journalist," Larry had told him in his flat, east Texas drawl. "You need to come on down here. We'll treat you right."

Peter loved the Hamster, loved the city of Bellingham, loved his friends here, but he also had a little something called ambition. And to satisfy that he would have to trade up. He needed a bigger city with a bigger paper and bigger circulation.

He hadn't told Nick about either the job or the fact that he'd agreed to an interview; he couldn't. He, constantly talking, constantly writing copy in his head, could not find the words to say that he was thinking of leaving Bellingham. Not even now.

Peter found himself staring out the window and made himself look at Nick instead. He filled up his eye with the image of his lover.felt himself relaxing enough to stare hard at that beard Nick been wearing since November.

Peter didn't know if he liked it, but thought maybe he might. He wondered if he should grow a beard himself, before remembering that he couldn't. Mustaches barely managed to take hold on the outcropping of his upper lip. An entire beard would never grow on the thin, barren planes of his face.

And he could probably count on never having too much hair on his chest, unlike Nick, whose hairy Viking ancestors probably had never needed to wear shirts at all.

Though not born a true Pacific Northwesterner, Nick had nonetheless adapted to local ways and therefore ran the air conditioner in his car anytime the thermometer went over sixty.

Peter preferred to engage the car's heated seats rather than the air conditioner, but then, that followed. An old boyfriend of his had once remarked that he was "as cold as a woman," and that was just about right. He didn't have a lot to keep him warm. He had what some kindly referred to as a "runner's physique" and others, such as his grandmother, called "skinny little string bean."

He had no idea how he was going to survive the weekend in the wilderness and even less idea how he would bring up the job in Austin.

Because he didn't want to leave, really. He didn't want to leave the Pacific Northwest, and he didn't want to leave Nick. But he wanted to level up-go out into the larger world and prove what he could do. Comfort, even affection, couldn't satisfy that desire to compete, to go further. It stayed in Peter's chest, a hard, gnawing anxiety.

The anxiety apparently showed on his face, because Nick said, "You know, there's a lodge on the property about half a mile from the campsite. If it's too miserable, we can always go there."

"That wouldn't impress your outdoorsy friends much."

Nick snorted. "Once they let me out of the army, I no longer had any desire to exercise my machismo."

"That's because you have a natural rugged manliness that makes machismo completely unnecessary," Peter said. In spite of his claim of imperviousness to the opinions of others, Nick beamed smugly at Peter's comment. "I, on the other hand, wouldn't call myself rugged."

"No," Nick agreed, "you're more like a greyhound. Sleek, skinny, and always on the scent of a good story."

"And exactly like a greyhound, I think I'm going to be shivering in this snow."

"You can always curl up on my lap for warmth." Nick grinned.

Peter rolled his eyes. "There is no way I'm going to cuddle up to you in front of all those burly, sporty dudes."

"You will, once you're cold enough. Or drunk enough."

"There isn't enough vodka in the world. And you would die of embarrassment if I did."

"So you think."

"So I know, Mr. I-Don't-Even-Hold-Hands-During-the-Pride-Parade." Peter laughed. "You're shy. Just admit it."

"I admit nothing."

Nick turned right and started up a narrow, slippery side road that seemed more like twin ruts in the snow than a paved surface. Though it was more treacherous, Peter felt better about this road than he had about the snow canyon that was 542. Sliding into an icy ravine seemed preferable to being crushed beneath tons of snow, though he couldn't generate any logical reason why. After ten minutes of slow, careful driving, he saw a handwritten sign ahead:

FREEZING MAN PARKING.

AVALANCHE WARNING IN EFFECT.

HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR!

* * * * *

Like many of the trails systems in Whatcom County, Salmon Ridge Sno-Park had been built by a team of dedicated snowshoeing enthusiasts, including Nick's second cousin, Kjell Van Beek.

Kjell had taken up plein air painting as a way to express his feelings during a personal crisis he'd experienced in his midthirties, and five years later he'd become not only quite good but a well-known fixture in Bellingham parks and on Whatcom County's many scenic byways. Like Nick, Kjell had a near-superhuman tolerance for cold. Peter had once seen him standing at his easel in the middle of Boulevard Park in a prosaically beautiful snowfall wearing a parka, snow boots, and cargo shorts.

Peter had met Kjell before, briefly, when Nick had had a show up at Mindport Gallery. He'd talked mostly about his recent conversion from painting with oils to painting with acrylics.

More than the sign, it was sighting Kjell standing alongside the road in that very same outfit which told Peter they had arrived at their destination. The fresh, powdery snow stirred up by Nick's car stuck to the dark, curly hair on Kjell's meaty thighs, but he didn't seem to notice, being deeply engaged in scumbling a thin layer of white paint over the painting on his canvas, giving the thing the same hazy, misty look as the surrounding scenery.

"Shouldn't we stop and say hi?"

Nick shook his head. "He wouldn't talk to us if we did. He's in the flow."

"Do you ever do that?"

"Get in the flow? All the time."

"No, I mean stand around painting exactly what happens to be in front of you at the moment."

"Not really. Sometimes I'll sketch something I've just seen, but I've never been much of a plein air guy. They really love to capture the light and energy and immediacy of their environment. The gestalt of the moment. Including whatever random bugs and twigs fall into their paint. Kjell once painted over a whole cloud of gnats that slapped into his painting during a windstorm. That certainly lent the piece a unique texture as only encountered outdoors."

"Bumpy?"

"But uniquely, organically bumpy." Nick pulled the car alongside a string of around thirty similarly snow-worthy vehicles.

Peter hadn't expected the Hilton, but he had expected at least one building to be visible. The promised lodge, for example. Nothing, not even an outhouse, marred the expanse of snow and trees. He zipped up his coat, summoned his manly sense of adventure, and opened the car door. The air was chilly but not bitterly cold. Huge white snowflakes drifted down through the still air to alight on the cedars, the car, Nick's woolen toque.

A few yards down a gentle slope a few people in brightly colored winter gear tromped through the snow, erecting poles and packing snow into blocks. The puffiness of their parkas changed their proportions, giving the scene the impression of extremely industrious children busy making the world's greatest snow fort.

"I came up Wednesday and scoped out our site and started our structure." Nick hauled rucksacks of equipment out of the back of the car. "It's right down there. See the red flag?"

The red flag was really more of a banner such as one might see a costumed knave carrying in a renaissance fair. Two golden letters adorned the red field: N and P. It hung alongside a little mound of snow that seemed to be getting gently covered with a blanket of cotton ball-sized snowflakes.

Was getting buried in the snow his theme for today?

Without really thinking, he started to internally write his own obituary: Peter Fontaine, winner of the Investigative Reporter's and Editor's Award, died Saturday after being suffocated inside an artistic igloo. Fontaine's lover, prominent Bellingham painter Nick Olson, escaped the igloo with only a mild chill. Fontaine's blue, frozen body will be on display at the Freezing Man Snow Sculpture Festival until the North Cascades experience a significant summer snowmelt.

Perhaps sensing Peter's uneasiness, Nick said, "You know, I didn't realize you had this claustrophobia problem when I built the shelter. It's pretty tight in there." Nick paused, seeming about to reiterate his offer to take Peter back to Bellingham.

"I'll be fine as long as there's enough room for you to warm me with your body." Peter forced a lewd smile.

Nick smiled back-a smile of relief and gratitude. "There's sufficient space inside to generate heat-producing friction."

"Then let's go down so I can see the accommodations."

Nick led the way, dragging their gear behind him on a pulka that he'd made from a plastic sled he'd bought at Canadian Tire and some half-inch PVC pipe. Peter watched Nick-bearded, dressed in well-worn GORE-TEX, polarized shades, and dragging a sledful of cargo-and he didn't think that Nick could have appeared more rugged if he'd planned it. And he fit right in with the other men there, though it was sometimes hard to tell the men from the women beneath all the protective gear. The only sure indicators of gender were the colors pink and purple for women and beards for men. Otherwise everyone looked the same in snow pants.

They all seemed to be engaged in various stages of building snow shelters. Nick greeted them, introducing Peter as he went.

The igloo closest to the road was inhabited by a chef named Henry Swank and his wife, Janelle. Both seemed to be in their late thirties, and they had obviously been interrupted in the middle of an argument. They owned a catering business in Bellingham. Peter knew them from their Hamster ad, which highlighted their organic produce and membership in Sustainable Connections, one of Bellingham's many left-leaning business associations.

Janelle smiled warmly and shook Peter's hand, while Henry only gave them a cursory wave. Peter couldn't decide who had been winning that argument. Henry probably, since Janelle had been happy to be interrupted.

Next came a Martin Wells, who seemed to be in his midtwenties. He and two friends, Rick and Shane, seemed to be bent on creating an entire mansion. Three domed humps stood clustered together. Peter wondered if they somehow had to make three different rooms to avoid sleeping close to each other. They seemed to be the type of guys who would be worried about being perceived to be fags.

"Martin's got an engineering degree but no job offer. He and two buddies apparently spend all their time on the mountain perfecting their snow- and ice-building techniques. I cannot compete with them." Nick indicated his own snow mound. "It's only one room."

"Igloo sweet igloo," Peter remarked.

"Technically this is a quinzhee." Nick crouched down and opened the tiny, cupboard-sized door. "You make it by mounding up the snow, letting it set, and then digging out the middle. We'll be cozy in here, that's for sure. Just about the only thing that can bring it down is rain."

"What if it rains?" Peter thought it was a fair question, rain being quite common, even in January.

"Then we run back to the car and drive back to Glacier and get a hotel."

"Can the hotel room have a hot tub?"

"Absolutely." Nick opened the little door. "After you."

Peter crawled through the entry and found himself in a surprisingly bright domed room. Though there was not quite enough height to stand up straight, the top of the ceiling was about five feet high. A raised platform took up half the floor space. A red votive candle stood in a nook carved into the wall. There was a small hole in the top of the dome that Peter imagined must be for ventilation.

Nick sat down on the platform, beaming.

"How do you like it?"

"It's pretty cool," Peter said. "No pun intended."

"Funny."

"This is our bed." Nick indicated the raised platform. "The rest of it is our living room. Except the foyer, of course." Nick pointed at the little tunnel leading to the cupboard door.

"Where is our bathroom?"

"You always think of the most romantic things," Nick said. "We set up a couple of tents of portable toilets, and I've got WAG BAGs on the sled. We have to pack everything out, per Washington State regulations, and that includes toilet paper."

"That puts an amazing image in my mind."

"You can always go without. Kjell never uses it. He claims that a snowball does the trick, and you can just bury it afterward. The snowball, I mean. Everything else goes in the bag."

"You know, Kjell is exactly the kind of person I would expect to wipe his ass with a snowball," Peter remarked. "I think I'll go with the standard-issue TP."

"I tried the snowball method once."

"I bet you did. How was it?"

"Chilly. Very, very chilly." Nick gave an involuntary shudder as he brushed the snow off his mittens. "Let's get our stuff inside so we can join the fun."

After they moved their gear and set up their sleeping pads, Peter reluctantly acquainted himself with the toilet tent, which turned out to be not that bad.

It was two in the afternoon, two hours and twenty-nine minutes until sunset. Nick suggested they spend the time snowshoeing around the campsite so Peter could get the lay of the area.

In spite of only having worn snowshoes on one previous occasion, Peter got along fairly easily on his rentals. He followed Nick down a trail leading between snow-draped stands of western hemlock and fir. Overhead, the sky was deep blue. Weak winter sun shone from the south. Nick took him down to the trail's terminus at the edge of the North Fork of the Nooksack River. Even in deep winter, water still flowed quickly and freely at the center. He pointed out the line of the riverbank and the treacherous ice that grew in a thin, deceptive sheet across the surface.

"And if you look up there"-Nick pointed up at a field of snow-"you can see how there are fissures in the surface of the snowfield?"

Peter squinted up. "Yes, I think so."

"That slope is highly unstable and likely to come down. I'd stay away from it."

Peter couldn't help but smile at the seriousness of Nick's tone. He sounded like a troop leader addressing an errant and death-prone Boy Scout. Or maybe this was just his army survival training kicking in. It was insufferable in any case.

Peter said, "I don't know why you think I'm going to be traipsing around out here by myself. I don't even have a map."

"You never know," Nick said. "People get separated for a lot of reasons. And then they end up dying. And you should keep an eye out for tree wells too. If you fall in one of those, you could break both your legs."

"I really don't think I'm going to be straying farther than the toilet tent." Peter stopped, planted his ski poles firmly in the snow.

Nick stopped and turned to face him fully. "I'm only telling you this because you're naturally curious and inquisitive and also secretive. You're the kind of person who'll sneak off to check something out without telling anyone. I just want you to know that there are a lot of ways to get hurt out here, so you shouldn't go out alone."

"I promise that if I decide to go poking around, I will take an equally nosy buddy. But seriously, I plan on spending most of my time here either looking at snow sculptures, snoozing in the igloo, or drinking vodka in full view of everyone, including you. Now please stop treating me like a girl."

"Quinzhee."

"What?"

"It's a quinzhee, not an igloo."

"I'll make a note of it for my story."

Nick nodded, apparently satisfied. He stared up at the trees for a few moments, then said, "I'm trying to make sure you're safe."

Peter thought: Nick Olson, king of communication, stated the obvious today on a snowy trail in the Mount Baker National Forest. Bystanders described his remark as "sincere but also easily observable by anybody."

Then he stopped his internal rant. Nick should be given credit for saying anything at all. Plus he was right. Peter was nosy and secretive. He was withholding quite a whopper right that very second. He was just mad at Nick for knowing him well. He felt his ire leaving him.

Peter said, "But you know, drinking vodka is not the only activity I had planned for tonight."

"Oh yes?"

"Well, night's going to last for a long time. My only concern is that if I expose any flesh, I might catch a chill."

Nick gave him a long, silent look and then smirked. "I think I can find a way to protect any flesh you may choose to expose."

"We should probably get back and make some dinner and get right to bed, then."

Baby, It's Cold Outside, But it's Warm in Here. Come On in to Loose Id

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 04:01:36 GMT

Baby, It's Cold Outside,
But it's Warm in Here
Come On in to Loose Id

~ * ~

Baby, It's Cold Outside
Nicole Kimberling
Genre: LGBT Romantic Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Baby-Its-Cold-Outside.aspx

Small town Pacific Northwest reporter Peter Fontaine wants to level up. A job offer in Austin seems to be the answer to his prayers, but there’s one catch: his boyfriend, Nick Olson, artist, recluse, and snow-loving outdoorsman.

When Peter agrees to go to the Freezing Man snow sculpture competition, he thinks he’s going to get a lesson in making love in a hollowed-out snowball in the woods. He thinks he’ll either find a way to convince Nick to come to the Lone Star State or be forced to say goodbye. But one frozen corpse derails Peter’s personal plans entirely...

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Baby-Its-Cold-Outside.aspx

~ * ~

The Dom's Dungeon
Cherise Sinclair
Genre: BDSM Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/The-Doms-Dungeon.aspx

Foster child. Teenage whore. Now a veterinarian, MacKensie's turned her life around, but the scars remain. She saves her affection for the animals who never judge or scorn her, but it's time to get out, move on from her past in Iowa. So, she arranges a vacation exchange to job hunt in Seattle.

Although the house is lovely, one room is locked. Her years in foster care have given her two ‘gifts’: a neurosis about locked doors and the ability to open them. After she gets into the room, she's appalled…and intrigued. Chains and manacles, whips and paddles, odd benches with straps…

When Alex returns home days early and finds MacKensie draped over the spanking bench in his locked dungeon, he’s furious. But her wariness arouses his protective nature and curiosity, so he strikes a deal to keep her close—she’ll act as his submissive in exchange for a place to stay and help finding a job.

He’d planned to use the veterinarian to deter an ex-girlfriend, not replace her, but with MacKensie’s compelling mixture of strength and vulnerability, the little sub slides right into his well-defended heart.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play, BDSM theme and content (including/not limited to bondage, spanking, tethering), exhibitionism.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/The-Doms-Dungeon.aspx

~ * ~

Settler's Mine 5: The Man
Mechele Armstrong
Genre: Futuristic Multicultural Menage
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Settlers-Mine-5-The-Man.aspx

Colton returns to Settler’s Mine searching for his mate who he’d abandoned years before. He’d been on his way earlier, but once he and Larkin mated, they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves and it delayed his trip.

Michipi has made a new life for herself at Settler’s Mine and doesn’t want to trust Colton again, no matter how sincere he seems. Especially with his new mate receiving all the perks of the heartstone glow that she never got.

While Michipi enjoys being the subject of being two men’s desires and what they have to offer, however good they both are she can’t get past Colton’s past betrayal and denies the future of their mating. When an old enemy resurfaces to make an attempt on Colton's life, Michipi is forced to realize that she needs both men in her life. But has the knowledge come too late, and at too high a cost?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices, menage (m/m/f with homoerotic content).

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Settlers-Mine-5-The-Man.aspx

~ * ~

Quinn Security: Saying I Do
Cameron Dane
Genre: LGBT Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Quinn-Security-Saying-I-Do.aspx

When Rhone Quinn caught Adam Reyes picking his pocket in Finding Home, he never dreamed the young man would become his best friend, his business partner, or that Adam was secretly gay and falling for him. What really knocked heterosexual Rhone on his ass was discovering Adam’s feelings, and realizing he felt an equally fierce attraction and love.

Fast forward two years. Rhone and Adam are engaged and headed to Vermont for their wedding. Nothing can mar this beautiful occasion. Right?

Wrong. A bride staying at the hotel fuels Adam’s fears of losing Rhone to a woman; a feuding couple that Adam and Rhone run into every time they turn around sparks disagreements between them; and a hotel employee’s strange behavior spurs Adam’s professional curiosity and later rouses his protective juices.

What was supposed to be a week of celebration and hot lovin’ quickly turns into a Quinn Security investigation. Now all Rhone and Adam need to do is get a bickering couple to admit they’re in love, help a sweet young man out of a terrible situation, and maybe, just maybe, Rhone can get his fella to the chapel on time to say “I do.”

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Quinn-Security-Saying-I-Do.aspx

~ * ~

EXCERPT: S.W. Vaughn's Skin Deep

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 02:21:13 GMT

An Excerpt from Skin Deep

S.W. Vaughn
Genre: LGBT Urban Fantasy/Paranormal
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Skin-Deep.aspx

Will Ambrose knows everything about love - except how to find it himself. He hosts a popular GLBT relationship radio show, but his own affairs have been rocky and abusive. With sexy, seductive tattoo artist Cobalt, it's lust at first sight. Unfortunately he's already involved ... until that night, when his late arrival home sends his cop partner into a jealous, violent rage.

Cobalt is a Fae, banished to live among humans. His studio, The Grotto, is both a hot spot for the NYC body art crowd and a haven for other Fae seeking protection. Though he's given up on relationships, since his human lovers tend to go insane when they discover his true nature, he can't help his lustful reaction to Will when the radio host visits The Grotto. He tries to dismiss it, but is compelled to get involved when a cab deposits a battered, broken Will at his door, with Cobalt's name on his lips.

Can their powerful attraction - and phenomenal sex - overcome an abusive closeted cop, a traitorous Fae who tries to divide them, and an ex-lover with inhuman powers who'll stop at nothing to take Cobalt back ... including going through Will?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices, violence.

~ * ~

If Tess didn't stop looking at him like that, Will was going to walk out.

He didn't want to go on the air tonight anyway. He had a headache. He needed a cigarette. And he sure as hell didn't feel qualified to dispense relationship advice when his own was.well, a disaster. There. He'd admitted it. Lyle Thomas was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Besides Brett, and Adrian, and oh-God-put-the-knife-down Yvan. His love life was one long fucking train wreck, and the tracks never ended.

He should know. He'd laid them himself. Was still laying them, every time he rolled over and took Lyle's increasingly brutal displays of tough love. His ass was still sore enough to ensure he'd do this show on his feet.

But Tess wasn't looking at his ass. She was looking at the bandage and the makeshift sling that supported his sprained left wrist. She was looking straight through his stupid excuses and directly at the ugly truth.

"Will."

He couldn't look at her. "Are you going to give me the prod notes or not?"

"Sit down, Will."

Her tone was soft, at once daring and heartbroken with concern. She knew he couldn't. He glared at her. "No, thanks. I'm in a hurry. Got a show to do, remember?"

"He hurt you. Again."

"I fell."

"Don't insult me."

He sucked in air through clenched teeth. "He didn't mean it, Tess."

"Stop it! Stop making excuses for him. Will, you need to go to a hospital. And you need to leave that crazy-ass bastard before he kills you."

"Hospital. Right." She knew just as well as he did how pointless it would be. How did you hurt yourself, Mr. Ambrose? Oh, I fell off my bed. Yeah, into a couple of fists. Ha-ha, clumsy me. Let's just call the police-what's that? Oh, your boyfriend is a cop? Well, you should go home and tell him all about it, then.

Filling out a restraining order against a cop-especially Lyle-would only ensure him a nice, comfy spot in a cell. Or a cemetery.

Fuck it. Fire me if you want. He pulled a half pack of smokes from his back pocket and winced at the resurgence of pain the slight contact caused.

"I saw that," Tess whispered.

"Shut up." Will managed to light up one-handed and deposited the rest of the pack on Tess's desk. "Look, just give me the notes, okay? Don't make me fall apart right before airtime. I'll do that after the show. We'll go out for drinks or something."

A frown graced the corners of her mouth. "Promise? Because if you tell me you have to go home to him or else, I'm calling somebody, Will. I'm serious."

"It's not like that. He's just.a little rough." I think. Lyle had insisted he didn't know how tight his grip had been when he threw him on the bed. He'd been appropriately apologetic, even tender, afterward. And Will-stupid, forgiving Will-accepted his advances, despite a cold suspicion that Lyle knew he'd pushed it and just didn't care. "I'm a grown-up," he said to Tess, as much to remind himself as to reassure her. "Lyle is my partner, not my keeper. And if I want to go out and have a few with my slightly overconcerned friend, I can."

He tried to crush a frisson of doubt with logic. They didn't have plans tonight. Lyle had just said he wanted to crash at Will's place because it was closer to work. He was probably asleep already. He hoped.

Tess laughed a little. "If I'm overconcerned, you haven't been smacked around enough."

"Okay. You want to finish me off?"

"Tease."

"Fag-hag."

"Will!" She colored prettily and pushed back from her desk. "Fine. We'll go out for drinks. But we're going to talk about you. No twisting the conversation to make me spill my guts so I'll forget about you spilling yours."

He flashed an innocent expression. "I never do that."

"Right. And I'm Oprah Winfrey."

"Does that make me your fashion designer, or your cabana boy?"

"Get out there and do your show before I fire you, cabana boy."

"Yes, ma'am." Will tipped an imaginary hat, took the pages she fanned at him, and left her office before she could lapse back into mother mode.

He made the short trip down the hall to the studio without bumping into anyone and slipped inside. At least he wouldn't have to try explaining himself again to the rest of the staff. He'd managed to convince most of them that he'd taken up skateboarding, a story that covered the occasional bruise or scrape better than any tone of foundation. Tess knew the truth because she knew him.

Will switched on the midlevel lights and sighed. A wrinkled wrapper lay on the edge of the console, leaking crumbs everywhere. No doubt courtesy of Liza Jewel. She hosted Lovin' Ladies in here from six to eight, and she always left some remnant of whatever excuse for dinner she'd grabbed at the corner store behind. And they said men were slobs.

He cleaned up the mess and glanced over the prod notes. They were brief-just his standard intro and a few lines inviting callers to phone in and spill their guts on the air. A couple of familiar riffs to fill gaps, if he had any. Open-question shows made things easier for him, since the callers did most of the talking. Sometimes Tess demonstrated moments of psychic foresight that astounded him, like tonight, when the last thing he wanted to do was struggle through a monologue and then defend his so-called expertise when the crazies started calling.

The ready light flashed a two-minute warning. Will queued the intro track, flipped three lines open, and jammed the cans on. He pushed the boom mic up a few inches to accommodate his standing position and shoved the stool away to prevent taking an unconscious seat during the show.

He passed two minutes not thinking about his throbbing wrist. When the on-air light came on, he rolled the intro, only half listening to the snippet he'd long since memorized, which started with a bass-infused beat and ended with a welcome to The Truth Will Out.

"And we're taking your calls tonight from all across the city." Will jumped into the flow over the fading strains of exit music. All three lines lit within seconds. No fill tonight, then. "Whether you're gay or bi, curious or tri, I want your questions and confessions."

Tess came through his ear. "Line one. A little sketchy, but try it."

He held the kill switch, said, "Gotcha," and opened the first line. "You're on the air. Question or confession?"

"I am?" A high-pitched and jumpy voice squeaked through the headset.

Will nudged the in-volume down to four. "Yes, you're on. Got something to say?"

"Oh. This is really Will Ambrose? I mean, I'm not talking to a recording."

"No way, baby. I'm live and in person." Will forced cheer into his tone and rolled his eyes. Live call shows always ran the risk of drag, since the callers couldn't be scripted or edited. This one seemed like a dud already. His finger hovered over the disconnect. "What'll it be, question or confession?"

"Sorry. Question." The guy giggled. Someone shouted something in the background. "I saw your picture on the Web site, hot stuff. You available?"

Definitely a dud. He cut the call first, to preempt any wiseass retorts, and said, "Not for you, sweet cheeks. I'm a one-horse cowboy. But thanks for asking." He switched over to Tess. "You called that one. Got any more winners?"

"Line three." She was brisk, dismissive. "Sounds like he'll need a little coaxing."

"Great." He opened three. "Hey, you're on. Question or confession?"

Silence greeted him. Terrific. Two for two, and he'd been on all of sixty seconds.

He gave it one more shot. "Hello.anybody in there? You're on The Truth, my friend. Question or confession?"

"Confession."

The husky, restrained voice sent a shiver through him. His radio instincts deemed this call golden, but his empathy cringed at letting it through. The man was in obvious pain.

"Go ahead," Will almost whispered. "Unburden yourself. I'm listening."

A shuddering breath, perfectly timed. He couldn't have scripted it better. "I pay men for sex."

Gold. Will practically heard a thousand listeners sitting up straighter. He could go a few different ways with this. Hoping to let the caller off the hook, he chose the lighter route. "Why's that, darlin'? You got a face made for radio?"

"If only. Attraction is not my problem. I've plenty of offers."

A sliver of disgust chipped at Will's empathy. Another God's gift, center-of-the-club drama queen. "Maybe it's that oversized ego of yours. But hey, true love is only an insecure slob away. Try lowering your standards."

He almost hung up before the caller said, "Men who love me get hurt."

"What?" Something in the delivery tore him apart. He tried to stay professional, keep it on the easy track. "Do they get hurt, or do you hurt them? Bet you're a real heartbreaker."

"I shouldn't have called."

"Wait." Will reflexively rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, man. You call me looking for comfort, and I tear you down. Let me confess something to you. I'm no Casanova myself, you know? So tell me your troubles."

The hesitation was exquisite. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. No one knows who you are, friend. Not even me." He spoke gently, desperate to rectify his own goading. Ratings be damned. "Let it go. Don't punish yourself. Whatever happened to your lovers, I doubt it was your fault."

"It is my fault," the caller insisted. "I'm cursed."

Cursed? That was a new one. Will floundered for something sane to say. "You just haven't found Mr. Right yet. Trust me on this. There's a man out there waiting for you to save him from the big empty, and he won't charge you for it. Take your time."

"Good-bye, Will." A scant breath sketched the words. The caller hung up.

Tears pricked his eyes, and for a moment he forgot Tess, the show, the hotlines, even Lyle. The caller's tortured confession filled his being. Those final words had seemed so personal. He wanted to be the one he'd told the caller to look for-Mr. Right, true love, no charge. He wanted to be hurt, and healed, by the owner of that haunted voice. And to heal his doubt in return.

Will shook himself. It was just a call, and there were more waiting. On with the show.

* * * * *

Cobalt glowered at the lump of plastic in his hand. The damned phone mocked him with silence. Why had he called? Stupid, to believe a voice he found pleasing would bring him comfort or salvation. He would have neither.

"Don't punish yourself." Easy enough for Will Ambrose to say. But how could he not hold himself responsible? He'd driven two men to insanity and one to his death. A commitment to him spelled disaster. None of them were strong enough. None would ever be.

A knock at his door bled the contemplation from him. "Hey, Cobalt. Your nine o'clock's early. Want her to wait?"

"Yes. And tell her to buy a watch." Cobalt smiled despite his lingering bitterness. Apprenticing Malik had been one of the few things he'd done right. Most shops had turned down the youth because of his age-a barely legal eighteen-but in just a few weeks Malik had become indispensable at the Grotto. He followed every rule, without question, no matter how bizarre it seemed. Of necessity, Cobalt set strange rules. He could not risk discovery.

"You got it." Malik retreated into the shop.

Cobalt sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't planned to degrade himself with a whore tonight, but after his foolish indulgence in self-pity, he craved release. He reached for the phone.

It rang.

He frowned. No one had his private number. Will? Perhaps the radio host with the irresistible voice had lied about not knowing who he was-or at least where he was calling from. He debated not answering, but curiosity prompted him to pick up with a brusque "yes."

"Ciaràn. Have you found satisfaction?"

Cobalt closed his eyes against the needle of familiarity that lanced his belly. "I don't want to know how you found me. Leave me alone."

"It was not difficult. These human devices are simple enough."

He almost hung up then. After a decade of forgetting, contact with the Fae who had orchestrated his punishment after he'd left the bastard threatened to overload his senses. "What do you want?" he made himself say.

"Everything you denied me."

"I'm banished, Eoghann. Is that not enough for you?"

"You know it is not."

A shudder wormed through his core. He'd forgotten how cold Eoghann could be-his voice, his touch. Frigid as a winter wind. It took everything he had to reply, "My answer is the same. I won't be yours."

"Ah, Ciaràn." The reproach in his tone was unmistakable. "Ten years submerged in human filth, and still you deny your place. How much further must you be punished?"

"I'll not play this game with you."

"Things have changed. I have changed." Eoghann's voice softened to a purr. "Let me come to you. Invite me inside."

His heart stammered. How close was he? At least the Laws still held. No other Fae could enter the Grotto without an invitation from his lips. He would be safe. "No, Eoghann. I'll not see you. A thousand decades won't change my mind." He clenched the phone so tight, he feared he'd break it. "Don't contact me again."

He disconnected. An urge to destroy the device that had wounded him twice tonight came and left, and he dropped the phone on his desk. Eoghann. Why now? After ten years, the Unseelie queen's consort should have found another lowborn wretch to amuse himself with. Perhaps he'd just been feeling nostalgic and another decade would pass before he bothered to torment him further. Time meant nothing in the Fae realm. And Eoghann was too shallow and self-absorbed to expend much effort in the pursuit of one worthless plaything when there were so many he could choose to break instead.

Regardless of his plans, Eoghann couldn't touch him as Cobalt. He'd realize that soon enough and give up wasting his time. Ciaràn no longer existed.

EXCERPT: Michelle Cary's It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 02:19:51 GMT

An Excerpt from It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Michelle Cary
Genre: Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/It-Came-Upon-a-Midnight-Clear.aspx

Emotionally battered and broken by a vicious divorce, newly single and nearly destitute Abby Dalton has little choice but to return to her childhood home and reassemble the shattered pieces of her life. She knows her presence in the tiny town will cause old rumors to resurface, but with only a few thousand dollars as recompense and no job, she has nowhere else to go.

As she arrives into town, old ghosts return, bringing with them long dormant desires and the shame those desires caused. Resolved to start fresh despite her past indiscretions, Abby slowly settles into her new life. Then a fire destroys her home and places her in the capable hands of twins Talon and Teagan Werner; gossip and speculation runs wild through the town. Anticipating rebuke from the men she's adored for so long, she tells them the truth about everything. Instead, she finds acceptance in both their arms and beds. The last thing she expected going home is love, but Abby finds a love to last a lifetime, once upon a midnight clear.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, menage (m/f/m).

~ * ~

Thank God for twenty-four-hour gas stations. Abigail Dalton set her steaming cup of java in the console holder, put the overloaded car in gear, and pulled onto the main road.

The idea of driving on Thanksgiving Day was a good one, at least from a traffic standpoint, but she probably should have considered not all restaurants would be open on the holiday. While food itself wasn't an issue, feeding her growing coffee habit was.

Thankful to now have enough fuel, for both her and the car, to get her through the last half hour of her trip, she pressed the radio's Scan button and settled into the driver's seat. The numbers on the radio screen scrolled, then stopped on a country-music station. While she had nothing against country music, Abby really wasn't in the mood to listen to singers drone on about how their wives left them and their dogs died.

She blinked hard, stemming a sudden need to cry. Lately her life had played out much like some twangy, cliché song. The difference being that instead of the entire country listening to a fictional breakup play out on the radio, she'd had to face Baltimore's elite while her real-life marriage disintegrated.

Ten years!

Her fingers curled around the steering wheel as the radio changed to a rock station. She'd given that bastard ten years of her life. In return he'd run off with his twenty-three-year-old administrative assistant. Speaking of cliché! Her grip tightened around the wheel as she closed her eyes for a second and swallowed down the all-too-familiar lump in the back of her throat.

Determined not to give up her husband without a fight, she'd even gone to the hussy's home and confronted them both. The only thing her endeavor accomplished was to make her feel fat and worthless.

"Maybe," the little blonde tramp had begun, "if you'd spent more time in the gym working off those love handles, he might have stayed. Though." She paused and tapped a finger to her chin as if in thought. "From what Brad tells me, you're nothing but a cold fish between the sheets, so maybe not. Face it, Abby. You couldn't satisfy him in bed, let alone give him the child he wanted. Why would he want to stay with you?"

The tramp's words stung, but Abby could have brushed them off if it hadn't been for Brad's silence.

Angry for crying over the asshole yet again, she wiped at a tear trickling down her face and forced her attention to the road. Not once while the younger woman screeched had he said anything to stop the bloodbath. He'd simply stood there, looking on with what Abby had interpreted as abhorrence.

She'd left them that night, broken and ashamed, knowing there wasn't any way she could stay in Baltimore. Now, with a substantial divorce settlement and the home she'd inherited after her mother's death, her path was clear. She'd return to Bethlehem, Virginia, and start fresh.

The radio changed again, this time landing on a station playing Christmas carols. She pushed the button, turning off the scanning process. What she needed was to find her lost holiday cheer. So what if she'd be spending Christmas alone this year? It was, after all, just another day on the calendar. Besides, she could use the time to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

The soft sound of Beethoven rose from the passenger seat, causing Abby to jump before reaching for her cell phone. She glanced at the name on the caller ID. Megan Fowler. Abby stifled a groan and pushed the Send button, connecting them, then switched on the speakerphone so she could talk hands free. "Hi, Meg."

"I know you really don't want to talk to anyone, but I was worried and had to call to see how you're making out."

"I'm doing fine," Abby replied, suddenly feeling guilty for not wanting to speak with her best friend. "I'm driving into my hometown now, so I should be at the house in about ten minutes."

"I still don't understand why you couldn't stay with me on Thanksgiving and drive back on Friday."

"I know you don't, Meg, and I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I'm not much for celebrating the holidays at the moment. It seemed like the right thing to do." Like every other time they'd talked lately, somehow this conversation with her friend would inevitably lead back to Brad and Abby's self-esteem issues. They weren't topics she wanted to face right now. "Listen, Meg. I hate to cut this call short, but I really need to go. I'll call you once I'm settled. Maybe we can make plans for you to visit."

Abby could almost picture the frown on Megan's face as she spoke. "Well, okay, but be sure you do call. I don't care if Brad is my stepbrother. As far as I'm concerned, he's an ass, and my friendship with you comes first."

"I appreciate your loyalty, Meg, and you're absolutely right. My relationship with him, or lack thereof, is separate from my friendship with you, and I won't let my feelings about him come between us."

"Make sure you don't. And, Abby, if you need anything, just call, okay?"

"I will. Bye, Meg."

Once disconnected, she turned up the radio and worked to focus her attention on more-cheerful thoughts. "Jingle Bell Rock" ended, and a much-slower song filled the car.

It came upon a midnight clear

That glorious song of old.

Slowly, she steered her car through the downtown area of Bethlehem, known to the locals as "the square." The hub of law enforcement and most municipal business sat to her left, its dome rounding up to the police radio tower that pointed up to the sky. Roads skirted the courthouse on all four sides, with turn-of-the-century brick buildings three and four stories tall lining the streets like a giant wall.

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold.

She bet in its prime, the square was a hopping place for business. Now, with many of the stores sitting empty, it served as a reminder of days gone by.

Maybe, she considered as she passed yet another empty storefront, she could open a craft store in one of the old buildings. The town's population consisting of young and old would certainly patronize a store where they could purchase both yarn for knitting and paper for scrapbooking.

A smile tipped Abby's lips upward at the idea as the car's tires bounced over the old railroad crossing at the far end of the square. Running the business would be easy. After all, she'd gone to college to earn a business degree. Yet somewhere along the way she'd put her dreams on hold for a husband and future family. Only now she didn't have either.

Somehow the idea of opening a craft store felt right, though. As soon as she was settled into the house, she'd inquire about renting one of the buildings.

Still through the cloven skies they come

With peaceful wings unfurled.

She passed through the end of town and found herself back in the country. To her left, the farthest pastures of Werner Dairy Farms came into view with a herd of Holsteins grazing on a hill in the distance. Her heart gave a little flip. Did Talon and Teagan still live there? Back in high school, thoughts of the Werner twins occupied nearly every waking moment of Abby's day and many of her dreams at night. Way out of her league, the brothers, both talented and good-looking, were vastly different in their endeavors. While Teagan headed up the local FFA chapter and kept his nose in textbooks all day, Talon spent his time playing quarterback for the football team and getting himself into as much trouble as possible. Back then she would have been happy dating either of them.

Her smile slowly faded. Wasn't it her obsession with the twins that, in a strange and sad way, had dictated her life up to this point? If she hadn't shared one of her more private and explicit dreams with her then-best friend, she wouldn't have needed to leave school her senior year and move to Baltimore to live with her elderly great-aunt.

Her mother never brought up the subject, but Abby knew in a small town like Bethlehem people had talked about her long after her departure. To this day, she still harbored the shame and guilt her unveiled fantasy caused her parents. After all, no normal, God-fearing Christian had erotic dreams about sleeping with two men at the same time.

Look now, for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing.

Suddenly dejected, she turned off the music, leaving only the sound of the tires on the pavement humming in her ears. One bad thing about small towns was that people never forgot. Would her return stir up old ghosts? Was she simply moving from one bad situation to another?

Abby turned her car onto the tiny, snow-covered driveway and parked in front of the detached garage. She rested her head on the steering wheel, turning to the side to focus her attention on the old clapboard house. The homestead held so many memories, both good and bad. With the peeling paint and rotting window casings, she should be ashamed at having allowed her birthplace to fall into such disrepair.

When her mother had finally passed away the previous year, Brad had given Abby one week to get her parents' affairs in order and return to Baltimore. Grieving and under pressure, she'd hurriedly packed away her parents' belongings, placed the totes in the garage, and covered the larger pieces of furniture with tarps.

A shiver rippled up her spine, and she pushed open the car door. No use sitting in a cold car when she, with any luck, had a warm home to provide shelter. She stepped out into the cold, dark night, closed the car door, and went to the trunk to retrieve her suitcase. Hopefully Old Mr. Sawyer had made it out to the house to get the heating-oil unit up and running, and the electric company had turned on the power.

Deciding on the smaller case with her pajamas and toiletries, Abby headed inside. Relieved to feel the warmth when she walked into the back door, she flicked the light switch and watched the kitchen glow in the fluorescent light. Thank goodness!

She locked the door behind her. Then choosing to leave the kitchen light on, she walked through the house to her old bedroom. Exhaustion filtered through her muscles. What she needed was a good night's sleep. The right thing to do would be to go back out to her car and find the box that held the clean sheets. Even that chore seemed more work than it was worth. The sheets on her bed were clean, just dusty from nonuse, and would do for one night. Tomorrow she'd go to town and purchase all the supplies she'd need to start getting her new home in order.

After shaking the pillow to remove any excess dust, she crawled into bed and pulled the sheet up over her tired frame. Her mind drifted back to the song she'd heard earlier. Look now, for glad and golden hours. Come swiftly on the wing.

She snorted at the lyrics and closed her eyes. She couldn't be lucky enough to have glad and golden hours come swiftly.

Twenty minutes later, on the verge of sleep, Abby rolled onto her side and wrinkled her nose at a foul smell. What could possibly be causing such a stench in a home that hadn't been occupied in over a year? In an attempt to block out the odor, she put the pillow over her head, yet it grew stronger, thicker, reminding her of so many bonfires from her childhood.

Bonfire? Abby threw the pillow off the bed and opened her eyes. A thin layer of smoke trickled in beneath her bedroom door, turning the air rancid. Fire? For several seconds Abby watched the smoke build while her brain tried to process what she saw. This couldn't be happening. It had to be some sick dream.

She drew in a breath and let out a cough in response. Fear propelled her out of bed. It wasn't some horrible dream but was quickly becoming her nightmare. She raced to the window and pushed, trying to open it. Years of nonuse combined with several layers of paint to keep the window firmly in place.

With little choice but to face what lay on the other side of the door, Abby grabbed the handle, only to jump away in pain as heat infused her hand. I'm trapped. Panic gripped her throat and gave a vicious squeeze. There had to be a way out. She spun to face her room, in search of something, anything, to help her escape the inferno that would most certainly engulf her bedroom shortly. The window.

She pulled the neck of her nightgown over her mouth and nose, then raced to her desk across the room. There, she picked up the chair and, using all her strength, swung out at the panes. The sound of glass shattering combined with the growing crackle of burning wood increased her fear even as fresh, cold air poured into the room. With shards now all over the floor, she'd need her shoes or risk ripping her feet to shreds. Surely she could spare the ten seconds it would take to shove her feet into her sneakers.

Spots floated in front of her eyes, and a sudden weakness captured her limbs. Even with the fresh air now filtering in from the window, it wasn't enough to overcome the oxygen-stealing smoke slowly blanketing the room. The need to flee surged through her. Grabbing the comforter and her purse as she went, Abby stumbled toward the window. Her throat constricted, causing her coughing to increase. The black dots in front of her eyes grew, eventually connecting until her vision tunneled.

All she had to do was get outside and she'd be okay. Barely managing to find the window, she covered the bottom of the casing with the comforter and threw her purse outside. With one hand on the window, her vision disappeared completely, taking with it her one chance at survival. On a cough and a wheeze, she slid down the wall, collapsing mere feet from safety.

With a languid stretch, Talon Werner leaned against his bed's headboard and stared up at the painted ceiling. Stuffed with turkey and the trimmings, all he really wanted to do was roll over and drift off to sleep. On call for the fire department, he instead waited for the inevitable event to come that would pull him from his nice warm bed and out into the cold, dark night.

That wasn't to say he didn't love his job as a volunteer firefighter-he did. Yet in the last five years, he'd repeatedly seen devastation strike at the worst possible times. Holidays seemed to be a magnet for that exact type of scenario.

Knowing sleep wouldn't come easily, he climbed from his California king and crossed the room to the entertainment system. In the mood for some music, he dialed through the stations, before finally settling on a local channel already playing Christmas carols.

Wearing just his dress pants from dinner, he eased onto the couch in the sitting area of his room and stared out the French doors leading to his private deck and then on into the night.

It came upon a midnight clear

That glorious song of old.

Ever since his parents had died eight years earlier, holidays always seemed a bit sad. This Thanksgiving was no exception. Oh, he loved the idea of him and Teagan opening their home to those farm employees who didn't have families and sharing their dinner with them. It was during that first holiday after their parents' accident that Teagan had come up with the idea of opening their home and hearts. If nothing else, the action helped to chase the sadness away, at least until the dinner was over and everyone returned to their respective homes.

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold.

Talon leaned back against the couch and rested one arm over his head. He'd been angry and hurt at his parents' sudden deaths, leaving him and his brother to run the family empire at the ripe age of twenty-two. Eight years later, Teagan headed up the farm's day-to-day operations, while Talon still struggled to find his way in life.

Between the two of them, Teagan had always been the business minded one, while Talon seemed to attract trouble and danger at every turn. Still, turning thirty this year had brought with it an unsettled feeling, one he couldn't quite put his finger on.

It was only one short year ago that he'd finally made peace with his parents' deaths and with God for taking them so soon. Yet even after he'd allowed the festering wound to close, a gnawing emptiness remained. Unsure of how to handle the restlessness he felt, he'd taken on more challenges: rock climbing in the Rocky Mountains and dogsledding in Alaska. He'd even recently tried to shoulder more of the work with the farm. That aspiration failed miserably too, when he realized he was encroaching on Teagan's domain.

Still through the cloven skies they come

With peaceful wings unfurled.

He'd quickly accepted the fact that while the farm and all its riches belonged to both him and his brother, it was Teagan who truly loved the farm, which still left Talon feeling out of sorts. After Christmas he'd take the firefighter's exam and hopefully go from being a volunteer to a paid member of the staff. Not that he needed the money. The position was more for his peace of mind, another attempt to put some sort of direction to his life.

Look now, for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing.

The police and fire scanner next to his bed crackled to life; varying tones poured through the speaker, telling Talon exactly what was going on. He pushed off the couch and raced for the nightstand, where his cell phone sat, and it began to ring just as he picked it up. Thanks to the automated call center's newly enabled texting service, the location of the emergency appeared on the screen at the same time the dispatcher's voice sounded on the scanner.

"Engine one twelve, truck one sixteen-structure fire at sixteen sixty-two North Amber Mill Road."

Talon stared down at the screen of his phone. Why did that address sound so familiar? It took only a moment before awareness struck. The address belonged to the old Bennett place. Abby's childhood home.

He shoved the phone in his pocket, grabbed a shirt from his closet, and stomped into his boots. The house had been empty since her mother passed away a year earlier. Talon was surprised it had taken this long for the dilapidated building to burn. Pretty much abandoned, it was a prime target for vandals and squatters.

He took the steps two at a time and raced past the kitchen staff still cleaning up from dinner toward the attached four-car garage. He hit the button for the automatic door over the fourth bay and hopped into his midnight blue 4x4. His tires squealed on the blacktop as he backed out of the garage, put the truck in gear, and sped down the lane. Making a left onto the highway, he gunned the engine and headed for the scene. Amber Mill Road was on the north side of the county, less than a mile up from the Werner farm. It made no sense for Talon to drive into town to the station when he could just as easily meet the engine there.

He made a right onto Amber Mill Road, and his heart jumped as he spotted the eerie glow in the distance. For a split second he worried about anyone being inside the structure. The only person who had a right to be there was Abby. As far as Talon knew, she was still living in Baltimore with her stuffed-shirt husband, hobnobbing with the crème de la crème of society, which meant if anyone else was inside the home, they were trespassing. Not that it mattered to him either way. His job was to save people and put out the flames, not to pass judgment. He'd leave that unenviable task to the judicial system.

The building came into view, and adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Flames projected a bright orange glow from behind the still-intact windowpanes. Black smoke seeped from beneath the windows and doors.

First on the scene, he slid his truck into park near the ditch at the end of the short drive, making sure to give the fire engines room to get down the road. He scrambled from the cab and reached into the storage box inside the truck bed to retrieve his spare gear. It was then he spotted the silver sedan parked a few feet away from the burning building.

Talon's eyes widened, and a new sense of dread tugged at him as he read the license plate, noting the Maryland tag. Abby! What was she doing home, and more importantly, where was she right now?

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer with every passing second, but he knew help wouldn't be able to get there quickly enough. It was up to him to attempt a rescue. With more speed than he realized he had, Talon donned his gear. Without oxygen and a mask, going into a burning, smoke-filled building would be like signing his death warrant. Yet he couldn't simply stand by and wait for the engine to arrive. He raced toward the home, yelling as he went. "Abby! Abby, where are you? Abby, can you hear me?"

Pausing, he strained to listen, to hear her voice over the roar of the flames and the pounding in his own head. Nothing. With a silent curse, he pushed forward and began to systematically check the outside of the house. The beating of his heart echoed in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the raging fire. She had to be all right. He turned the corner and spotted the smoke pouring from a broken window and took off at a run. As he neared, Talon noted the blanket covering the bottom of the casing. He drew in a deep breath and stuck his head through the open pane. Smoke stung his eyes and burned his nose as he struggled to focus. To his left, just beyond his reach, lay a body. Abby!

The sirens grew louder, giving some comfort to Talon as he climbed through the window. If something bad happened, his fellow firefighters would be there within minutes to help. Only once inside, he saw something that made every fireman's heart stop in fear.

The smoke around the edges of the bedroom door was disappearing, being sucked back into the main fire area.

Backdraft.

If he didn't get them both out right now, it wouldn't matter if the other men made it there in time. Quickly Talon grabbed her under her arms, pulled Abby to her feet, then slung her over one shoulder, letting her arms and head hang down his back. He turned to the window and climbed back out.

Mere feet from the building, Talon felt the impact of the explosion before it registered in his ears; the force of the detonation knocked him off his feet and caused him to lose his grip on Abby. She tumbled out of his arms, landing with a thud a few feet from where Talon smacked the dirt face-first.

He turned over and struggled to gain a grip on the situation while avoiding the fiery debris now raining down on them both. Before he could get his hands up for protection, a large chunk of wood thwacked him in the head, hitting him with enough force to rattle his teeth.

"Talon!"

He turned to spot fellow firefighter Garrett Miller racing toward him with Colby Johnson and Patrick Donahue in tow. Garrett dropped to his knees beside Talon while Colby and Patrick assessed Abby.

"You okay?" Garrett asked, even as Talon pushed up to his elbows.

"Yeah," he replied as he struggled unsteadily to his feet. "I need to help Abby."

Garrett grabbed Talon by the elbow. "Colby and Patrick are helping her. Right now, I need to see about you."

"I'm fine." Talon jerked free of Garrett, only to have him regain an immediate hold.

"I saw that debris hit you in the head, and you have a nasty cut to show for it. So, no, you're not okay until a doctor declares you healthy. Now stop being a pain in my ass, because I have enough on my plate already."

Ten minutes later, Talon climbed into the back of the ambulance and sat on the bench next to where Abby's gurney rested. She looked so frail and broken beneath the white sheet, her face covered in soot. At least she was finally breathing, though she still hadn't regained consciousness.

A strange pull made him reach down to lace his fingers through hers.

Back in high school he'd noticed the pretty, shy blonde who always made honor roll and would never meet his gaze head-on. He could remember catching her watching him and Teagan, only to have her look away when she realized he knew.

Then there was the rumor, the one so naughty, so downright sexy, he couldn't ignore it. When he'd first heard about it from one of his teammates, he'd discounted it as libel. No way would someone as good and innocent as Abby think anything that taboo. Yet even days later he couldn't shake the feeling, or maybe it had been hope, some part of the rumor was true.

He'd returned to school the following week, only to discover she'd moved, left town to live with a distant relative in Baltimore.

Now she lay in front of him, injured but very much alive, and Talon knew he'd been given a second chance to find out the truth.

EXCERPT: Josh Lanyon's Adrien English Mysteries 5: The Dark Tide

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 02:18:13 GMT

An Excerpt from Adrien English Mysteries 5: The Dark Tide

Josh Lanyon
Genre: LGBT Romantic Suspense
Length: Novel Plus
Price: $7.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Adrien-English-Mysteries-5-The-Dark-Tide.aspx

As if recovering from heart surgery beneath the gaze of his over-protective family wasn't exasperating enough, someone keeps trying to break into Adrien English's bookstore. What is this determined midnight intruder searching for?

When a half-century old skeleton tumbles out of the wall in the midst of the renovation of Cloak and Dagger Bookstore renovation, Adrien turns to hot and handsome ex-lover Jake Riordan -- now out-of-the closet and working as a private detective.

Jake is only too happy to have reason to stay in close contact with Adrien, but there are more surprises in Adrien's past than either one of them expects -- and one of them may prove hazardous to Jake's own heart.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

It began, as a lot of things do, in bed.

Or to be precise, on the living-room sofa where I was uncomfortably dozing.

Somewhere in the distance of a very weird dream about me and a certain ex-LAPD police lieutenant came a faint, persistent scratching. The scratching worked itself into my dream, and I deduced with the vague logic of the unconscious that the cat was sharpening his claws on the antique half-moon table in the hall. Again.

Except.that boneless ball of heat on my abdomen was the cat. And he was sound asleep.

I opened my eyes. It was dark, and it took me a second or two to place myself. Moonlight outlined the pirate bookends on the bookshelf. From where I lay, I could barely make out the motion of the draperies in the warm July breeze in the front room of the flat above Cloak and Dagger Books.

I was home.

There had been a time when I'd thought I would never see home again. But here I was. I had a furry heating pad on my belly, a crick in my neck, and-apparently-a midnight visitor.

My first thought was that Lisa had called Guy, my ex, to look in on me. That furtive scraping wasn't the sound of a key; it was more like someone trying to.well, pick the lock.

I rolled off the sofa, dislodging the sleeping cat, and staggered to my feet, fighting the dizziness that had dogged me since my heart surgery three weeks earlier. I'd been staying at my mother's home in the Chatsworth Hills, but I'd checked myself out of the lunatic asylum that afternoon.

If Guy had dropped by, he'd have turned on the light in the shop below. There was no band of light beneath the door. No, what there was, was the occasional flash of illumination as though someone was trying to balance a flashlight.

I wasn't dreaming. Someone was trying to break in.

I felt my way across the darkened room to the entrance hall. My heart was already beating way too hard and too fast, and I felt a spark of anxiety-the anxiety that was getting to be familiar since my surgery. Was my healing heart up to this kind of strain? Even as I was calculating whether I could get to the Webley in the bedroom closet and load it before the intruder got the door open or whether my best bet was to lock myself in the bedroom and phone the cops, the decision was made for me.

The lock mechanism turned over, the door handle rotated, and the door silently inched out of the frame.

I reacted instinctively, grabbing the rush-bottomed chair in the hall and throwing it with all my strength. "Get the fuck out of here," I yelled over the racket of the chair clattering into the door and hitting the floor.

And-surprisingly-the intruder did get the fuck out.

Not a dream. Not a misreading of the situation. Someone had tried to break in to my living quarters.

I heard the heavy thud of footsteps pounding down the staircase back to the shop, heard something crash below, heard another crash, and, as I tottered to the wall light switch, the slam of a distant door.

What door? Not the side entrance of the shop below, because I knew that particular bang very well, and certainly not the front door behind the security gate. No, it had to have been from the adjacent structure. The bookstore took up one half of a subdivided building that had originally, back in the thirties, housed a small hotel. The other half of the building had gone through a variety of commercial incarnations, none of which had survived more than a year or so, until I'd finally been in a position to buy it myself the previous spring. It was currently in the expensive and noisy process of being renovated, the two halves divided by a wall of thick plastic.

Not thick enough, clearly.

The contractor had assured me the perimeter doors were guarded by "construction locks," and that it was as safe as it had ever been. Obviously he wasn't familiar with my history, let alone the history of the building.

I leaned back against the wall, trying to catch my breath and listening. Somewhere down the street I heard an engine roaring into life. Not necessarily my intruder's getaway car fleeing the scene. This was a nonresidential part of Pasadena, and at night it was very quiet and surprisingly isolated.

There was a time when I'd have intrepidly, Mr. Boy Detective, gone downstairs to see what the damage was. That that was four murder investigations, one shooting, and one heart surgery ago. Instead I got the gun from the bedroom closet, loaded it, returned to the front room, where the windows offered a better vantage point, and picked up the phone. The streetlamps cast leopard spots on the empty sidewalk, accentuated the deep shadows between the old buildings. Nothing moved. I recalled a line by Raymond Chandler: "The streets were dark with something more than night."

Reaction hit me, and I slid down the wall and dialed 911.

I was having trouble catching my breath as I waited-and waited-for the 911 operator, and I hoped to hell I wasn't having a heart attack. My heart had been damaged by rheumatic fever when I was sixteen. A recent bout of pneumonia had worsened my condition, and I'd been in line for surgery even before getting shot three weeks earlier. Everything was under control now, and according to my cardiologist, I was making terrific progress. The ironic thing about the surgery and the news that I was evidently going to make old bones after all was that I felt mortal in a way that I hadn't for the last fifteen years.

Tomkins pussyfooted up to delicately head-butt me.

"Hi," I said.

He blinked his wide, almond-shaped, green-gold eyes at me and meowed. He had a surprisingly quiet meow. Not as annoying as most cats. Not that I was an expert-nor did I plan on becoming one. I was only loaning a fellow bachelor my pad. The cat-kitten, really-was also convalescing. He'd been mauled by a dog three weeks ago. His bounce back was better than mine.

I stroked him absently as he wriggled around and tried to bite my fingers. I guessed there was truth to the wisdom about petting a cat to lower your blood pressure, because I could feel my heart rate slowing, calming-which was pretty good, considering how pissed off I was getting at being kept on hold in the middle of an emergency.

Granted, it wasn't much of an emergency at this point. My intruder was surely long gone.

I chewed my lip, listened once more to the message advising me to stay on the line and help would soon be with me. Assuming I'd still be alive to take that call.

I hung up and dialed another number. A number I had memorized long ago. A number that seemingly would require acid wash to remove from the memory cells of my brain.

As the phone rang on the other end, I glanced across at the clock on the bookshelf. Three oh three in the morning. Well, here was a test of true friendship.

"Riordan," Jake managed in a voice like raked gravel.

"Uh.hey."

"Hey." I could feel him making the effort to push through the fog of sleep. He rasped, "How are you?"

Pretty civil given the fact that I hadn't spoken to him for nearly two weeks and was choosing three in the morning to reopen the lines of communication.

I found myself instinctively straining to hear the silence behind him; was someone there with him? I couldn't hear over the rustle of bed linens.

"I'm okay. Something happened just now. I think someone tried to break in."

"You think?" And he was completely alert. I could hear the covers tossed back, the squeak of bedsprings.

"Someone did try to break in. He took off, but-"

"You're back at the bookstore?"

"Yeah. I got home late this afternoon."

"You're there alone?"

Thank God he didn't say it like everyone else had. Alone? As though it was out of the question. As though I was far too ill and helpless to be left to my own devices. Jake simply looked at it from a security perspective.

"Yeah."

"Did the security alarm go off?"

"No."

"Did you call it in?"

"I called nine-one-one. They put me on hold."

"At three o'clock in the morning?" He was definitely on his feet and moving, dressing, it sounded like, and I felt a wave of guilty relief. Regardless of how complicated our relationship was-and it was pretty complicated-there was no one I knew who was better at dealing with this kind of thing. Whatever this kind of thing was.

Which I guessed said more than I realized right there.

Jake's voice was crisp. "Hang up and call nine-one-one again. Stay on the line with them. I'll be there in ten minutes."

I said gruffly, "Thanks, Jake."

Just like that. I had called, and he was coming to the rescue. Unexpectedly, a wave of emotion-reaction-hit me. One of the weird aftereffects of my surgery. I struggled with it as he said, "I'm on my way," and disconnected.

* * * * *

I went down to meet him, taking the stairs slowly, taking my time. From above, I had a bird's-eye view of the book floor. The register looked undisturbed. I could see where the bargain-book table had been toppled. Otherwise everything looked pretty much as normal: same comfortable leather club chairs, same wooden fake fireplace, same tall matching walnut bookshelves-strictly mystery and crime novels-same secretive smiles on the pale faces of the Kabuki masks on the back wall.

I unlocked the door, pushed open the security gate, which he'd knelt to examine. "You didn't have to come down. I'd have gone around to the s-" Jake broke off. He rose and said oddly, "Déjà vu."

I didn't get it for a second, and then I did. Echoes of the first time we'd met; although met was kind of a polite word for turning up as a suspect in someone's murder investigation.

Uncombed, unshaven, I was even dressed the same: jeans and bare feet. I'd thrown a leather jacket on partly because, despite the warmth of a July night, I felt chilled, and partly because I didn't want to treat him to the vision of the seam down the middle of my chest from open heart surgery. Not that Jake hadn't seen it when he visited me in the hospital, but it looked different out of context. The bullet hole in my shoulder was ugly enough; the incision from the base of my collarbone down through my breastbone was shocking. I found it shocking, anyway.

I said awkwardly, "Thanks again for coming."

He nodded.

We stared at each other. These last weeks couldn't have been easy on Jake, and not because I'd asked him to give me a little time, a little space before we tried to figure out where we stood. He'd resigned from LAPD, come out to his family, and asked his wife for a divorce. But he looked unchanged. Reassuringly unchanged. I think I'd feared. Well, I'm not sure. That he'd be harrowed by regret. For his entire adult life he'd fought to defend that closet he inhabited. Been willing to sacrifice almost everything to protect it. I couldn't help thinking he'd take to being out like a fish to desert sand.

He looked okay. No, be honest. He looked a lot better than okay. He looked.fine. Fine, as in get the Chiffons over here to sing a chorus. Big, blond, ruggedly handsome in a trial-by-fire way. He was very lean, all hard muscle and powerful bone. Maybe there was more silver at his temples, but there was a calm in his tawny eyes that I'd never seen before.

Under that light, steady gaze I felt unnervingly self-conscious. It was weird to think that for the first time in all the time I'd known him there was nothing to keep us from being together except the question of whether we both really wanted it.

He asked matter-of-factly, "Why didn't the alarm go off?"

"It wasn't set."

A quick drawing of his dark brows. He opened his mouth. I beat him to it. "We haven't been setting it while the construction has been going on next door."

"Tell me you're kidding."

He already knew I wasn't. "The city threatened to fine me because we had too many false alarms. The construction crew usually arrives before we open the shop, and they kept triggering it. So I thought.until the construction was completed."

His silence said it all-good thing, because I was pretty sure if Jake got started, we'd be there all night.

"I think he must have come in from the side." I turned to lead the way.

He followed me across the front of the tall aisles. I pointed out where an endcap had been knocked over. "Only the emergency lights were on, and he crashed into that." I nodded to the fallen bargain table, the landslide of spilled books. "And there."

We reached the clear plastic wall dividing Cloak and Dagger Books from the gutted other half of the building. Staring from one side to the other was like peering through murky water. I could barely make out the ladders and scaffolds like the ribs of a mythological beast. I directed Jake's attention to the long five-foot slit through the plastic near the wall.

"Good call." He sounded grim.

I'd have happily been wrong. "The contractor told me that that side of the building would be secured with special locks. Construction locks."

He was already shaking his head. "Look at this." He stooped, pushing through the slit in the plastic, and I followed him into the darkened other side of the building. It smelled chilly and weird on that side. A mixture of fresh plaster, new wood, and dust. We picked our way through the hurdles of drop cloths and wooden horses and cement mixers to the door on the far wall. It swung open at his touch.

"Great," I said bitterly.

"Yep." He showed me the core in the center of the exterior handle. I discerned that it was painted, though I couldn't make out a color. "See that?"

I nodded.

"It's a construction core. That's a temporary lock used by contractors on construction sites. They're all combinated the same, or mostly the same, which means that if someone gets hold of a key, they've got a key to pretty much every construction core in the city."

"Better and better."

He shut the door and relocked it. "As security goes, this is one step above leaving the door standing wide open."

I swallowed. Nodded.

"Whoever broke in may have been watching the place and knew no one's been here at night."

I said, "It doesn't look like they touched the register."

"It might have been kids prowling around." Jake didn't sound convinced, and I knew why.

"Trying to break in to my flat was-"

"Pretty aggressive," he agreed. "Again, I think that probably gets back to the mistaken belief that no one was home. No one has been staying here at night for three weeks, right? So it was a reasonable assumption."

I absorbed that. "This might not have been the first time he was prowling around in here."

"True."

"I don't know that Natalie would notice the slice in the plastic wall. Hell, if Warren were hanging around, I don't know if she'd notice the Tasmanian Devil bursting through."

Sort of unfair to Natalie; Jake snorted, grimly amused.

All at once I was exhausted. Mentally and physically and emotionally drained dry. I didn't seem to have much in the way of physical resources these days, and this break-in felt like way more than I could begin to handle.

Jake opened his mouth but stopped. Through the dirty glass of the bay window, we watched a squad car pull up, lights flashing, though there was no siren.

Better late than never, I guessed.

After a second or two, Jake looked at me. "You okay? You're shaking."

"Adrenaline."

"And heart surgery." He glanced back at the black-and-white. Drew a deep breath. "Why don't you head upstairs? I'll take care of this."

There it was again. That weird new emotionalism. The smallest things seemed to choke me up. Like this. Jake offering to talk to the cops for me.

Except this wasn't a small thing. Jake, who had hid his sexuality from his brother officers for nearly twenty years, who had been unwilling for people to even know we were friends, who had very nearly succumbed to blackmail and more to keep that secret, was offering to stand here in my place and talk to these cops-and let them think whatever they chose to about us and our relationship.

I'm not sure what was stranger: the fact that he was making the offer or that I was ready to start crying over it.

"I can handle it."

He met my gaze. "I know you can. I'd like to do this for you."

Hell. He did it again. It had to be that I was overtired and still shaken by the break-in. I worked to keep my face and voice from showing anything I was feeling, managing a brusque nod.

The cops, a man and a woman in uniform, were getting out of their car. I turned and started back through ladders and wooden horses and scaffolds.

EXCERPT: Hunter Raines's Silver Bells

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 02:16:59 GMT

An Excerpt from Silver Bells

Hunter Raines
Genre: LGBT Paranormal
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Silver-Bells.aspx

Jud Hess has loved Derek Gentry since they were children. When they became lovers in college, he thought they were destined to be together forever. All that changed with Derek's tragic death only four years later, on Christmas Day.

Now, more than a decade after that horrible event, Jud clings to a promise he made the night before Derek died. He vowed that he would never, ever, be with another man. And he's clung to that vow with every bit of what's left of his heart.

But Derek's death brought an unlikely gift. After his lover died, Jud began to see spirits. And although ghosts have become his constant companions, the one spirit he longs to see only appears to him at Christmas. Or at least, he used to.

This year, Derek doesn't come. But someone else does; a man who brings with him the kind of erotic temptation and a need of his own that Jud is helpless to resist.

To end a decade of loneliness, Jud will have to give in to the sultry seduction of a stranger. and betray the spirit of the man who should have been the love of his life.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

Jud lay on his back and stared at the faded figures on the painted ceiling. In the flickering candlelight, their eyes glistened with a mixture of judgment and pity. The first time he'd walked into the sacristy of the Holy Outpost church a decade ago, he hadn't even noticed the intricate artwork. Much later, when he'd learned that the place of his deepest agony also summoned his greatest desire, he'd seen the saints for the messengers they were.

Though their once vivid colors had grown dull and discolored over the decades since their creation, the painted saints' enigmatic frowns sprinkled comfort down from their lofty perch. As Jud's wait stretched from mere minutes to long, unbearable hours, they kept silent vigil alongside the spirits who served as his constant companions.

"He'll be here."

Anxiety hit Jud like a fist to the gut. The pastel-colored saints swirled and blurred in his field of vision. He blinked back the sting of panicked tears and glanced in the direction of a familiar Texas twang.

A nearly transparent cowboy perched on the wide, shallow edge of the sacristycredens cabinet where Father Chuck Keenan kept his vestments. A ten-gallon hat drooped over the ghost's right eyebrow, casting most of his ethereal features in shadow. He'd been handsome at one time. The slant of a chiseled jaw was unmistakable even through the filmy fog that now made up his form.

Despite his appearance, Neil Woods was no cowherd or ranch hand. Before his passing, he'd been a lieutenant with the Las Vegas Police Department. He'd also been Jud's first ghostly encounter, all those years ago. And his toughest case. A case Jud had yet to crack, despite working on getting to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Neil's death for nearly a decade.

"I know, Neil. But today feels different. I'm just not sure-" Jud bit off the rest of that sentence. Voicing his doubts would make them real, and he wasn't ready to accept that his lover wasn't coming.

"He always comes," Neil insisted.

Ten years. In all that time, Derek had never missed a Christmas encounter. He showed up at midnight, as though summoned to Jud's side by love itself.

Jud's body ached inside, hurt in places his agonized emotions had scraped raw. "What time is it?"

"Four in the morning," another ghost answered. This one sported an antique soldier's uniform. The gray frock coat hanging to the spirit's midthigh looked like something that might have been worn by the Confederate soldiers in the Civil War, but Jud was no expert on American history. He'd have to ask the man for his story someday.

Not today, though. He was off duty.

Despite the half dozen spirits who flittered around the sacristy, today Jud didn't belong to them. They had him the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. On Christmas, he was Derek's.

Jud gritted his teeth and forced his breathing to slow to something resembling normal respiration. But the mounting panic wouldn't ease.

What if Derek didn't come? What if he never came again?

He sucked in oxygen through his nose and forced himself to let it out slowly through his mouth. Father Chuck had taught him that technique ten years earlier, after Jud had stumbled from the church in a sickened daze, the image of Derek's broken body flashing like something out of a horror movie against his eyelids each time he blinked.

He breathed in the cloying scents of hot wax, burning wicks, and incense. Somewhere else in the church, someone slammed a door. Father Chuck usually locked up around midnight, except during the month of December, when he left the main entrance unlatched around the clock. People who'd have otherwise spent the holidays with Jack Daniels, or gambling their last dime at some low-rate casino, turned to Father Chuck and the Holy Outpost instead. Some came to find peace. Others, to find acceptance.

Then there were those like him, who came to find someone.

Jud's eyes drifted closed. He wouldn't sleep; he couldn't sleep, not with the icy dread trickling through his veins, but he could rest a while and imagine all the things he'd do when Derek finally came to him.

Fantasizing about how they'd spend what little time they had together eased some of the apprehension coiling in his chest. His muscles relaxed a fraction, though his cock stirred as desire pooled low in his groin. He clung to the memories of Derek's strong, sinewy body, of his magical mouth, his wicked hands.

We'll be together again, soon. Very, very soon.

He still didn't know how Derek did it. In the last decade, Jud had been visited by thousands of ghosts. Tens of thousands. All of them came to him in their ethereal forms, as insubstantial and otherworldly as any supernatural being.

But not Derek. Death hadn't turned him translucent. He didn't float, or drift through walls. He also didn't shadow Jud at all hours of the day and night.

He came once a year: on Christmas Day. He arrived as fully corporeal as he'd been in life, and he never wanted to talk about anything but Jud. For twenty-four hours, it was like being reunited with a lover who'd been gone somewhere far away-like in outer space, maybe.

Sometimes he even told people his lover was an astronaut. It was sure as shit a lot easier than explaining he fucked a dead man every three hundred sixty-fifth day and remained celibate the rest of the time.

Hell, when he put it that way, the whole thing sounded preposterous, even to him. He might have believed he hallucinated the encounters, perhaps overwrought by grief on the anniversary of his lover's death, except that the ghosts saw Derek too. All right, so a bunch of spirits weren't exactly reliable authorities on the state of his mental health, but Father Chuck was. And he'd seen Derek too.

"What time is it now?" Jud asked no one in particular.

"Four fifteen. Still well before dawn. He'll be here."

Even Neil's low Texas drawl held a hint of doubt now. Funny, how ghosts could still lie to the living even once they had nothing to gain from the deception.

"You know men," a husky female voice said. "They like to keep you waiting so they can make a grand entrance. They want to be sure you're properly motivated to be grateful they showed up in the first place."

Jud didn't have to open his eyes. He remembered that voice, and he could picture the four-inch heels, the black tights, the deep V of her low-cut sweater. The ghost had a beehive of blonde hair that did more for her height than the shoes, completing the Jersey Girl look. Her eyes were rimmed with dark eyeliner and her eyelashes reached impossible lengths. In life, she must not have been one of those women content to strut what God gave her. Judging by the size of her ethereal tits, he'd bet his life savings that the word "natural" had never touched her lips.

A knock on the door saved him from having to answer. His heart leaped into his throat and he went from lying on the floor to standing upright in less than half a second. Even the spirits stopped their aimless drifting long enough to cast curious glances toward the door.

His world shrank, blanking out everything but that knock. Derek never knocked. He simply appeared, like something out of a fairy tale. One moment he wasn't there, then the next he was. Poof. Just like that. Prince Charming come from the beyond to fuck him senseless.

"Uhh.enter."

The door handle angled downward. Someone was clearly manipulating it from the other side, but damn, he was taking his sweet time about it. Maybe Jersey Girl had been right. Making an entrance, indeed.

Jud's pulse raced like accelerated thunder. He'd ached for this moment for so long. Each year seemed to grow lengthier, extending the time between Christmases, making the insufferable wait even more unbearable. And after the endless lonely months he'd been forced to endure, it was no wonder he was frazzled and antsy.

And horny. God, so very, very horny.

The door finally swung open. Jud took a step forward, then another. His knees wobbled, and he could barely think through the rush of euphoria cascading through his veins. Somehow, he managed to keep from staggering forward and throwing himself into the powerful arms awaiting him.

The candlelight flared brighter, casting a golden glow over the gap in the door. A shadow loomed there, dark and menacing and.tall.

Too tall. And too broad across the shoulders.

Jud squinted into the blackness. "Derek?" he asked, though every cell in his body told him otherwise.

The newcomer stepped inside the sacristy, and suddenly the room felt smaller. Jud backed up a step. The scent of ginger soap and coffee hit him first. Then, as the stranger stepped closer, the full impact of the man slammed into him, stealing his breath.

His first impression had been spot on. This guy was big, in a powerful, dangerous way. He wore a black T-shirt that molded over his firm chest. Strong, muscular arms stretched the sleeves to bursting. He had a rough-looking face, nothing like Derek's smooth, handsome features. His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once-or maybe more than once. Full lips flattened into a serious line.

Despite the many other obvious differences, his eyes reminded Jud of Derek's. Dark and intense, they pinned him into place and seemed to look right through him.

A sharp jolt of awareness wrung an instant reaction from his neglected cock. His erection raged painfully against the seam of his zipper. Damn, but he needed Derek.

And he needed this man gone.

"You Jud Hess?" Even his voice was gruff, with a hint of something dark and elemental lingering beneath the ordinary words.

"Yeah. And you are?"

"Tyson." He hesitated for a moment, then extended a large hand. "Ty Sullivan."

Instinctively, Jud slid his palm out and folded his fingers around Ty's hand. He realized his mistake as soon as their skin made contact and the hairs on his arm lifted as though tugged by waves of static electricity.

A sudden rush of heat pummeled Jud's groin. He set his jaw against it, but it was no use. Air slipped through his teeth in a hiss of raw need. He saw Ty's bottomless dark eyes grow round, while his lips parted in an "oh" of surprise.

Jud's entire body trembled. Lust hit with a force that shocked him, but he couldn't stop the potent rush of heat from blasting straight into his balls. Waves of pleasure took him sharply to the edge of control, so close he suddenly understood that if he didn't do something right this very moment, he'd lose the battle over his own body and shake this man's hand right into a wicked orgasm.

He jerked his hand out of Ty's grasp and wrenched himself away, stumbling backward. He would have kept moving if he didn't hit the wall at his back.

Ty made no attempt to follow. He, too, looked dazed, and his breath came in sharp, uneven pants.

They stared at each other from a safe distance, neither one willing to speak first.

"I hadn't realized." Ty murmured after what seemed to Jud like the longest two minutes in human history. "You're.I can't believe.I mean, that was."

Jud's emotions sizzled. A lightning storm of longing and confusion raged inside him. "What are you talking about?"

Ty lifted his head as though coming out of a trance. "You're a real person."

"Last I checked." He took a deep breath and fought to stay calm. "Look, I think you've got me confused with someone else. And this isn't a good time, anyway. Maybe we can talk about this.whatever it is, next week. Or next month. Make an appointment with my secretary. Come see me during office hours."

The man didn't need to know Jud hadn't had a secretary for over a decade. Or an office. Or anything resembling a real job.

Ty's voice lowered to a growl. "You don't understand. I need you."

Jud's gaze pinned him in place, and Ty was struck by the color of those enthralling eyes. Neither blue nor gray but a shade in between, as enigmatic and peculiar as the rest of the man. What was he doing here at this hour, anyway? Father Chuck had said that Jud always spent Christmas sealed inside the sacristy. Alone.

Ty gave himself a mental shake. It wasn't any of his business if this guy chose to spend his holiday atoning for a year's worth of sins, sleeping off a hangover, or praying to each saint, one by one, in Latin. The only thing that mattered was that he'd finally-finally-found someone who could free him from the curse he'd been living under for the past year.

"No. No way. You have no right to ask me for anything after barging in here like an inconsiderate prick!"

Jud's fury only served to fuel Ty's own barrage of emotions. "I knocked," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "And I didn't see a 'do not disturb' sign on the door."

"It's a church, not a hotel room."

"Right." Ty glanced at the candles splashing soft golden light against the religious artwork on the walls. A blanket and two pillows lay on the floor. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket at the edge of the sacristycredens cabinet. "Maybe you're the one who needs to remember that."

A red stain crept up the column of Jud's throat and flooded his cheeks. He averted his gaze, and Ty took the opportunity to step forward.

Jud shifted his weight from one foot to another and darted a glance toward the door. Ty snorted. Damn if the guy wasn't gauging if he could make a run for it. God, but he looked like a startled deer. And Ty had never been a big, bad wolf.

Nor had he ever wanted to be one. Not until now. Yet standing just inches away from this man, his feelings raged out of control. The closer he got, the more muddled his thoughts became. He wanted to grab a fistful of Jud's shirt and shake the man until he promised to help him. He wanted to lean in and capture Jud's mouth, to ravish those full lips until he begged for mercy.

Most of all, he just wanted to touch.

His fingertips itched. On impulse alone, he reached out and splayed his palm against Jud's chest.

The shock that careened through him this time was nothing like the first intense jolt of lust. He'd experienced the raw scrape of bone-numbing need enough over the past twelve months to recognize a supernatural reaction when he felt one.

But this.this was different. The emotion that surged through his veins wasn't as much aimless lust as deep, desperate desire. The kind of fathomless longing that built and built when hopeless, intense worship turned into denied yearning.

If Ty had been caught off guard by the sensation, Jud looked utterly stunned. He paled and his pupils dilated, black seeping into the blue-gray of his eyes until Ty stared into a darkness as deep as night.

Jud's lips parted. A flash of tongue drew Ty's attention, and he found himself leaning in, desperate for a taste of that sultry mouth. Jud snarled a warning, his breath caressing Ty's lips. The warm, cinnamon-scented heat sent sizzles of unnatural erotic ferocity straight to the ever-growing hardness between Ty's legs.

"What are you doing?" Longing that sounded every bit as potent as the ache burning through Ty tinged Jud's hoarse voice.

"Proving a point." It took all of Ty's resolve to yank his hand away. When he did, he took two deliberate paces backward, putting some much needed distance between them.

Jud shook his head. "I don't understand. What just happened?"

"You, my new friend, just experienced what I've been living with for a year."

A moment of silence stretched into two. Jud ran a hand through his disheveled brown hair, tugging some of the stray strands low over his forehead. "You feel that every time you touch someone?"

The laugh that escaped Ty's lips held nothing but resentment. "No. Actually, tonight's the first time it happened when I touched a real person."

Jud gave him a once-over, clearly skeptical. "So why me?"

"Hell if I know. But until five minutes ago, I'd only gotten that jolt from touching things. A chair, some old curtains, a Christmas tree ornament, the damn window in my apartment.random stuff."

Jud cast a suspicious frown at him, but finally abandoned the sanctuary of the wall at his back, stepped around the blanket, and emerged into the center of the sacristy. Candles cast golden highlights across the dark blue T-shirt molded to his lean, willowy frame. Worn jeans hung low on his hips, held up by a frayed leather belt that had seen better days. A silver belt buckle with a bell embossed on it drew Ty's attention down.

Down to where it had no business going.

His gaze locked on to the bulge at the apex of Jud's thighs. The man was hard as a lead pipe and just as thick. His own cock gave an answering throb and lengthened, pressing against the seam of his jeans.

"I still don't get what this has to do with me."

Ty jerked his head up. Heat rushed into his cheeks, but Jud didn't seem to notice his momentary loss of concentration.

"Yeah, well, that's what you and I are going to find out."

Jud's long lashes shaded his eyes for a fraction of a second before he turned away to stare at a tall bookshelf that held a series of leather-bound journals. Church records, most likely. "I think you should leave."

Shit. Jud couldn't turn him away. Not after all the effort Ty had put into tracking him down. He'd have to lay all his cards on the table. Even the ones that would make him sound insane.

"I have a ghost," Ty blurted out.

"Congratulations." Jud lifted a hand and waved it aimlessly in the air. "Join the club."

Relief sucked the breath out of Ty like a vacuum. At least Jud believed him. He'd thought convincing the man he wasn't a nutcase would be the hard part in all of this, but Jud didn't seem to need any persuading at all.

Ty cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, whether you're aware of it or not, most folks don't have this problem."

Jud lifted a shoulder, but didn't turn around. His raised arm dropped back to his side. "You get used to it."

"Not a chance in hell. That's the reason I'm here. I don't want to get used to it. I want it gone."

"Then hire an exorcist. Father Chuck can give you some excellent recommendations."

"I tried that. Didn't work. In fact, it made things worse. Look, the damn thing's made my life a living nightmare. Either I find a way to get it away from me, or I lose my mind. Three guesses which one I'd rather have happen and you won't need two."

"Even if I could help," Jud said, tracing a fingertip along the spine of a journal, "this isn't a good time. I'm in the middle of something."

Ty glanced around him at the empty sacristy. Annoyance swelled in his gut. Over the past twelve months, he'd tried everything he could think of: Wiccan house cleansings, exorcisms, new age rituals that used rat blood, rabbit fur, pigeon claws, and other ingredients he'd rather never think about again.

And after all that.nothing. His houseguest remained. As did Ty's unbearable reaction to random inanimate objects. Since he'd never as much as gotten a stiffie from a Christmas ornament before the ghost showed up-much less ride out an orgasm that left him shaking and in need of clean underwear-he could put two and two together well enough to determine that if he could just rid himself of the evil spirit, he could go back to having a normal life.

And Jud Hess was the answer to doing both.

Until a few days ago, Ty had just about given up on finding someone who could rid him of his maddening problems. And then he'd found a copy of the Vegas Times on his doorstep. Which was strange, because he didn't subscribe. That day's lead story focused on the corporate attorney-turned-medium who'd solved his fifteenth cold case this year by doing nothing more scientific than communicating with spirits.

Unwilling to ignore anyone who could potentially help him, Ty had set to tracking him down. Finding the man hadn't been easy, but he'd managed. And now here he was, so close to peace he could almost taste the normalcy of an ordinary life.

"I hate to break it to you, pal, but your bizarre Christmas ritual ain't that important. I don't care if you're sacrificing virgins in here. It can wait."

Jud whirled around and pounced on him with a speed Ty hadn't expected. The man stopped himself just short of grabbing Ty by the collar of his shirt; no doubt remembering what happened the last time they touched. His fingers hovered in the air, an inch away from Ty's chest. Even at that distance, Ty's skin practically hummed a proximity warning.

"I'm waiting for someone." Jud's mouth twisted into a menacing sneer, and he dropped his hand. "You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I understand just fine." Ty forced a casualness he didn't feel into his words. "I understand loverboy ain't coming."

Jud made a noise in the back of his throat. Mournful and grief-stricken, that low keening sound communicated more than words could have said. And it made Ty's gut wrench.

He'd kicked a puppy once, by mistake, when he was six. He still remembered the animal's startled wail, the way the tiny creature curled around itself in agony. And he remembered how rotten he'd felt, how malicious, even unintentionally.

This felt worse.

Jud didn't have to ask him to leave a second time. With a mumbled apology that sounded idiotic even as the words slipped past his lips, Ty turned and headed for the sacristy door.

It slammed behind him with a thud that echoed through his bloodstream. He sucked in a breath, shook his head, and waited for the swelling in his groin to ease. Now that he was outside Jud's immediate proximity, the raw, desperate hunger had to lessen.

When it became clear that the sizzling in his veins had no intention of diminishing on its own, Ty cursed, loud and vehement. Then he crossed himself, murmured a second apology in just as many minutes, and staggered down the church steps.

Loose Id Review Listing

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 04:40:12 GMT

Congratulations to Abby Wood, Annmarie McKenna, Ava March, Ava Rose Johnson, Bailey Bradford, Carol Lynne, Cheryl Dragon, Ciar Cullen, Crystal Kauffman, Eliza Gayle, Ethan Day, Evangeline Anderson, Eve Vaughn, India Masters, J.C. Owens, Jade James, Jennifer Cole, Jessica Freely, Jessica Lee, Jet Mykles, Jianne Carlo, Josh Lanyon, Katrina Strauss, Kitty DuCane, Leila Brown, Liz Andrews, Lynn Lorenz, Lynne Connolly, Melinda Barron, Michael Barnette, Michelle Cary, Neil Plakcy, Pepper Espinoza, Roslyn Hardy Holcomb, Rowan McBride, Sedonia Guillone, Suzanne Rock, Talya Bosco, Tere Michaels, Trista Ann Michaels, Viki Lyn, Vonna Harper, and Z.A. Maxfield for the reviews they received.

Kitty DuCane received a Gold Star from JERR. Congratulations!

Jet Mykles, Kitty DuCane, and Michael Barnette received a Top Pick from Night Owl Reviews.

J.C. Owens, Josh Lanyon, and Z.A. Maxfield received a Joyfully Recommended Review. Congratulations!

A Trick of the Moon by Melinda Barron

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

http://sensual.ecataromance.com/index.php?p=3001

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/trick-of-moon-by-melinda-barron.html

As You Are by Ethan Day

http://ebookaddict2.blogspot.com/2009/10/as-you-are-by-ethan-day-reviewed-by.html

http://www.bookwenches.com/october09reviews.htm#469966137

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1935

http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2009/10/as-you-are.html

http://elisa-rolle.livejournal.com/840765.html

Beauty and the Beasts by Ava Rose Johnson

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/beautybeastsjohnson.htm

Best Vacation that Never Was by Lynn Lorenz

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1846

Blue Fire by Z.A. Maxfield

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/RRs/Oct09RR/bluefire.ZM.html

Breaking the Devil by Bailey Bradford

http://ebookaddict2.blogspot.com/2009/10/breaking-devil-by-bailey-bradford.html

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1901

Candy Girl by Eve Vaughn

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009..htm

Convincing Arthur by Ava March

http://sensual.ecataromance.com/index.php?p=3021

Dark Elves 6: Awakening by Jet Mykles

http://www..nightowlromance.com/nightowlromance/reviews/Review.aspx?daoid=4798

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2009/10/dark-elves-vi-awakening.html

Dept. 57: Treasure Laid Bare by Lynne Connolly

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Oct09/treasurelaidbare.LC.html

Desire to Die For by Jessica Lee

http://howlinggoodbooks.com/index.php?id=169

Dominating Victoria by Kitty DuCane

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

http://ebookaddict2.blogspot..com/2009/09/dominating-victoria-by-kitty-ducane.html

http://yougottareadreviews.blogspot.com/2009/10/review-dominating-victoria-by-kitty.html

http://www.nightowlromance.com/nightowlromance/reviews/Review.aspx?daoid=4812

Don't Look Back by Josh Lanyon

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/RRs/Oct09RR/dontlookback.JL.html

Eldritch Legacy 2: Lessons Learned by Katrina Strauss

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/09/eldritch-legacy-2-lessons-learned-by.html

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Oct09/lessonslearned.KS.html

Fire and Ice by Liz Andrews

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/fireiceandrews.htm

Flying Fish by Sedonia Guillone

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/09/flying-fish-by-sedonia-guillone.html

Gaven by J.C. Owens

http://romancejunkiesreviews.com/artman/publish/paranormal/Gaven.shtml

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/RRs/Oct09RR/gaven.JO.html

http://www.paranormalromance.org/reviews/review.php?id=32118

Ghosts of Alcatraz by Carol Lynne

http://sensual.ecataromance.com/index.php?p=3010

Guardian's Realm: The Collision by Crystal Kauffman

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009..htm

Her Boyfriend's Boyfriend by Cheryl Dragon

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Oct09/herboyfriendsboyfriend.CD.html

High Country by Michael Barnette

http://elisa-rolle.livejournal.com/801169.html

http://www.nightowlromance.com/nightowlromance/reviews/Review.aspx?daoid=4728

I Spy Something Wicked by Josh Lanyon

http://www.reviewsbyjessewave.com/?p=9955

Just for You by Jet Mykles

http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2009/10/just-for-you.html

Kansas City Shuffle by Talya Bosco

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/09/kansas-city-shuffle-by-talya-bosco.html

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/kansascitybosco.htm

http://howlinggoodbooks.com/index.php?id=193

Love & Loyalty by Tere Michaels http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1831

Morning Star by Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

Naughty Fantasies by Jade James

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/naughty-fantasies-by-jade-james.html

Nothing Left to Lose by India Masters

http://howlinggoodbooks.com/index.php?id=171

Obsession of Jayde by Eliza Gayle

http://www..nightowlromance.com/nightowlromance/reviews/Review.aspx?daoid=4903

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/obsession-of-jayde-by-eliza-gayle.html

On a Bruised Road by Pepper Espinoza

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1845

One Shot by Rowan McBride

http://elisa-rolle.livejournal.com/816640.html

Pacific Nights by Lynn Lorenz

http://sensual.ecataromance.com/index.php?p=3015

Pleasuring a Pirate by Leila Brown

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/09/pleasuring-pirate-by-leila-brown.html

Pursuing Zarah by Jennifer Cole

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/pursuing-zarah-by-jennifer-cole.html

Pussycat Death Squad by Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

http://www.howlinggoodbooks.com/index.php?id=166

Rust Belt by Jessica Freely

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1902

Shutter by Trista Ann Michaels

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/shutter-by-trista-ann-michaels.html

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/shuttermichaels.htm

http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Oct09/shutter.TM.html

http://www.paranormalromance.org/reviews/review.php?id=32152

Spyder's Web by Suzanne Rock

http://www.paranormalromance.org/reviews/review.php?id=32114

Starting Over by Annmarie McKenna

http://ebookaddict2.blogspot.com/2009/09/starting-over-by-annmarie-mckenna.html

Sursein Judgment by Jet Mykles

http://sensual.ecataromance.com/index.php?p=3012

The Lost Books 1&2 by Evangeline Anderson

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1841

The Price of Submission by Michelle Cary

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/price-of-submission-by-michelle-cary.html

http://howlinggoodbooks.com/index.php?id=195

The Prince's Bride by Ciar Cullen

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

The Tiger Within by Viki Lyn

http://www.rainbow-reviews.com/?p=1824

http://www.bookwenches.com/october09reviews.htm#466333887

http://www.paranormalromance.org/reviews/review.php?id=32141

The White Knight by Josh Lanyon

http://groups. yahoo.com/ group/justerotic romancereviewsne wsletter/ files/JERR% 20Newsletter% 20161%2011- 01-2009.htm

The Wolves' Submissive by Ava Rose Johnson

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/09/wolves-submissive-by-ava-rose-johnson.html

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/wolvessubmissivejohnson.htm

http://howlinggoodbooks.com/index.php?id=185

http://sensual.ecataromance.com/index.php?p=3018

Three Wrong Turns in the Desert by Neil Plakcy

http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2009/10/three-wrong-turns-in-desert..html

Throwing a Kink in the Kidnapping by Abby Wood

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/throwing-kink-in-kidnapping-by-abby.html

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/kinkkidnappingwood.htm

White Wolf by Jianne Carlo

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/10/white-wolf-by-jianne-carlo.html

Wind Howl by Vonna Harper

http://yougottareadreviews.blogspot.com/2009/10/review-wind-howl-by-vonna-harper.html

Yellowstone Wild by India Masters

http://whippedcream2.blogspot.com/2009/09/yellowstone-wild-by-india-masters.html

http://theromancestudio.com/reviews/reviews/yellowstowwildmasters.htm

Jingle Bell Time, it's a swell time at Loose Id for lots of fun

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 04:17:20 GMT

Jingle Bell Time, it's a swell time
At Loose Id for lots of fun.
It's a bright time, it's the right time
For the best new EroRom!

~ * ~

Get your 2010 VIP membership for $5 off, now through January 3rd. Don't forget the $4 off all orders over $30 discount that expires on Christmas Day, and our annual What I Really Wanted for the Holidays 10% off sale on Boxing Day.

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Silver Bells
Hunter Raines
Genre: LGBT Paranormal
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Silver-Bells.aspx

Jud Hess has loved Derek Gentry since they were children. When they became lovers in college, he thought they were destined to be together forever. All that changed with Derek’s tragic death only four years later, on Christmas Day.

Now, more than a decade after that horrible event, Jud clings to a promise he made the night before Derek died. He vowed that he would never, ever, be with another man. And he’s clung to that vow with every bit of what’s left of his heart.

But Derek’s death brought an unlikely gift. After his lover died, Jud began to see spirits. And although ghosts have become his constant companions, the one spirit he longs to see only appears to him at Christmas. Or at least, he used to.

This year, Derek doesn’t come. But someone else does; a man who brings with him the kind of erotic temptation and a need of his own that Jud is helpless to resist.

To end a decade of loneliness, Jud will have to give in to the sultry seduction of a stranger… and betray the spirit of the man who should have been the love of his life.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Silver-Bells.aspx

~ * ~

Adrien English Mysteries 5: The Dark Tide
Josh Lanyon
Genre: LGBT Romantic Suspense
Length: Novel Plus
Price: $7.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Adrien-English-Mysteries-5-The-Dark-Tide.aspx

As if recovering from heart surgery beneath the gaze of his over-protective family wasn’t exasperating enough, someone keeps trying to break into Adrien English’s bookstore. What is this determined midnight intruder searching for?

When a half-century old skeleton tumbles out of the wall in the midst of the renovation of Cloak and Dagger Bookstore renovation, Adrien turns to hot and handsome ex-lover Jake Riordan -- now out-of-the closet and working as a private detective.

Jake is only too happy to have reason to stay in close contact with Adrien, but there are more surprises in Adrien’s past than either one of them expects -- and one of them may prove hazardous to Jake’s own heart.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Adrien-English-Mysteries-5-The-Dark-Tide.aspx

~ * ~

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
Michelle Cary
Genre: Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/It-Came-Upon-a-Midnight-Clear.aspx

Emotionally battered and broken by a vicious divorce, newly single and nearly destitute Abby Dalton has little choice but to return to her childhood home and reassemble the shattered pieces of her life. She knows her presence in the tiny town will cause old rumors to resurface, but with only a few thousand dollars as recompense and no job, she has nowhere else to go.

As she arrives into town, old ghosts return, bringing with them long dormant desires and the shame those desires caused. Resolved to start fresh despite her past indiscretions, Abby slowly settles into her new life. Then a fire destroys her home and places her in the capable hands of twins Talon and Teagan Werner; gossip and speculation runs wild through the town. Anticipating rebuke from the men she’s adored for so long, she tells them the truth about everything. Instead, she finds acceptance in both their arms and beds. The last thing she expected going home is love, but Abby finds a love to last a lifetime, once upon a midnight clear.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, menage (m/f/m).

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/It-Came-Upon-a-Midnight-Clear.aspx

~ * ~

Skin Deep
S.W. Vaughn
Genre: LGBT Urban Fantasy/Paranormal
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Skin-Deep.aspx

Will Ambrose knows everything about love – except how to find it himself. He hosts a popular GLBT relationship radio show, but his own affairs have been rocky and abusive. With sexy, seductive tattoo artist Cobalt, it's lust at first sight. Unfortunately he's already involved ... until that night, when his late arrival home sends his cop partner into a jealous, violent rage.

Cobalt is a Fae, banished to live among humans. His studio, The Grotto, is both a hot spot for the NYC body art crowd and a haven for other Fae seeking protection. Though he's given up on relationships, since his human lovers tend to go insane when they discover his true nature, he can't help his lustful reaction to Will when the radio host visits The Grotto. He tries to dismiss it, but is compelled to get involved when a cab deposits a battered, broken Will at his door, with Cobalt's name on his lips.

Can their powerful attraction – and phenomenal sex – overcome an abusive closeted cop, a traitorous Fae who tries to divide them, and an ex-lover with inhuman powers who'll stop at nothing to take Cobalt back ... including going through Will?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices, violence.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Skin-Deep.aspx

~ * ~

EXCERPT: Suzanne Rock's Up On the Housetop

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 02:00:31 GMT

An Excerpt from Up On the Housetop

Suzanne Rock
Genre: Shape-shifter Paranormal
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Up-On-the-Housetop.aspx

Desperate to escape her controlling family, Chloe Bradford scrambles up to the housetop of her Texas home on Christmas Eve. There she discovers a sexy stranger cloaked in shadow. He convinces her to shed her good-girl image and give into her most secret desires. The man's low, raspy voice tugs at her memory as much as it awakens her passion. Is he a Christmas miracle, or some figment of her imagination? When he tries to leave, she follows him, eager to learn his identity.

Zach can't stop thinking about Chloe, or their reunion on the roof. His wolf-half urges him to reveal his identity and claim her, but he doesn't dare. For both their sakes, he must remain in the shadows until he can control his inner beast's bursts of rage. After a decade of struggle he thought he could handle his curse, but Chloe's presence causes his control to slip. As the moon-rages become more frequent, he knows he's slipping toward the insanity that claims many of his kind. Only Chloe can save him, but he broke her heart over a decade ago. Her forgiveness would be the real Christmas miracle.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable.

~ * ~

This time her father had gone too far.

Chloe Bradford threw open the window, grabbed the open bottle of Cristal, and walked out onto her third-floor bedroom balcony. After a few minutes of pitiful acrobatics and a long string of curses, she managed to pull herself up onto the roof. For some reason, the climb had seemed much easier when she was sixteen.

“Damn, my glass.” Chloe carefully placed the bottle down and climbed back into her bedroom.

“Where did it go?” She scanned the pink and white walls in disgust. Chloe had loved the color scheme back when her mother had picked it out. Then again, she'd been only eight at the time. Now, at thirty-two, it made her think of a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. When she'd gone off to college, she thought she'd never see this place again. She'd been wrong. Funny how some things come full circle.

Frowning, she crossed her arms in front of her chest. No glass. Maybe she left it downstairs. Too bad. She'd much rather drink from the bottle than go back down there and subject herself to that humiliation again. It was a “drink from the bottle” type of night, anyway.

She shimmied back out to her champagne on the roof. The Spanish-style mansion was like a lot of the other houses in the area. The roof was very flat and a nightmare during times of rain, but it was perfect for a teenager or two to get away from their parents for a few hours.

Or for a middle-aged woman to hide from a marriage proposal.

Chloe took a seat and placed her almost-full bottle next to her. It had been a long time since she'd come out here to wish on the stars and dream of her future.

Now she just wanted to escape it.

She sighed and held up the bottle of Cristal to the full moon hanging low in the sky. She wasn't much of a drinker and wasn't exactly a fan of champagne, but desperate times called for desperate measures. After the huge fight, she just wanted to get out of there. She had grabbed the closest bottle and left her parents and boyfriend gaping in the dining room below.

She brought the champagne to her lips. The bubbly liquid tickled her throat as she gulped it down. What happened to her life?

When she was a little girl, she had dreamed of becoming a concert pianist. Her senior year in high school, she'd gotten accepted into a program at Juilliard. A few months later, she'd become engaged to her high school sweetheart. For a while it seemed like everything was going great.

Then, a semester before she was due to graduate, her life changed forever.

Chloe blinked back tears and took another sip of champagne.

Marcus, her older brother, and her fiancé, Zach, had gone backpacking in Montana. They never returned. A frenzied search turned up her brother's body but not Zach's. She shivered as she thought back to that day when they had heard the news. The autopsy revealed that Marcus was mauled by some large animal, a bear or a wolf or something. Zach's body was never found.

Marcus had been groomed to take over the family business and control the bulk of their inheritance. Chloe would receive a small stipend from the family coffers to live on, but she could otherwise do as she pleased. After that day, she was the sole heir to the Bradford family fortune. Now it was now up to her, not Marcus, to keep the business going when her father retired.

That meant no more school.

No more friends.

No more life.

She should've told her father to shove the inheritance, but Chloe loved her parents and knew they were grieving. She'd only intended to stay in Texas for a short time, but somehow she had ended up being her father's shadow for the past eleven years.

She took another sip of champagne and leaned back on her elbows. Clouds had moved in, hiding the stars and blanketing the moon. She remembered when she and Zach used to climb up here at night to have sex underneath the night sky. It had been so wonderful back then. Before her new responsibilities. Before Karl.

“Why did Karl have to propose tonight? On Christmas Eve?” she asked the moon.

It didn't answer.

Her father was behind the proposal; she knew it. They were all expecting her to say yes, but the words caught in her throat. She just couldn't.

She refused to spend the rest of her days as boring Mrs. Karl Radcliffe, heiress to the Bradford billions. Karl was nice enough, but there was no chemistry between them, at least not the type of chemistry she had shared with Zach. But Zach was gone, and it was her duty as daddy's girl to carry on the family name. At least with Karl, there was a warm body beside her at night. But she wanted more for her life. She wanted adventure, excitement.

Zach.

Get over it, Chloe. It's time to move on.

Accepting Karl's proposal was like giving up on the idea that Zach would return and free her from this miserable life. After a marriage to Karl, there would be no more going back. No more hope. No more dreaming of what could have been. The young, innocent, fun-loving Chloe would finally be dead.

“I wish I could escape this place.” She stood and swayed slightly. “Escape my family.” Tilting her head back and raising her arms, she shouted at the moon. “I don't want this life anymore, do you hear me? Take it back.”

Silence.

“What's wrong with me?” Chloe dropped her arms and pushed her curly mop of hair from her face. “Why can't I just tell them to take the inheritance and shove it?”

She knew why. She was chicken. Her parents were the only family she had left. They'd been through so much with her brother's death, and she didn't want to add to their grief. “For once I wish I didn't have to do what was expected of me,” she said to the moon. “I just want to be me.”

Who was she, anyway? At one time she thought she knew. She was a dreamer, an artist, a lover. Now…

Now she was just going through the motions. Sighing, she took one last slug from the champagne bottle and tossed it over the side of the house.

As the bottle left her hand, guilt immediately took hold. Good girls didn't throw bottles of Cristal. Nor did they yell at the moon.

A giggle welled up in her throat, and she covered her mouth. She knew she would eventually have to marry boring Karl to appease her parents, but for tonight she'd pretend she was that hopeful teenager, and Zach was once again by her side.

Wait a minute.

Chloe frowned. No crash. If you throw a bottle of champagne over the edge of the house, you would expect it to crash when it hit the ground, right? She made her way over to the edge of the roof and peered down. It was so hard to see anything in the dark. Sinking to her hands and knees, she squinted into the darkness below.

There was movement, a shifting of shadow. Then…nothing.

“Who's there?” And where's my Cristal? She bent farther over the side of the house.

There it was again. Something was down there.

“Come out into the streetlight where I can see you.”

She counted to ten, or maybe it was three. It was hard to tell in her present state. Still nothing happened.

“I know someone is down there. Show yourself.”

The wind picked up, rustling the wind chimes on the front of the house. The unseasonably cool Texas night gave her a chill. She shivered and pulled the shawl her mother had made for her over her strapless blouse.

“Shouldn't you be with your family?”

Chloe jumped up and whirled around. A large, muscular figure stood on the rooftop behind her, just a few feet away. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, and the bottom of his open trench coat lifted slightly in the breeze. Shadows fell over his face, masking his identity. He tilted his head to the side, as if to study her.

How did he get up here?

Her eyes shifted to the large tree, looming behind him. Okay, one question answered. Now for another one…

“Who are you?”

“I think a more relevant question is: why are you out here on Christmas Eve when your family is having dinner inside?” His low voice sounded gravelly, as if he had a cold or sore throat, yet it seemed strangely familiar. The stranger took a step closer to the tree and deeper into the shadows.

“How did you know…?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “What I do up here is my business. You're intruding.”

“You asked me to come up here.”

Chloe snorted and put her hands on her hips. “I did not.”

“You did. You said 'show yourself.'”

Oh yeah, she did say that, didn't she? “What are you doing out here? A late-night stroll?”

He chuckled. “You could say that.”

Chloe shifted her gaze down to the long, winding driveway below them. It led from the front steps, down around a sculpture her father had commissioned long ago, between two thin rows of trees, and stopped at the gate leading into the property.

Late-night stroll, her ass. Nobody got on or off this property unless it was approved. How did he get past the guards? “You must have gotten lost, then. This is private property, you know.”

He laughed again, a deep, rich laugh that sent tingles over her skin. “I see you haven't changed much.”

So, he knew her. The voice sounded familiar, but with the man's face in shadow, Chloe couldn't tell his identity.

He didn't mean her harm; she knew it instinctively. There was something about the way he spoke, the way he moved, that didn't seem threatening. Then again, maybe it was just the Cristal that made her less wary. She closed her eyes in concentration. That voice… It was rough and sensual, like silk sheets against bare skin. So familiar…

“Do you know my father?”

“You could say that, yes.” His voice caressed her ears, making her heart flutter. “I knew your whole family, once.”

“Ha! I knew it.” This man worked for her father. He'd probably been over to the house numerous times. It explained why he was in the driveway, how he knew her, and why the voice sounded so familiar. “So does my father know you are up on the roof with me?” She opened her eyes.

Where did he go?

A light breeze blew over her, ruffling her blonde curls. She spun around in a circle. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No, Chloe. No joke.” The stranger's warm breath brushed against the back of her neck. She shivered as the faint mix of sandalwood and spice reached her nose.

She knew that smell. Chloe started to turn, but firm hands grabbed her shoulders and faced her forward again.

“I never thought I'd see you again,” the stranger whispered.

No, he wasn't a stranger. He knew her. That voice… If she could just clear the fog of Cristal in her brain, she just knew she'd be able to identify him.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

He tugged the shawl from her hands and let it drop between them. Desire filtered through her as he slid his fingertips down over her bare arms. “You feel even better than I remember.”

Chloe closed her eyes. Heat tickled underneath her skin where he touched. It shot straight to her core and burned between her legs.

“I have a confession to make.” The low, harsh voice rippled over her ears.

“Yes?”

He shifted behind her, pressing his hard chest up against her back. “I was hoping you would come home for Christmas.”

“I live here, so I'm around most of the time. Last week I was in Europe, checking up on my father's hotels, but I'm done with that now.” Good Lord, stop babbling. She couldn't help it. For the first time in her life, Chloe was excited, perhaps a little nervous. If that made her babble, so be it.

“I know,” the stranger said.

“You do?” Chloe shivered as he ran his hands over her hips. Need bubbled inside her, like water in a teapot. Hidden, yet turbulent and ready to spill over the edge.

“I've been watching you all week, Chloe, waiting for the right moment.”

“You could've seen me anytime.” Especially if he was one of her father's employees. Maybe he was someone else, a guy from town? His name was there on the edges of her mind, just out of reach. There was something oddly familiar about this guy's rough, sexy voice and wicked fingers.

He removed one hand from her hip and brushed the hair from her neck. “I don't think visiting would've been wise.”

“Why not?” She gasped as his lips pressed against the sensitive skin between her neck and shoulder.

He straightened behind her, letting his fingers drop down to her hip. Silence stretched between them for one intense moment before he responded. “Your father doesn't like me very much.”

“Yeah, well. He doesn't like me very much right now either. So I guess we can both be in the doghouse together.”

“I'm sure you can think of a better place than a doghouse.” He reached around her front and laced his fingers with hers.

Heat surged in her core as the stranger guided her hands up to the moonlight.

“Such beautiful fingers,” he whispered. “Do you still play piano?”

This was one hell of a man, whoever he was. Chloe fought down the urge to wrap herself around him and purr like a cat. “No,” she said. Goodness, she hadn't touched a piano since…forever.

“Pity.” He guided their hands around her middle and tugged her back into his hips. His hard cock pressed through their thin clothing and against her backside. “You played very well.”

His heat penetrated her Cristal-induced haze, muddling her thoughts. Chloe struggled to form a coherent thought. “How do you know me?”

He kissed her neck. The soft press of his lips sent a vibration of desire through her body, as if striking a piano chord. Pulling her hands from his grasp, she gripped his forearms and leaned on him for support.

“Do you really want to know?” Keeping his arms crossed over her middle, he stroked her hips.

Chloe nodded.

Making a tsking noise, he curled his fingers into her skirt, inching it up over her thighs. “Come now, Chloe. I know when you're lying.”

“I'm not lying.”

Her skirt bunched around her waist, exposing her thong and thigh-high tights. Her thoughts shattered as he ran his fingers up her thigh. Chloe groaned and closed her eyes as pleasure filtered through her body.

“Admit it. You're lying.” He nibbled her neck, making her gasp with pleasure. “You find this exciting.”

She did. There was something about his voice, his scent, something about him, that made her feel safe, loved. “Yeah, I do.”

He ran his hand down her leg. “Then open up for me, Chloe, and let yourself go. Show me the real you.”

EXCERPT: Michael Barnette's Let it Snow!

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 01:59:35 GMT

An Excerpt from Let it Snow!

Michael Barnette
Genre: LGBT Multicultural
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Let-it-Snow!.aspx

Cooper Heywood is working on his own at Rocky Mountain National Park over the Christmas holiday. It's not a busy time of year but there are a few groups of people he has to watch over. The one that most annoys him is the photographer. In his experience photographers are a real pain in the behind. They don't understand how fast the weather can change in the Rockies and they're determined to take their shot.

Alejandro Pelez is an accomplished photographer with several beautiful coffee table photo books to his credit. He’s come to the Rockies to photograph the wintry landscape for his newest book, Let it Snow: The Beauty of Winter. What he doesn't plan on is the instant attraction he feels for the handsome park ranger who wants to keep him cabin-bound.

More than snow flies on the wind, and Cooper and Alejandro soon discover campfires and cocoa aren't the only hot things in the Rockies this winter.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

The ranger station in Rocky Mountain National Park was well lit and warm, and the smells of spruce from the Christmas tree in the corner and fresh coffee from the station's kitchen filled the air.

Cooper Heywood, with a steaming mug in his hand, stared at his boss, Mark Waller, as the man pointed to a map on the wall where a series of pushpins had been placed to mark the locations of the winter campers. A group of seven skiers was marked with a blue pin, and a trio of snowboarders had its camp marked with a yellow pin. The green pin indicated the base camp of a group of eight hikers, while the last pin, a bright red one, marked the location of their last winter guest: a lone photographer. Being alone in the rugged wilderness lands of the park wasn't safe, but some people didn't listen to advice. This guy was probably one of those who thought they knew it all—until they got into trouble. Then they would whine for someone to come rescue them from their own stupidity.

Cooper frowned at his boss. “So I have to keep an eye on this guy until he decides to leave?”

His boss, an older man with over thirty years' experience as a park ranger, nodded. “That's right, Cooper. He shouldn't be any trouble. He's a photographer. My understanding is he'll be here until he gets all the photos he needs. So you've got him and the other groups to check up on. It's all pretty routine.”

Cooper's frown deepened. “A photographer? What's he doing up here at this time of year?” He and the other rangers had a bad experience with a photographer who'd shown up during the fall two years ago. The man had arrived with an entourage of people, including a bunch of needy models who'd been nothing but trouble. They'd come to the park to do a fashion shoot. As if that weren't bad enough, they'd decided to stage several of their shoots well off the easy paths and in the deeper part of the forest. They'd gotten lost twice, and one of the models had broken his leg and had to be airlifted out. To make matters worse, their totally unsecured camp—where they'd left food lying out everywhere—had been ravaged by a hungry young black bear. The thought of another bunch like that—or even a guy like the clueless photographer who'd headed the group—made his head ache. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said a silent prayer to whatever divine powers might be listening that the photographer wouldn't be a total pain in the ass.

“I'd guess he's taking pictures of the park. That's what he said he'd be doing when he applied for his backcountry permit.”

Cooper sighed and took a sip of his steaming coffee. “During the winter? I hope he's prepared for the bitter cold of the Rockies. Did you warn him about how fast the weather can change around here? I don't want a call from this guy in the middle of the night, telling me he's freezing to death.”

“I discussed it with him. The photographer seemed well prepared from what I could tell. He's got a lot of gear with him anyway,” Mark commented. “Seriously, Cooper, I don't think he's going to be nearly as much trouble as that pack of dimwits we had here two years ago.”

“We can hope,” Cooper replied, still unconvinced the photographer wasn't going to be a rolling disaster. People who weren't used to the fast-changing weather of the Rockies often wound up in serious trouble in the summer, much less in the depths of winter, when temperatures could dip well below zero.

“You know the routine. Get them out fast if the National Weather Service issues a blizzard warning. Most of the folks here right now are Colorado residents, so they're probably well aware of the dangers. But that photographer's from Florida, so if anyone needs to be warned, it will probably be him,” Mark informed Cooper as he shrugged into his coat and headed for the door.

“That figures,” Cooper remarked sourly.

“The hikers and the snowboarders will be leaving tomorrow. The skiers are leaving on Christmas Eve, sooner if the weather turns foul. Take care, Cooper. I'll see you after Christmas.”

“I'll be here,” Cooper replied, walking Mark to the door. “Merry Christmas.”

Mark smiled at him. “Merry Christmas.”

Cooper shut the door behind his boss and watched him drive away through the large window at the front of the station. The snow wasn't deep—they'd only had a few inches so far—but that could change as fast as you could say Santa Claus here in the high country of the Rockies.

He turned away from the window and headed into the kitchen with his empty coffee cup.

He'd be responsible for looking after the people in the park until two days after Christmas, when Julie Liddy would return from her vacation. Then the two of them would be watching over whoever came to camp in the park until the day before New Year's, when Mark would return and Cooper would take his two weeks of vacation. He couldn't wait. He'd already booked a hotel room in South Beach, and he was looking forward to warm breezes and tasty tropical drinks served in hollowed-out pineapples or coconuts. High-octane, fruity drinks that came complete with orchids or little umbrellas in them.

He'd have nothing to do for fourteen days but laze on the beach, soak up the sun, and watch the sexy Latino hunks stroll by.

Better make my rounds for the day and check up on the folks staying here. I hope they've all got GPS tracking devices and weather-alert radios. This time of year, the weather can be particularly treacherous.

He left the ranger's station, locked the door behind him, and climbed into the park's SUV. He started it up and let it run for a minute to make sure the engine wasn't going to cut out. They'd had it in the shop several times, but the mechanic hadn't discovered what occasionally caused the vehicle to stall. He put the SUV in gear, then rolled out of the driveway and headed toward the nearest group of campers. The drive was difficult, as the roads weren't plowed beyond the station, which made for slow going. If the snow had been deeper, he'd have taken either the snowmobile or the bigger snowcat, though with fuel prices being what they were, they tried to save the snowcat for emergency use only. Fortunately the snow had been on the light side so far this year, which meant he could stick to the four-wheel drive.

He made his rounds, chatting with the skiers and snowboarders. The hiking group wasn't in its camp, so he left a note and headed toward the location where the photographer was supposed to be.

Cooper found the camp. The tent was closed and the campfire was out, telling him the photographer wasn't a total idiot. A rope tied around a tree showed where the guy had hung his backpack, which probably contained his supply of food. While that wouldn't protect it from a determined wolverine—rarely found in Colorado—it would keep the bears from getting at it. Of course, the bears were already hibernating at this time of year, but Cooper got the impression that the guy had at least some knowledge of wildlife.

He parked his vehicle in front of the photographer's SUV and waited for the guy to return.

If he's not back in half an hour, I'll leave him a note.

Bright red berries under a thin layer of ice glittered in the bright morning sun. Perched near the berries was a brown bird with striking black, rust, and yellow markings. A few flakes of snow drifted lazily in the still air, creating a perfect-winter's-day image.

Alejandro Velez adjusted the focus until the image in the camera lens was sharp and clean. He snapped the photo, followed it with a second, and turned the camera clockwise to get a slightly different take on the image. He smiled when the bird took off, emitting a high-pitched whistle as it flew into the ice-decked trees.

Alejandro stood from where he'd been crouching, his breath pluming in the bitter cold air. He turned to regard the snow-draped mountains, which were bathed in bright sunshine. A few stray clouds overhead were dropping scattered flakes of snow.

This is beautiful country, but so cold. I miss the warm winter nights of Miami.

But he wouldn't be away from them for much longer. All he needed were a dozen-or-so images from Rocky Mountain National Park to complete his Let It Snow: The Beauty of Winter photo journal. Then he could head home to the balmy, semitropical breezes of Miami to make his final selections for the book and write the brief sections of text that went with the photos. After that, he'd send the book to his editor and publisher and wait and see which images they turned down, if any. The fact that some photos didn't make the cut was why he always shot extras.

He crunched his way through the knee-deep snow. The heavy boots and well-insulated winter clothes he wore kept him warm enough, but he'd be happy to return to his camp and get warm by a fire while jotting down some notes about the images he'd shot so far today. He'd have to write them down longhand because it was much too cold to take out the computer.

The best of the morning's photos had to be the bird he'd just shot. The rest were pretty stock images of mountains and snow-decked evergreens, as well as a juniper bush loaded with ice-covered berries. He'd snapped them even though he didn't expect any of them would be selected for the book.

He slogged through the deep snow, moving between thick stands of evergreens. He was ready for something hot to drink—like a gallon of coffee—and a hot meal. He'd probably heat up some noodles in a Styrofoam cup or one of the dehydrated camping meals he'd brought with him. The last thing he wanted was a case of hypothermia because he hadn't eaten enough to fuel his body heat.

He came around the last patch of thick tree cover, where he caught sight of his camp—and the big four-wheel-drive SUV parked next to his smaller, rented SUV.

The big vehicle had the Park Service emblem emblazoned on its side, and he could make out the form of a person sitting at the wheel. Someone in the drab green of the park rangers.

Please don't let his guy be here to tell me my permit's been revoked. I already got booted from the Grand Teton National Park because of the weather conditions. I can't afford to lose this site too.

He had to shoot all the images needed for this book so he could head home to pick out the perfect pictures. He had deadlines to meet and a lot of work to do before then so the book could come out in time for the holiday shopping season next year.

The ranger opened the door of his vehicle and got out as Alejandro reached the center of his one-person camp. He came round the front of the SUV and stood there, regarding Alejandro with an expression Alejandro could only label as disapproval or perhaps annoyance—maybe both.

“Hi, I'm Alejandro Velez. I'm a photographer,” he began.

“Yeah, I figured that's who you were.” The ranger cut into his introduction, his tone as unfriendly as his expression. “I was told you were up here. My boss asked me to check on you.”

That explains the look on his face. He's unhappy about being told to keep an eye on the ignorant guy from Florida. Well, I don't need anyone to watch over me.

Alejandro set down his heavy equipment bag. “I'm fine, and it's not necessary for you to check up on me,” he stated, his own tone cold as the weather.

“It's routine. I check up on everyone camping here at this time of year. Just part of the job,” the ranger replied icily.

“Thanks. You've done your duty. Now you can go.” Alejandro tried not to look at the ranger too closely. He didn't want to reveal his interest in men to anyone, because sometimes it led to serious trouble. But he did notice that the ranger was an attractive blond, a bit over six feet tall. He couldn't tell much about his build, given the heavy winter coat and pants the man wore, but Alejandro suspected from the lean angles of the ranger's face, the guy possessed a fine, athletic form.

Exactly the sort of man he enjoyed having in his bed…or bedroll.

Alejandro liked what he could see, and he had a thing for blonds, especially blue-eyed blonds with good musculature. Too bad he's made of 100 percent bad attitude and probably straight.

The ranger glanced at the sky, where a scattering of thin, high clouds was drifting along. “The weather report is calling for clear skies tonight, but there are some fronts heading this way that could bring snow. The reports are mixed. It might be nothing but flurries, or it could be a real blizzard. Do you have a GPS and a weather-alert radio?”

“Yes to both. I'm not ignorant of the wilderness, Mr.…?” he prompted, trying to find out the ranger's name.

“Cooper Heywood,” the man replied, his voice no less frosty.

Alejandro nodded. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said and headed for the tree where he'd cached his food supply. He'd learned the hard way the first time he'd gone into an actual wild area not to leave food where wandering animals could find it. After that, he'd learned about how to keep his supplies safe. At this time of year, he only had to worry about coyotes and foxes getting into his food. Cougars wouldn't bother with the stuff in his backpack; any he might encounter would be stalking him, not his dehydrated meals.

When he didn't hear the sound of the ranger's SUV start up, he glanced over his shoulder to find the man watching him with keen intensity. Is he checking me out? He let his gaze wander from the man's face down his body, pausing at his crotch before focusing on the man's face once more.

“Something you want?” he asked.

Heywood's lips curled into the faintest trace of a smile. “I could do with a cup of coffee,” the ranger replied, his now-mollifying tone a sharp contrast to the way he'd spoken to Alejandro not a minute ago.

Alejandro stared at the park ranger. He just did a one-eighty-degree turn on me and became a human being instead of a jerk. I wonder why the change of heart? He frowned, and then something dawned on him. He'd just checked Heywood out, and in response, Heywood had stopped being a royal dick. Wow! Could the guy be gay too? Or is he just jerking my chain?

“Try the ranger's station,” he muttered under his breath, then instantly relented. He was still slightly annoyed by the ranger's earlier attitude but decided to forgive him because the ranger really was good-looking, and he wouldn't mind company for a while…so long as the man didn't plan to tell him he needed to leave the park.

“What was that?” Heywood asked.

Alejandro forced himself to smile, willing to give the guy another chance since he'd decided to stop being a jerk. The other thing that prompted him to give Heywood a second chance was the prospect of having another gay man to talk to. But that Heywood was gay still hadn't been proven. “I've got a camp stove in the tent if you want to get it set up while I get out the can of coffee and pack some snow into the pot to melt,” he said as he got his pack down from of the tree.

“Sounds like a plan,” the ranger said as he unzipped the tent and ducked inside to find the stove.

Now what I want to know is why he stopped acting like an asshat and suddenly wants to have coffee with me. I can think of only one reason he'd do that. He's gay, and he's lonely for the company of another gay man. But Alejandro still wasn't ready to accept that as a fact until the jury in his head came back with a solid verdict. And that would take a lot more than a long stare and a loss of the asshat behavior Heywood displayed just a few minutes ago. He opened the backpack and dug around, searching for the can of coffee he'd put somewhere near the bottom.

He glanced at his tent as Heywood came out. He could feel the man's eyes on him, as if the ranger wanted to devour him whole. A flare of heat—of lust—warmed Alejandro, and he forced himself not to look at the blond ranger.

That's it. He's got to be gay. That's twice he's checked me out in less than five minutes.

EXCERPT: Adrianna Dane's I'll Be Home for Christmas

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 01:58:48 GMT

An Excerpt from I'll Be Home for Christmas

Adrianna Dane
Genre: LGBT Multicultural Contemporary Western
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Ill-Be-Home-for-Christmas.aspx

Destrie Two Rivers and Benedict Webster--an orphaned half-Indian and a wealthy rancher’s son. Men who were boyhood best friends, turned secret lovers when they were eighteen. And then one nightmarish night they were discovered and Destrie almost died as a result.

Now, eight years later, just before Christmas, Destrie, an Army sniper, returns to Wyoming on leave to attend the funeral of his foster father. Both men have changed and the distance between them seems wider than the Continental Divide with no way to breach the chasm. But just as the creek where they first made love runs powerful and constant, Destrie and Benedict’s passion for each other still burns undeniably deep and everlasting.

Re-igniting their unquenchable desire could prove fatal. Until the heavy guilt and shocking secrets of the past are revealed, neither of these two men can truly come home for Christmas.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

An ice-cold wind blasted through the open doorway as a man entered the bar. Benedict's heart seemed to stop beating for a split second and then sped up as a burst of adrenaline shot through him when he recognized the tall, lean figure standing near the doorway. He almost blacked out and as an afterthought remembered to breathe. He drew in oxygen and then slowly released it in an attempt to steady his nerves. And then another. Benedict's vision cleared. He looked again at the stranger who had entered the bar. He wasn't mistaken.

Destrie was back.

Benedict surmised it wasn't exactly the best sort of homecoming a man fighting for his country should expect. Not that Destrie had ever really thought of Coyote Forks as home. He'd returned for his foster dad's funeral, not for any sort of holiday celebration. And as prepared as Benedict thought he was to see his ex-lover after all these years, this wasn't what he'd imagined. He wasn't prepared. Not by a long shot.

Nobody in this town was gonna say, Welcome home, Destrie. Not a one of them would offer a handshake or buy him a drink. By the ice-cold expression on Destrie's face, he sure as hell didn't expect a warm homecoming from this crowd. His expression said, Fuck you all. Just try to run me out this time.

The decibel of noise in the bar of Friday-night cowboy rowdiness diminished significantly, coming more in line with a dead man's wake than a soldier's homecoming, when Destrie Two Rivers walked through the door. The echo of laughter was strangled by the deafening, shocked silence of a morgue. He was a ghost from the past, and not one this crowd wanted rising from the dead.

Benedict swallowed a long gulp of cold draft from his glass and then leaned back against the roughened beam in a corner on the other side of the room. His gaze raked over Destrie. From beneath the broad brim of the hat shading his expression, Benedict studied the man, the room, the ugly mob forming adjacent to him on the other side of the crowded, smoke-filled room.

The surly group hovered close together, like a bunch of cows huddled under a tree braced for a storm, with Benedict's brother, Jake, being the tree at its nucleus. They represented the worst, the rowdiest, of Coyote Forks. And tonight they were Friday-night drunk. Destrie's arrival would only stoke the already-simmering blaze that, at full blast, was likely to erupt into an all-out bloody barroom brawl.

Benedict was no longer the eighteen-year-old cub he'd been when Destrie left town. He'd learned a lot in eight years. The wolf inside him unfurled, readying to attack at the least spark of full-out trouble. He was no longer naive to the brutality that lurked beneath the surface of his hometown. And this time, he might go down, but he'd be taking a few of Jake's cronies with him. He turned his attention from Jake's mongrel pack to look at Destrie. There was controlled challenge in those coal black eyes.

But then, there had been no fear there when Jake and his buddies descended on them like a pack of ravenous coyotes eight years ago. Benedict narrowed his gaze. From this distance he couldn't spot the scar on Destrie's face. Had it faded?

He heard the whispered mumblings crest over the room like the distant rumble of thunder presaging a storm.

But the desire building inside Benedict was even stronger. He still felt that familiar surge of lust when Destrie walked into a room. It was something he hadn't experienced in a long time. And he was still just as tongue-tied as the first time they'd fucked. The high cheekbones were just as strongly pronounced as Benedict remembered. Destrie had filled out some, and the striped black-and-white shirt he wore stretched across shoulders broader than Benedict recalled. Benedict's gaze drifted downward, to the polished silver and turquoise belt buckle that winked back at him. He remembered the buckle. Destrie had won it at the first rodeo they'd ever ridden in. That bronc was one neither of them would ever forget. He closed his eyes, afraid to face the memory that struggled for freedom inside his head.

It was riding that high, feeling that energy, that had them down by the river with a six-pack of Bud after the rodeo. Shucking clothes at midnight in the sweltering Wyoming late-summer heat.

It was the water that had made it so easy. Destrie's cock had slid inside Benedict's hole so smooth. Made it feel so damn good. His big hand with those long fingers wrapped around Benedict's dick as Destrie fucked him. The only sounds that night had been the ripple of waves against the sandy bank, the bullfrogs croaking, the chirp of crickets, the lone cry of a coyote in the distance. And the groans of pleasure that had erupted from his throat as Destrie had ridden him.

With a few deep breaths to calm himself, he opened his eyes and looked at Destrie across the crowded bar. Destrie's thick black hair no longer flowed wildly past his shoulders, trailing down his back, a defiant badge of his lost Native American heritage. It was now buzzed to U. S. Army-regulation length, and his stance was controlled at ease, hands clasped behind his back as he studied the room. The brown leather jacket only added to the breadth of the half-breed. There was a lethal alertness to the mature man, one Benedict didn't think even Jake and his friends would want to take on. Not here in front of so many witnesses, at any rate.

No, Jake and his friends liked to do their damage under cover of darkness, when no one was around to witness the havoc they wreaked. But everyone in Coyote Forks knew what had happened eight years ago; it was just no one talked about it. No one dared.

Benedict slapped his glass down on the table, swung around, and headed toward the back door. He shoved at the cold metal bar and stepped out into the frigid, subzero December night. He didn't feel the freezing air slice across his face. It helped to cool the hungry, blazing fire that whipped at his body as memory surged through him like a bloated river in flood season. The icy slap across his cheeks yanked him back to the present. When Destrie had left, it had ripped a piece of his heart right out.

He didn't want to remember. He'd put that part of his life behind him. He'd had to in order to survive. The Webster Ranch was the biggest around, his heritage—well, his and Jake's. It was all Benedict knew.

He gripped the railing of the back porch and sucked in the frigid night air, letting it freeze his lungs. But his raging erection refused to abate.

He was a damned fool. He had to have known this would happen. Especially once he knew that Laine Carson had contacted her foster son. Maybe he'd expected Destrie would ignore it or that the letter wouldn't find its way into the hands of Benedict's ex-lover in time for him to return home.

Too many memories surged inside his head, going round and round like a Cat 4 cyclone still picking up speed. He fought to rein in his emotions. But the passionate memories were like that ornery black rogue stallion he and Destrie had tried to break—unyielding, obstinate…and proud to the end. They had both been too young to know better back then. Some wild things were born to run free.

He heard the creak of the door opening behind him. He braced himself for the confrontation he knew he couldn't avoid.

Destrie had known Benedict was in the room when he entered the bar. He hadn't needed to see him to be aware of his presence.

He recognized other faces as well. Benedict's brother, Jake, was there, along with the other delinquents the rough redneck hung around with.

Years of military sniper training had honed a fine edge to Destrie's primal survival instincts. He could smell danger; he was one of the best at reconnaissance, tracking prey. And he could sight his target with the precision of a hawk's eye.

It was the rules of the engagement that sometimes turned murky, especially in the last year or so. Identify the enemy, determine hostile intent, and take them out.

Days ago he'd been in the hot, sweltering climate of Iraq, on edge, alert, and an M14 glued to his side.

He flexed his fingers.

Stand down, soldier. This wasn't Iraq, but he still felt the hostility, focused mainly from the small group on the other side of the bar. Clearly identifiable.

They were all there in that smoky, crowded room that stank of stale beer, cigar smoke, and cowboy sweat. He remembered every last one of them. And he knew the exact location of the man at the back of the bar, standing in the shadows, watching Destrie.

His gut said Jake and his ilk wouldn't challenge him. No, this group was made up of cowards who only went after those weaker than themselves. No coup in that.

Oh, the intent was there, but something held them back. It was a long ten minutes before the tension eased and the noise level slowly surged once again. Only then did Destrie walk to the bar and order a draft.

Destrie had put off returning to Coyote Forks, knowing he'd be facing things from his past he wasn't ready to deal with. His foster father's death had changed everything. It had left him with no choice but to return.

Destrie nursed the beer. He spoke with no one. He felt the hostility. Eyes on the mirror behind the bar, he was aware of all movement around him. Sideways glances that turned toward him and then slid away. If he'd been wearing his knife, he knew the sharp edge could have cut through the fabric of the hate and intolerance surrounding him in this room. Their antagonism was twofold—he was Indian, and he was gay. And he was to blame for corrupting one of their own. And that would never change.

And it showed how little they understood one of their own. And by the very fact that Benedict stayed here, how little Benedict understood himself.

Destrie finished off the beer and set the glass back down on the polished, scarred wood of the bar. He knew exactly when Benedict had walked out the back door. He had marked it, and now he felt it was time. The music was loud, a Toby Keith song. He remembered seeing the performer when he was on tour overseas. Some damn good music. The smoke thickened; the noise crescendoed. His attention was elsewhere as he slowly wended his way through the crowd to the back door and walked out into the cold December night.

His honed sense of self-preservation had him instinctively scoping out the area for vulnerabilities the moment he stepped outside. A thin veneer of pristine white covered the porch landing. Exits from both sides. The wood was old, easily broken. The porch floor firm enough but still decaying in spots. The weathered, spaced boards creaked as he walked to the railing, maintaining a distance between himself and the cowboy already standing there.

Then Benedict turned his head to look at Destrie. His expression was veiled beneath the brim of his hat.

“Still like 'em big and broad I see,” Destrie remarked.

He saw the tension ripple across the man's shoulder and when Benedict's jaw tightened.

Destrie nodded toward Benedict's hat. “I was talking about your hat, cowboy, not your—” His gaze shifted downward to the obvious bulge in the man's jeans.

Benedict swung away, his big hands wrapped around the snow-covered handrail. Destrie saw the knuckles whiten with the stranglehold grip.

“Why'd you come out here, Destrie? There'll be talk. It'll all start up again.” His voice had deepened since Destrie last saw him. Right now it seemed tinged with tension, tight and raspy.

“Been a long time, Benedict. Glad to see you too.”

He saw Benedict's shoulders fold inward as he leaned heavily against the rail.

“That's not what I mean, and you know it. This town has a long memory. It never forgets. Do you want them coming after you again? Especially now?”

“I can take care of myself. They're nothing compared to what I've seen.” What I've done, he almost added but didn't. There were things a man didn't talk about. Sure as hell not to civilians.

The silence stretched between them. Long and thick and tense.

“I'm sorry about Ray,” Benedict said, his words soft, barely above a whisper. If Destrie hadn't been tuned intently to the man standing next to him, he might have missed them.

“Thanks. Laine's taken it hard. They just moved into town last year. They were only getting settled when the heart attack took him.”

“Yeah. He went to the doctor last week. New guy, just came to town.”

“I know. I heard Doc Logan passed last year. Laine wrote me; she thought I'd want to know.”

Destrie was afraid the old wooden rail would snap beneath Benedict's grip. It was Doc Logan who had patched up Benedict and Destrie after the incident eight years ago. It was Benedict who had hauled Destrie on foot, slung over his shoulder, limping heavily after the beating, the long two miles to Doc's house.

Destrie rubbed at the raw memento on the side of his face. He'd never forget the tight, demonic smile on Jake's face as he cut into Destrie's flesh as three of Jake's friends held him down. Now a jagged, shiny pink line of scar tissue that arced from the corner of his eye down to his chin kept the occasion fresh. He remembered when it had flowed freely with his blood, covering both him and Benedict. He remembered the smell—the pain.

It had turned into his lucky charm over the years, reminding him to keep his edge, never let his guard down. It kept his rage fresh and new. In his profession, that reminder had paid off more than a time or two.

He also remembered the late-night visit from Benedict's father while he was healing at Doc's place. It was that visit that had sent him out of Coyote Forks eight years earlier. He'd escaped all of them by joining the Army. He appeased the raging spirit inside him by joining his battalion's sniper unit. For a lot of years it had worked—until recently. Until now. Because he knew this time he had no excuse for not returning to Coyote Forks. And he knew it would mean trouble.

All the angry memories, all the pent-up yearning, came flooding back. He turned to look at Benedict, and suddenly, unable to help himself, he surged forward. Control be damned. He peeled Benedict's fingers from the rail, spun him around, and fastened his mouth to his ex-lover's hard lips.

All the heat was still there, every bit as fierce and deep as it had once been. Destrie fastened his hands around Benedict's thickly muscled forearms and shoved the cowboy backward. Benedict stumbled down the two steps, almost falling, and his hat fell onto the ground, landing upside down in the snow. The two men practically danced a two-step backward through the snow-covered alley.

Destrie shoved him beneath an eave flat up against the hewn-log walls of the bar. The alley was winter silent. Hot, fast breaths clouded the air, frosty and vivid. He released Benedict's arms and shoved one hand down the front of Benedict's denim jeans, past the plain belt buckle, and inside the stiff fabric of his jeans, curling around the rigid erection imprisoned inside. He tasted Benedict's groan.

Destrie remembered it all, every moment of those combustible months when they were eighteen. When they were invincible and passionate and so, so needy for the touch of each other in every way there was to be taken. That same summer heat branded his palm as he gripped Benedict's dick.

He brushed a broad thumb over the flared head, sliding through the wetness of precum leaking from the slit.

“Benedict,” he whispered against the man's lips just before he covered them with his own mouth once again.

Benedict shot forward, grabbed onto Destrie's arms, and whirled him around. He forced Destrie back against the building and looked into his eyes.

An impression of pain creased Benedict's brow as he reached for Destrie's hand and carefully removed it from inside his pants.

“We can't do this. Not again. It doesn't matter how much we want it. It doesn't fucking matter. Jake and his crew will kill you if they find out.”

“But you still want me. You haven't changed.”

Benedict shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against Destrie's.

“You have no idea, man. No idea what it's been like. But I've learned to live with it. I can't do it again. I can't go back. You left, remember? I've learned to live with that. And I don't plan to let Jake finish the job he started. I can't have your death on my conscience. I won't let this happen.”

Destrie knew the cowboy was right. Benedict's home was here in Coyote Forks. Destrie would never make this bigoted hellhole his home. He was here for one reason and one reason only.

He dropped his hands and straightened. This was why he'd never dared return to Wyoming. Destrie had known the minute he set eyes on Benedict exactly what would happen. The situation was too damned combustible.

“You're right. I'll only be in town for a few days, until right after Christmas. Then I'm out of here.”

Benedict's expression tight, he nodded.

“Then we understand each other. No point in starting something neither of us intends to finish.” His hands dropped away from Destrie, and Destrie felt Benedict's withdrawal keenly. Suddenly the cold night air sliced through him. So different from the dry desert heat of the Middle East, where he had been just days ago.

He watched as Benedict turned, walked several paces, and then slowly bent forward to pick up his hat. He brushed it off and replaced it on his head.

“You've been visiting my mother. Why, Benedict?”

He saw the man stiffen, but Benedict didn't turn to acknowledge Destrie's question. He straightened his shoulders and with long strides veered around the porch and disappeared down the darkened alley.

Suddenly the scar on Destrie's face began to throb, mirroring the intensity of his hard, pulsing prick. He reached up and rubbed at it. This time back in Coyote Forks was going to ride him a lot harder than he'd expected. Than he'd hoped. He turned away and walked down the alley in the opposite direction.

The sooner he was out of this damned town, the better. For both of them.

EXCERPT: Sindra van Yssel's Roped In

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 01:57:57 GMT

An Excerpt from Roped In

Sindra van Yssel
Genre: BDSM Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Roped-In.aspx

Laera McDougal is lost in the woods when hunky Bruce Merrick finds her, but soon she’s lost in her passion as he pulls her into the world of sensual submission. He shows her desires she never knew existed in herself--desires she’s eager to have satisfied. She wants more than one hot day and night of sensual exploration, but Bruce never intended to take it further, even for someone who stirs him as much as luscious Laera.

Laera's not sure she can find someone else who will make her feel the same way. She needs Bruce to realize that it’s time to break free from of his past so that he can get the woman of his dreams all roped in.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, BDSM theme and content, bondage, exhibitionism.

~ * ~

Laera McDougal pulled the brambles out of her jeans with a curse. She loved the fresh air of the outdoors, adored working in her tiny vegetable garden, and didn't even mind mowing the lawn that much. But lawn and garden were far away, and she had never really liked camping, not since the time she'd gotten a dozen ticks on her on a family campout when she was ten.

She had, in some fit of boldness, decided to take a hike. The trail had seemed clearly marked, and well used. She had come out all this way on the idea that she might find some measure of peace and direction far away from home. She wasn't the most spiritual person, but the idea that one might find…well, God, Goddess, or whatever might be out there, on a trip alone into the wilderness had more appeal for her than any of the churches that well-meaning door-knockers tried to invite her to. She'd mentioned the idea to her apartment mate and best friend Meagan, not really having any intention of following through on it, and Meagan told her that it wouldn't be safe for a grown woman to go camping by herself, and that she absolutely had to not do it, or take a man with her.

So of course she'd told Meagan she was definitely going, and she was far too stubborn to back down. The thought of saying she went, and going to Atlantic City or something, had occurred to her, but she knew she was a horrible liar. Meagan was a good friend, and Laera knew that she wasn't entirely wrong about the safety issues, but she could take care of herself.

She didn't look like much, maybe. Brown hair, brown eyes. She was of average height, a bit heavy, with thick glasses. But she'd thrown men a lot taller and a lot heavier, men who thought they knew a little judo. Men tended to underestimate her, even when they'd been told what to expect. She wasn't worried about being alone, at least not where human predators were concerned. She'd researched the campground in the northern part of Maryland where she was staying. There were long hikes into the wilderness, streams trickling down from the mountains, not very many campsites—and no bears or wildcats or anything like that. The poisonous snakes were of the water-dwelling kind. She had practically bathed in bug spray. Nothing was going to happen to her.

And nothing had. Except that she was very, very lost.

She had started off with every intention of simply getting away from her new neighbors, their Winnebago, and their loud generator. Camping may not have been her thing, but she really didn't understand people who came all this way only to bring all the annoyances of the city with them.

What had looked like a regular branching trail must have been made by deer, rather than by people, and it got narrower and narrower. At first, Laera thought that might be a good thing. Back to nature, closer to divinity, wherever it might be. When she finally became uncertain enough to start retracing her steps, there were only a couple of hours of daylight left. Of course she had a flashlight with her, but that wasn't nearly as good as having the sun on her side.

She soon realized that she couldn't find the trail back, either. There were probably plenty of people who could spot each little fallen leaf she had stepped on, every branch she had broken as she brushed by. She wasn't one of them. She tried to head in the direction of the setting sun, thinking the campgrounds were to the west somewhere, but it was slow going. Finding west was the easy part. Whether it was actually the right direction to go, she had no idea. At least it wasn't further uphill. She had hiked up more than down, she was sure.

There was a sound ahead, and Laera's first thought was that it was human. But it was such an odd noise for a human in the woods to make; it started off like a shriek, and ended like laughter, but it was far away, barely audible. It sounded like it was coming from in front of her, further to the west. She reminded herself that the animals were nothing to worry about, except for the kind with six and eight legs. Even they had left her alone so far. She forged ahead, crashing through the brush and no doubt frightening off any animals of the four-legged kind.

A vine caught her foot. She fell forward, wrenching her ankle. “Goddammit!” She tried to stand up, and it would barely take her weight. Of all the rotten luck. Unless the campground was coming up very shortly, she wasn't going to make it. The sky was already beginning to dim, the sun just a glow on the horizon now, when she could see it at all through the thick canopy of maples and beeches. She stopped to listen, but there were no sounds, no more of that shrieking and laughing. Even her neighbors' television set would be a welcome sound right now.

She limped along, grabbing onto tree branches when they gave her a chance to take some weight off her ankle. She took the opportunity, since there was no one around, to use every curse word she'd ever heard, most of which no one had ever heard escaping her lips. Why did I come here? She concentrated on continuing to move forward. At the least, she hoped to find a clearing where she could stretch her body out and rest for a while. She was not looking forward to spending the night out here, especially given that the forecast had been for rain early in the morning—like four o'clock early—well before the sun rose. She flicked on her flashlight, spraying its beam around for just a few seconds before turning it off to conserve the battery. It looked like the forest thinned a bit up ahead, or at the very least the underbrush was less thick. She took one more step, fell, and found herself loudly damning any divinity irritating enough to be sought so far from civilization. She hadn't wrenched her ankle any worse, but landing on her bum in a thicket of pricklies was not her idea of fun.

“Hey!” came a voice, deep and masculine, interrupting her stream of invective. A moment later she could see the light of a powerful flashlight as it clicked on and flashed its light through the trees.

There was a clearing ahead, where the light was coming from. “Hey!” she called out, and reached for her own flashlight at her belt. She'd been saving it until she couldn't see even where she was stepping, worried that if she had to spend the night in the wild there wouldn't be enough batteries when she really needed the flashlight.

She had just managed to flick it on when he found her. He was tall, muscular, with an easy, boyish grin, although his face was rugged and his eyes serious. He was wearing black jeans and a thick blue denim shirt, a couple of the top buttons unbuttoned.

Even in these conditions, she couldn't help but think, yummy.

She tried to scramble to her feet, and the brambles refused to cooperate.

“Stop moving,” he told her. “I'll get you out; just be patient a second.”

She did as she was told, although she really would have much rather stood on her own. The hike hadn't just been frustrating, it had been long. She'd been gone from camp since lunchtime, and that was eight hours ago. She'd packed enough trail mix that she hadn't gotten too hungry, but she was exhausted, and only the need to keep going had stopped her from noticing before. So she let him pull the brambles out, his flashlight playing over her as he removed them, cutting a few of the vines with his pocket knife to stop them from springing back. She watched the knife, warily, even though it was being used for her benefit. A big strong man like that with a knife was dangerous, even for a black belt. As tired as she was, very dangerous. And worse, there was something about him that made her feel perfectly safe, and she didn't trust that. One couldn't throw one's opponent unless one was balanced and prepared. This one could get her off her guard very easily.

“It's a good thing you're wearing relatively sensible clothes,” he told her.

She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, which she supposed was relatively sensible, but what did he expect for someone out hiking in the woods, a cocktail dress and heels?

“I'm not stupid,” she said.

He smiled disarmingly. “Didn't mean to imply you were. But some, well, you know.” He handed the flashlight to her. “Hold this, please.”

She took it. It was heavier than hers, and probably better made. The sort of thing that would make a good weapon, and she'd only really considered the knife. Hmm.

“And don't shine it in my eyes, please,” he said with that same calm.

“Oops, sorry,” she said, and pointed it at the ground. It was powerful enough that it still made the area around them gently glow.

The next thing she knew he had lifted her and was carrying her in his strong arms. “I can walk,” she said.

“Not very well, not with that ankle,” he said. “I can carry you for a while, certainly until we get to clear ground.”

How'd he know that her ankle was hurt? Maybe she had winced a little when he pulled a bramble free, but that could have been for a lot of reasons. She remembered her thoughts about how a tracker would sense her presence and wondered if he was picking up on small clues. Only one way to find out.

“How'd you know my ankle was hurt?”

“I think it was when you called it a 'goddamn fucking ankle' earlier. You've got quite a mouth on you,” he said. “Where'd you learn to swear like that?”

“I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone was listening,” she replied, wondering what he thought of her.

“Not a problem; I've heard worse. Been called worse, on occasion.” He laughed. “Good times!” he said.

He stepped out of the underbrush. There were trees here, a little less dense than the forest behind her, but the brush had been cleared. There was even some grass growing, although it was a bit brown, not getting a lot of light through the canopy of leaves above.

“I'm Bruce, by the way. I don't remember seeing you at dinner, or I'd have been sure to introduce myself to such a pretty lady.”

“Laera,” she said. “I wasn't at dinner; I left after lunch.”

“Lunch?” he said, almost as if it were a foreign concept to him. “Are you staying with Dylan and Alex?”

“No, I'm camping.” What was he babbling on about?

He chuckled, a rumbling, low sound. He was carrying her with ease, and she wasn't the lightest of women. His breath was nice and easy, his arms unwavering, and his stride long and fast. Even if she'd had a good ankle, she'd have to quicken her steps quite a bit to keep up. There were voices up ahead, and she thought she made out some lights too, and possibly the shape of a building.

“What possessed you to go crashing into the underbrush?” he asked.

She heard a shriek, just like the one she had heard before, but much closer. She turned her head, wriggling in Bruce's grasp to do so. She gasped.

It was a woman's voice, and she could just catch glimpses through the trees, which alternately blocked and revealed as Bruce carried her. The woman had her back to a tree, wearing some sort of beige body stocking. No, she wasn't—she was naked. Now that had to require a lot of bug spray. There was a man with her, dressed in black, with a whip, a rather small, multitailed thing, in his hand. And the strangest thing was when the whip hit, and the woman shrieked again, the woman actually grinned afterwards, and thrust out her chest as if wanting more. On each side of the couple a pair of candles burned at the top of long bamboo poles planted into the ground. The whiff of citronella carried to Bruce and Laera.

She was about to say something, when Bruce spoke. “Curious? We can go over and watch if you like.” That chuckle again, low and somehow reassuring, even under these circumstances. “John and Sheila always like an audience.”

“He's whipping her! Shouldn't we do something?” Laera hissed, not wanting to be overheard by the strange couple.

“That's hardly a whip, love. Just a little flogger.”

She stared, fascinated. The woman—Sheila—was tied to the tree, she realized, with rope around her ankles, and her hands stretched behind her back and around the trunk. The woman was squirming as much as her bonds would let her, thrusting her breasts forward for the next stroke, her knees as far apart as the bonds around her ankles would let her have them, her eyes full of desire.

“Master,” said Sheila, loud enough to carry, her voice husky. John flicked the whip—flogger—lightly upward, just a flick of the wrist, and the tails disappeared between Sheila's legs, eliciting a loud moan.

Bruce had quit walking, Laera realized, and was letting her watch. She couldn't deny she was curious. She felt heat rise in her face at the thought, and the fact that the man carrying her, a stranger really, had seen her interest.

“We should keep going,” she said firmly.

Bruce chuckled, and continued on. “This is your first time, isn't it?”

“First time for what?” Laera asked. Watching two strangers having kinky sex in the woods?

“First time at Bondage Ranch,” Bruce said. He shifted her in his arms and she got a better view of what lay ahead. They were almost to a building, and there were more people there, if her ears were to be trusted.

“Bondage what?” she asked. Was there a whole bunch of people here, playing kinky games in the woods? Apparently so. And this man who'd come to her aid, Bruce, he must be one of them. Suddenly she didn't feel quite so safe.

“Put me down,” Laera demanded.

Bruce looked at her for a moment and read the determination in her eyes. Gently, he set her down on her feet. She winced, shifting most of her weight to her good leg.

Bruce stopped. “How exactly did you get here?”

“I hiked,” she said. “From the campground. I started out on the path, but it forked and got more confusing, and I think I ended up on a game trail.”

Bruce whistled. “That's quite a hike.”

She glanced at her watch. “I've been gone eight or nine hours. They'll wonder what happened to me if I'm gone much longer.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

I really am a horrible liar. That one was perfectly plausible, and even so he doesn't believe me for a moment. “So, you're into the whole pain thing,” she said, the words spilling out quickly. “That's cool. Not really my thing, but it's cool. Nice place you've got here for it. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone it's here.”

He started at her for a moment. “I'm not especially into pain,” he said at last, slowly. “Either giving, or receiving, unless my partner really enjoys the receiving part. It's actually the power exchange that I find to be the interesting part.”

“The power exchange?”

He smiled. “The act of one partner submitting to another for their mutual pleasure. Pain is nothing new to us, really. We are all, as human beings, suffering some kind of pain, suffering as we try to control everything around us. To give up power, to stop the struggle and let another take care of you, can actually be a way to gain freedom from that pain. To accept that power, from someone who willingly gives it, provides a relief from the struggle as well.”

“And which side do you prefer?” she asked, while telling herself she had no reason to care about the answer. It was hard to imagine this big, strong man on his knees before some kinky leather-clad dominatrix. In fact, she realized, she didn't like that idea at all. Not that she was about to take either side of the “power exchange” Bruce had described, but the sort of man who would grovel at her feet was definitely not for her.

“I'm usually a dominant,” Bruce said. “I've taken the other side, because I wanted to know what it had to offer. And I'm a firm believer that one shouldn't do to one's partner anything one wouldn't be willing to go through oneself, if the positions were reversed.” He smiled. “And which side would you prefer, if you were to take a side?”

She didn't know much about the world of bondage, but she wasn't completely ignorant, and she knew which way her fantasies ran. She'd had dreams of being tied up, helpless, underneath some powerful man.

“None of your business,” she said.

To her surprise, he actually looked pleased by her answer. “Not exactly vanilla, are we?”

“Vanilla?”

“Vanilla. A word we use to mean not-kinky. Plain. Into what a friend of mine calls egalitarian sex, although I would say that it's only people who come as equals who have power to truly freely exchange.”

Laera spent a few moments sorting out the double negatives in not not-kinky. “I'm not a pervert. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Bruce chuckled. “I know plenty of people here who would be proud to be called perverts, so if the term was meant to wound, I'm afraid it didn't. Although I admit, it isn't my favorite word.”

“I wasn't trying to be insulting,” Laera said. It wasn't entirely true. She felt he was reading her a little too well, and that thought made her want to either run or start fighting. She wasn't worried he would hurt her, exactly. But the familiar fantasy of being tied up was coming back in her head, and the vague male that usually inhabited it had a very definite face right now. He was definitely dangerous, this Bruce.

“Is there a possibility,” she asked, when he didn't say anything, “that I could be—that you could drive me back to my campsite?” I just specified that he do the driving because I don't trust a random pervert, she told herself. Her tummy rumbled. A can of Dinty Moore beef stew back at the site was calling to her.

“Hmm. Of course. Under one condition.”

“I've already told you I won't tell anyone you people are here,” Laera said.

“That's not the condition. We're not actually doing anything illegal, although admittedly most here would prefer to avoid the publicity. But in any case, what would we do to stop you? We're not going to hold you here against your will.”

Laera quirked a smile. “I presume it isn't any lack of rope that's stopping you,” she said. It wasn't a great idea to goad the man, but she couldn't resist having her bit of fun.

Bruce laughed. “No, it's not. But 'safe, sane, and consensual' is our motto. Which means that I'll only tie you up”—he paused—“when you want me to.”

Laera noticed he said “when” and not “if.” “Ain't happening,” she said. “So what was that condition of yours?”

“You must be starving,” he said. “I know a little Mexican restaurant about ten miles away. They have wonderful burritos, and I'm told they even make a nice steak if you like that sort of thing. My condition is that you have dinner with me, and then I'll drive you back to your campsite. My treat.”

She smiled. “Now that,” she said, “is an offer I really can't refuse.”

EXCERPT: Astrid Amara's Carol of the Bellskis

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 01:57:06 GMT

An Excerpt from Carol of the Bellskis

Astrid Amara
Genre: LGBT Mystery/Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Carol-of-the-Bellskis.aspx

Paralegal Seth Bellski is tired of being the secret lover of his boss, Lars Varga, founding partner of Finch & Varga Law. So when he asks Lars to spend Hanukkah with Seth's family at their kosher B and B in Whistler, B.C., and Lars refuses, Seth realizes he will never get his self-conscious boss out of the closet.

So Seth prepares to spend his Hanukkah holiday alone in the B and B. Instead he finds himself running the place, as his aunt and uncle are missing, and seven demanding, peculiar, and danger-prone guests have arrived. To make matters worse, Lars shows up, begging forgiveness. Lars's touches remind Seth of why he put up with his boss's behavior in the first place. If only the words that came out of that beautiful mouth were as sweet as his kisses.

But how can Seth find time to fix his broken relationship when the guests are demanding kosher, gluten-free diets, losing their pet terriers, and hitting their heads on the ice? Seth and Lars find themselves put through the paces of being a married couple, all while still broken up. But then again, if they can survive this Hanukah, maybe they'll be singing a carol of the Bellskis.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

The breakup was a long time in the making. Nevertheless, the end happened so fast, Seth didn't know it occurred until it was over.

After all, they had just made love, and it had been one of those achingly sweet ones where their bodies weren't using each other as much as merging together, their movements soft and slow, as if time would remember this union, as if everything depended on it.

They no longer mapped each other's bodies. They knew the routes by heart, and still, Seth took his time tracing his way along Lars's skin, as if his subconscious knew this would be the last time to savor such a sight or feel the rough hairs on Lars's leg and the reciprocal softness on his inner thigh; the last time he'd smell the musky earthiness of Lars's desire and share the dark, welcoming entrance, such privacy, great secrets on display.

And afterward, that sweet embrace, kisses shared like whispers between them, and then a quiet descended, the comfort of familiarity and safety like a balm soothing the stresses of the workday, the world outside.

“Are you packed for tomorrow?” was all he had asked.

Lars stiffened beside him. He stared up at the ceiling. “I'm not coming with you.”

Seth stared up at the ceiling as well. Stains from the hotel room above seemed to sink through the floorboards, creating a muddied brown Rorschach print across the off-yellow paint.

“You said you would.” Seth hated the hurt in his voice and cleared his throat. “It will be fun.”

“I'm not stopping you,” Lars said. His hands had withdrawn from Seth's body. “I just can't come along.”

“You said…” Seth swallowed, tried to find a new approach. “It's our chance to get away from it all. Remember? We discussed this. Whistler is beautiful. The skiing is world-class. You'd love it, and the B and B is really charming.”

“The B and B is another thing,” Lars said. His voice was cold now, lawyerlike. Even naked, he had a suit and tie on. “I don't mind celebrating Hanukkah with you, but this is an orthodox B and B, kosher and…what do you call it when they observe the Sabbath?”

“Shomer Shabbat,” Seth said.

“I don't think it's fair to ask me to live up to those kind of expectations, especially for eight entire days.”

“The annoying part is just the Sabbath; that's the only time you can't turn on lights. And besides, my aunt and uncle have the whole place wired with timers. You won't even notice. The coffee is made automatically; the shower turns on every three hours. It's like magic!”

Seth knew he sounded desperate. But this had meant so much to him. More than he had even admitted to himself.

“Still. It's a lot to ask of a person.”

Seth felt the disappointment like a crushing weight, sitting on his chest, pushing his happiness outward. “We discussed everything. Hell, you bought those books about hiking Whistler—”

“It was a fantasy, baby, nothing more.” Lars cleared his throat. “It would look too suspicious if we both went on vacation at the same time, especially for a whole week right before Christmas. Everyone knows I'm not a Jew. Why would I be taking Hanukkah off?” Lars shook his head. “No way.”

Seth clenched his eyes shut, clenched his fists. He fought to muffle his pain.

But he was angry, too. Angry at Lars, and angry at himself for expecting him to change. Of course Lars wouldn't come with him. The risk was too great. Not only would it come out that the great Lars Varga of Finch and Varga Law Offices was actually friends with a mere paralegal, but that the two of them had been fucking each other for over a year.

“It's about time they know,” Seth reasoned, trying very hard to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Lars sat up in bed, creating a wall with his broad back. Even without seeing it, Seth knew Lars rubbed his face with his hand, stressed as usual.

“Not this way,” Lars said finally. “It's tacky.”

“So what is the not-tacky way?” Seth asked. He sat up as well, dislodging the sheet that covered his legs. “The best thing to do would be to tell people. Tell them we're lovers. Tell them we're going on vacation together.”

“No.”

The finality of the word twisted in Seth's stomach. He felt sick as hurt rage pooled in his gut, crept up his throat. Lars would rather hurt him than risk his own social standing.

“You're so fucking selfish,” Seth said under his breath.

“What did you say?” Lars turned, and his eyes locked on Seth's flaccid cock, half-exposed. Arousal flickered in Lars's eyes.

But Seth wasn't going to let him get out of this argument like he usually did, swaying Seth by using his body as a distraction, both of them hungry enough that the carnal outweighed the emotional needs.

“You're selfish,” Seth repeated. He swallowed back the burn creeping up his throat. “You have no idea how insulting this is to me.”

Lars's expression softened. “Baby, this has nothing to do with you. I love you. You know that.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

“Christ, what do you want me to say?”

“I don't want you to say anything. I want you to come on vacation with me. That's all.”

Lars reached out as if unable to stop himself. His hand rested on Seth's inner thigh, possessive and calming.

“We went on vacation together only six months ago, remember?”

“Yeah. For a weekend,” Seth said, “in separate cars, leaving at separate times. And when Finch called to ask about the Murphy case, you lied and told him you were sick at home.”

“But we were together,” Lars pressed. His hand slid up Seth's thigh. “We spent two days alone.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Seth asked after a moment.

“Of course I did.”

“Then do this with me.” Seth reached out and tilted Lars's chin so that they stared at each other. Lars's eyes were so blue, so soft. “I don't want to go alone.”

“I know.” Lars reached out and stroked Seth's rough jawline.

“You have the time off requested already. Please.”

But Lars shook his head. “Don't.”

“Lars, I'm begging you—”

“Don't do that. God. Don't.” He pulled away.

“You are being cruel—”

“I'm being cruel?” Lars bristled. “Do you know what you're asking me to do?”

“You're a fucking partner, it's your goddamn firm! No one is going to fire you because of who you're screwing!”

“Yeah, but I'll lose my clients. You know I love you. Isn't that enough?”

Seth stared at him.

A year ago, it had been enough. Back then he hadn't cared how far in the closet his boss decided to stay. What mattered was the time they did spend together, the hotness of Lars's embrace, the desperation in his touch, always so grateful, so frantic, so excited. What mattered were those lazy Saturday mornings in bed, rough legs entangled, chest pressed against chest, their bodies becoming one, so that hours after Lars had slipped out the back and returned to his expensive home on the gated estate, Seth could taste him in his mouth, feel the tender stretch of his entry, smell Lars's hair on the pillow.

But what had been enough for Seth a year ago no longer satisfied him. He was tired of being Lars's dirty little secret. He hated averting his eyes at staff meetings and the coldness of Lars's approach in the office. Lars was so terrified that his partner and the associate attorneys at the firm would find out about their clandestine relationship that he was purposefully rude to Seth, snubbing him in hallways and curtly requesting changes to documents. And while he would apologize later, when they were alone, making it up to Seth by offering himself shamelessly, spreading his legs and begging Seth to fuck him, forgive him, nevertheless, all those minor insults throughout the days, every day, added up.

But the worst blow was when Lars decided to get a fake girlfriend.

He had assured Seth that there was nothing between them. Ella was an old-fashioned beard, and she knew it, Lars claimed. She was an old friend from high school, recently reacquainted, and she was also an attorney. Their friendship was nothing but.

Yet Seth had to sit there and watch Lars's arm casually slide around Ella's shoulder when she met him for lunch at the office. He saw Lars kiss her cheek affectionately whenever Adam Finch or the newest attorney, Steve Vale, watched.

And he'd pretty much taken enough of Lars's shit to last a lifetime.

Seth wrapped his arms around his knees. He gathered his words carefully and let them out slowly, knowing they were weapons, knowing the barbs could hurt.

“I have said nothing as you coldly ordered me out of your office,” he said. “As you kissed Ella and rubbed her back in front of me. As you turned away from me without a second glance.” Seth looked at Lars then. “And in return, I ask you to do this for me. For us. Come spend the holidays with me and my family, like you promised. One Hanukkah. That's all I'm asking.”

“For a whole week,” Lars noted.

“Yes. After an entire year of doing things your way, I'm asking for one week. You, me, and a mountain wilderness.” Seth tried smiling.

Lars ran his hand over his face once more. He frowned, and Seth knew then that he had lost, that Lars would never budge.

“I can't. I'm sorry I said I would. But Finch suspects something, and I don't want to fuel his speculations.”

The coldness that washed through Seth wasn't new. He'd felt it before, but the heaviness of it felt different. He realized it was final. Love had just frozen too many times within him, and now, like an icy branch, it snapped, dead.

Seth didn't want to be naked with this cold man any longer. He dressed silently. Lars reached out to embrace him, and Seth jerked away and angrily pulled up his slacks. His work shirt was tossed on the floor haphazardly. There was no way he was sneaking back to the office, clothes wrinkled, without suspicion.

“Baby, don't be mad at me,” Lars cooed.

Seth said nothing.

“Look, you're being unreasonable,” Lars said.

Seth buttoned his shirt and then searched for his socks and shoes.

Lars sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His naked body was a beautiful sight. His blond hair looked disheveled after their lovemaking, spikes wild and loose around his bright blue eyes.

Seth allowed himself one last glance at the long body that had given him so much pleasure, and then he turned away.

“Okay…look.” Lars's voice had a note of panic in it. “Maybe I can join you in a few days? I'll come for a night or two. I'll drive up separately, and then—”

“No.” Seth straightened and stared at him. “Fuck you.”

Lars's eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

“Fuck. You.” Seth found his tie and knotted it hastily. “I quit. I'm done. I'm so fucking tired of your excuses.”

“You quit? You mean the firm?” Lars's relief was palpable.

And Seth suddenly realized Lars wanted this all along. He wanted Seth out of Finch and Varga. It was too humiliating, Lars's being in love with a male assistant. And that relief in his voice was the absolute final straw.

“No. I want my job. I'm quitting you.”

Lars flinched. Seth hurriedly tied his shoes, because he knew he was going to puke any minute, and he wanted to get out of the hotel before he did so.

“Christ.” Lars stood. His hands were trembling.

Seth turned away. He couldn't look at him. “Have fun with Ella,” he said at the door. “Hope she enjoys being used as much as I did.”

We'll Be Home for Christmas, You Can Count on Us For Hot Romance and Dark Suspense and Carols

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 04:11:09 GMT

We'll Be Home for Christmas, You Can Count on Us
For Hot Romance and Dark Suspense and Carols of the Bellskis

~ * ~

Carol of the Bellskis
Astrid Amara
Genre: LGBT Mystery/Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Carol-of-the-Bellskis.aspx

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Carol-of-the-Bellskis.aspx

~ * ~

Roped In
Sindra van Yssel
Genre: BDSM Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Roped-In.aspx

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Roped-In.aspx

~ * ~

I'll Be Home for Christmas
Adrianna Dane
Genre: LGBT Multicultural Contemporary Western
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Ill-Be-Home-for-Christmas.aspx

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Ill-Be-Home-for-Christmas.aspx

~ * ~

Let it Snow!
Michael Barnette
Genre: LGBT Multicultural
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Let-it-Snow!.aspx

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Let-it-Snow!.aspx

~ * ~

Up On the Housetop
Suzanne Rock
Genre: Shape-shifter Paranormal
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Up-On-the-Housetop.aspx

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Up-On-the-Housetop.aspx

~ * ~

EXCERPT: Brenna Lyons's All I Want for Christmas is You

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 01:52:21 GMT

An Excerpt from All I Want for Christmas is You

Brenna Lyons
Genre: Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/All-I-Want-for-Christmas-is-You.aspx

Two years after Robin's fiancé dies in a car crash, she has sorted her priorities and decided to follow through with one of their plans. A baby. Of course, it would be best if that baby shared some of Zach's genes.

Enter David, Zach's older brother. He's her best friend, her confidant, the one person who won't dismiss her plans as insane.she hopes. And maybe sex with him will get David out of her fantasies, fantasies where he takes Zach's place.

Or maybe they won't. If Robin hadn't been Zach's when David met her, he would have stopped at nothing to make her his own. If she doesn't hate him for giving her what she's asking for, they might both get the Christmas gift they want most.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse.

~ * ~

November 29, 2009

"I want to have a baby."
"C-come again?" David managed to stutter out. Overall, it was a better response than she'd anticipated to the announcement.
Robin took a calming breath and prepared to explain. Despite how many times she'd rehearsed the speech, it deserted her in the heat of the moment, just as she'd feared it would. Just as it often had with Zach.
"Well.Zach and I had planned to have a baby right away."
He nodded, setting his beer on the table between them. "He mentioned it."
That would make things easier. I hope. "I still want to."
"Have.a baby."
Robin hesitated and then nodded. He thinks I'm insane. Then again, she thought she was insane some days. How many weeks had she argued this with herself? How many times had she reversed course? More than Robin cared to count.
David gulped down another few mouthfuls of his beer, seemingly steeling himself for something unpleasant before he answered. "Robin, I know you love Zach."
And she loved David for phrasing it that way. Anyone else would have said "loved Zach," marginalizing her feelings, dismissing them. Putting the nails in the coffin of her love for him. She winced at the pun.
"But, baby. Much as we both love Zach, he is gone."
Anyone else would have ended up with a faceful of red wine at that blunt statement, but David had always been honest with her when no one else would.
"I know," she replied with all the dignity she could muster.
"The plans you made together." David sighed. "They were meant to be carried out together. I'm not saying you're incapable of doing this without him," he hastened to add.
"What are you saying, David?"
He darkened a notch. "Be sure, before you do something this.big. Be certain you're not doing this just to hold onto a piece of what you and Zach planned."
She stiffened, offended that he'd think her capable of it. "I'm not."
"Just be sure," he insisted. "Holding onto the past just to-"
"I'm not!"
A couple at a nearby table slid a glance at them at her outburst. Robin pretended not to notice it, and they went back to their conversation.
David took her hand, stroking his thumb over the back and his fingers in the bowl of her palm. With that little provocation, her body responded.
It seemed to be happening more and more often. Touches he intended to soothe her aroused her senses. Shared looks made her heart pound in excitement. Whispered words had her wet and aching.
His voice dragged her back to the present.
"You've thought this through, then?"
"For months." That was no exaggeration.
David raised her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. "Then I'll help you."
Her breathing hitched. That simply? I ask the seemingly insane, and he agrees nearly without question. David was a rare man. Zach would have demanded weeks of negotiation on the subject. She pushed that thought away before she started second-guessing herself again. "Thank you."
"So what's it going to be? A sperm bank?"
Her face burned in embarrassment. Now comes the moment when he says I'm insane. Robin didn't doubt that his offer to help was about to be rescinded.
"Robin?" There was an edge of steel in that question, and he stopped stroking her hand.
"I was hoping." She couldn't form the words. Damn! Why did I spend all that time practicing the logic if I can't speak coherently enough to say it?
One dark brow arched at her hesitation. "Hoped?" he prompted her.
"To have.ah.a donation from someone who shared chromosomes with Zach." She knew she was pleading with him with her eyes. Not so much for his agreement; it was unlikely she'd get that much. Robin would be lucky if he didn't walk away and wash his hands of her.
The beer came up in David's free hand, and he drained it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and set the empty glass back on the table. After a tense moment of silence, his eyes opened, and he forged on.
"You want me to. What? Leave a sample with your doctor or something?"
It sounded horrid, when phrased that way. Besides that, it wasn't what she wanted. She tried for humor, her heart aching. "If that's the only way you will." At least, she'd get the baby that way, which was better than not, she supposed.
His eyes widened, and dark patches of color bloomed in his face. "If. If.?"
She stared to speak, uncertain what would spill out. It had been too much to ask. It was time to let him off the hook and get therapy for her fascination with him.
He put up an index finger, an unmistakable order for a moment of silence.
Robin snapped her mouth shut while cursing herself for not dropping the whole idea. She'd argued it was crazy at least a hundred times. Why had she bothered to pursue it?
David dragged out his wallet and tossed a twenty on the table. A whirlwind of a moment later, he was ushering Robin out of Mik's and into the crisp winter air outside. She zipped her jacket and, averting her eyes, anticipated the lecture to come.
He turned to her, and she looked up against her better judgment. His face was all harsh lines. Oh, yes. The lecture was coming.
"If that's the only way I will?"
There was something manic couched in his tone, but he wasn't shouting at her or suggesting a shrink. To her surprise, he seemed to want answers, so she organized her thoughts, seeking out the reasons she'd so carefully prepared.
"I've investigated every-"
"Robin," he warned.
She stared at him, confused. What had he been asking, if not the reasons why he should consider a more intimate donation to the cause?
"Are you saying you'd prefer another option?"
* * * * *
David was already rock hard-a fact hidden by his untucked quilted flannel shirt-and he wasn't sure Robin was offering anything.or why she was.
Her mouth worked as if to form words, but nothing emerged. Just when he would have prompted her again, she found her voice.
"Yes. I am." Robin shifted from foot to foot in a fit of nerves. But was she unsure of herself or worried about his response to the bold statement?
David looked heavenward, seeking divine guidance. Surely, the Almighty would take a dim view of David screwing his brother's-
Look who I'm talking to! There are Bible stories about this subject. It was practically expected in biblical times, when a man died without producing heirs, that his brother would step in and do it for him.
As if in confirmation, David spied the sprig of mistletoe hanging above them. How serendipitous.
"David?" The edge of tears in her voice was unmistakable.
"You want to have my baby?" He wanted to hear her say it.
"Yes."
No. You want me to give you Zach's baby. The thought tortured him.
If I don't, someone else will. That tortured him worse.
"David?"
He tipped his head down and, closing on her lips slowly, gave Robin every opportunity to back out. She didn't.
Robin rose on tiptoe, parting her lips under his. He tasted her and moaned at the mixed flavors of red wine and willing woman.
In a few fevered seconds, her hand was buried under his flannel shirt and T-shirt, her skin hot against his. It was a dream come true, the culmination of hundreds of wet dreams and shower fantasies about Robin.
The jingling of bells went largely unnoticed. The catcall that followed broke them apart. The interloper didn't tarry, probably fearing a knuckle sandwich to come, based on the way David's body tightened in response to the abrupt wake-up call. Silence fell again in the wake of the stranger's departure.
Robin stared at him with half-lidded, angel blue eyes, her lips deliciously kiss-swollen, her dark hair windblown and sexy. "David?"
"I need to." Get my head examined! "I need to think.about this." He eased his hands away from her, and she did the same. "Promise me you won't do anything without talking to me first."
She shook her head slowly. "Not a thing." It was low and breathless, and his cock hardened fully at the stark invitation.
"Good. Let me walk you home."
"Sure."

© Brenna Lyons, December 2009
All Rights Reserved

EXCERPT: Cash Cole's Christmas in Killarney

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 01:51:19 GMT

An Excerpt from Christmas in Killarney

Cash Cole
Genre: LGBT Ménage
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Christmas-in-Killarney.aspx

Waking up naked in church definitely distracts writer Colin Zachary from the writer's block that's been plaguing him. Harry Gill, who rescues him, has altruistic intentions until he gets up close and personal with his sexy new charge. Ditto for Harry's significant other, Morgan O'Hanlon.

The weather is miserable, and Colin has no choice but to stay with the handsome hunks, but he's a workaholic who hasn't been laid since Santa's last visit, and all he can think about is easing his aching body and lonely heart. Not a problem. Harry and Morgan want him under their Christmas tree, in their bed, in the snow-any way they can have him.

But Colin can't concentrate to finish an assigned deadline. Harry is up to his ears in Christmas orders, while Morg is beside himself with grief and worry that so many families will be without funds because he has misplaced their checks. The bar's nemesis, who has tried unsuccessfully for years to buy the business, calls on them, offering money if Morg will sell O'Hanlon's Pub to him.

Can hot sex and a cool Santa save Christmas in Killarney?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices, ménage (m/m/m).

~ * ~

Harry Gill had seen a lot of strange things in his thirty years, and he'd done most of them, but he'd never witnessed such a sight. A naked man running from a church. He absentmindedly crossed himself with his free hand, mumbling aloud the verse his mum had taught him. "Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch."
He'd had the holiday spirit for days and had been cooking up a storm at O'Hanlon's Bar & Grill, which he managed for his partner, Morgan. He'd only arrived home an hour ago and had been enjoying a fresh cup of coffee when he'd looked out his kitchen window and seen the light in the church a kilometer or so from the house he and Morgan shared. He'd almost not gone, considering the weather, but then he'd spotted the small sports car and figured some poor bastard had been stranded.
Stranded was right. The bugger didn't even have his clothes. Thanks to me, Harry reminded himself.
He'd gone inside to see why the light was on, and when he couldn't find anyone, he'd found the soggy clothes lying on the floor. Fastidious as Father John Carmichael was, Harry knew the priest didn't know about the clothes littering and dampening his carpets. Christmas spirit filling him, Harry had thought he'd do the samaritan thing and clean up.
Well, now he knew who'd lost his clothing.
Harry opened his vehicle and tossed the clothing onto the floor in the back, then walked back toward the naked man. "Father John lock you in or something?" he asked upon approach.
The poor guy looked absolutely blue. "I-I."
Harry thought quickly. The man looked as if he was already going into hypothermia. "Back inside with you," he instructed. And when the fellow didn't budge, Harry picked him up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of Shepody potatoes and made for the church's front door.
Inside, he set the guy on his feet and looked around before releasing him. "Fuck, John. Where's your office?" Harry searched and didn't see anything but rows of benches in the back of the sanctuary. He took the man over to one and had him curl up on it. "Stay there-I'll be back in a second or two. Don't move."
Harry took off his jacket and placed it over the man's shivering figure. He had an old blanket in his SUV that he'd used for his dog a time or two so Rascal's paws wouldn't muddy up the seat covers. Harry hated having nothing to offer but an unwashed blanket, but it was better than nothing.
Minutes later, he'd closed the church doors and had them both inside the SUV and motoring toward the house. His guest wasn't talkative, even though he'd tried a time or two to communicate.
"We'll be home in a jiff," Harry told him, cranking up the heat. "Just don't pass out on me. I'm Harry, by the way. We're several kilometers from town, and nobody's open to take you anyway except the clinic on the far end of town." He stared through the car's windshield. "Not that anyone's getting there for a couple of days. Not in this blizzard."

Morgan O'Hanlon had driven up to the long driveway leading to his home just in time to see his lover traveling toward the church. He was too far behind to roll down the window and shout at Harry, and there was nothing at that end of the road for kilometers other than St. Finian's Church, although Morg couldn't think of a good reason Harry would be going in that direction unless he was headed for the priest's residence, a good kilometer on the other side.
"Crazy lad," he muttered with a smile. He knew Harry, or Handsome Harry, as some of the villagers called him, had been cooking all day and that Father John's Christmas pageant had been that night. Harry was most likely taking a pot of stew and some fresh-baked bread to John. Probably was worried the priest hadn't eaten. John was a strange little queen who watched his weight like other men watched their wallets. Always afraid of gaining a kilogram or losing his hair. Vain creature, even though adorable.
Morg flexed his tired muscles. He'd been loading supplies from the truck that had shown up late at the pub, and he was blasted tired and in need of a good hot meal and a fuck. He sniffed his clothes as he shed them then turned on the water so it would be warm by the time he stepped inside. "Shit, man," he said to himself, dropping the clothes on the floor and reaching for the soap.
Rascal came into the room to investigate. Morg rubbed the dog's muzzle and kissed him smack on the nose, then shooed him out of the bathroom.
He stepped inside the shower, shut the shower curtain, and lathered his hairy chest, then his armpits, ass, and cock. Thank Christ the holiday was only days away. The week before Christmas was always a busy time at the pub, and while he and Harry turned a good profit, Morg was always delighted to have a day or two off to enjoy his lover's company, eat Harry's home-cooked meals, and keep to himself.
He hummed as he showered, thinking of his lover and the delicious aromas that would soon be coming from their kitchen. He and Harry had met years earlier when both were knocking about Europe, wondering what to do with their lives. Once they found each other, it didn't really matter, as long as they were together. Morg's university degrees were in finance and business, while Harry's passions were cooking and basically just being himself, chatting it up with customers, and flashing those pearly white teeth. It had been only natural to buy the old pub and turn it into their livelihood.
He chuckled as he braced himself against the shower stall and let the spray cover him. "Oh, God, Harry, I've missed you today." He cranked the heat on the shower until it blasted his back and buttocks with fiery finesse, and the tense muscles in his back and shoulders finally gave way to release.
Uptight Morg, who loved business but wanted to throttle most people, needed Harry's calm, cheerful moods to lift him. Not to mention that great ass, whose cheeks fit so perfectly into Morg's large hands. There wasn't a dog mean enough to bite Handsome Harry and not a man stupid enough to mess with Morgan O'Hanlon, so between the two of them they managed quite well.
Morg finished rinsing off and wrapped a large, fluffy bath sheet about his waist after he'd dried off. He heard Rascal barking, then thought he heard the front door open and trekked into the living room to find Harry depositing a man on a pallet beneath their Christmas tree. The fellow was naked except for their yellow heeler's car blanket, and he was damp from head to toe.
Rascal was going nuts, sniffing him, and the poor man on the floor looked terrified.
"Back, Rascal. Here. Come with me." Harry took the dog by the collar and led him into a room down the hallway, then came back.
"Santa come early this year, Harry?" Morg asked, blinking as droplets of water he hadn't captured ran from his hair into his eyes.
Harry sent him a lopsided grin, but Morg could see the concern in Harry's eyes. "Found him stumbling out of the church," Harry explained.
"You went to church?" Morg asked.
"I took his clothes." Harry shucked his gloves and coat and stamped his feet on a mat near the door.
Morg blinked. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation why you went to church to steal a man's clothes, but.mightn't we get him a mug of coffee and cover his balls a little better before you tell me?"

Colin stared at both his rescuer and the biggest, burliest, sexiest beast he'd ever seen. When they stood side by side staring back at him, his mind registered that they were both a couple of inches above six feet and that their combined sex appeal made him wish to God he had something to cover his cock, which seemed to have thawed and risen like Lazarus from the dead.
"Has he spoken yet?" the big-chested man asked out of the corner of his mouth.
He'd set it in a fixed smile. Most likely in hopes, Colin thought, of not scaring the shit out of me. It's not working. The man's voice was a deep, rich baritone that sent shivers down Colin's spine.
The strawberry blond shook his head slowly, his deep blue eyes reflecting concern. "He tried a time or two, but I couldn't tell what he was saying."
"Maybe he doesn't speak English." The big guy shrugged. "All the better, I suppose, because we'll most likely be havin' some conversations about that face and those big brown eyes."
The more-slender one elbowed his partner. "Don't be rude."
"I'm just askin'," the bigger man said. "I mean, he's not a puppy you just brought home from the pound, even if he is all eyes and nose holes right now and parked under our tree like a new pup. I'm curious, ya know?"
Colin tried speaking, but his voice seemed to have deserted him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Th-thank you. For rescuing me, I mean."
"He speaks English!" Harry chortled, clapping his palms together once.
They both beamed, and the darker of the two leaned forward, squatting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the terry wrap about his waist gaped, exposing his cock.
Colin blinked and tried not to stare, but it had to be the most massive weapon of sexual destruction he'd come across. He shifted his gaze upward to lock with a pair of light hazel eyes with gold flecks. They were almost hooded, thanks to his shaggy, dark brows.
"You'll frighten him," cautioned the Good Samaritan, who still stood.
The big guy laughed. "He's not scared-he's horny. Look at him." He nodded toward Colin's cock, which had leaped from between the folds of the blanket he wore. "Hmm. Nice." He saw where Colin stared and winked. "Naughty boy. Wait till I know you better, and you can do whatever you want with it."
Colin flushed from toes to forehead.
"Never mind him." The blond nudged his friend aside, forcing him to stand and back away. Then he stuck out his hand. "In case you didn't hear me earlier, I'm Harry, and this is Morgan. Just call him Morg. Let's get you into the shower and find you something to wear."
Colin accepted the help and rose. He didn't know whether to be offended or pleased at the looks in both their eyes. They eyed him as if he were some strange, cute animal they'd found.
"He's a bit shorter, with not much meat on his bones. I doubt anything of ours will fit 'im," Morgan said. "If you don't mind me askin', where are your clothes?"
Harry slapped a hand to his forehead before Colin could speak. "I left them on the floorboard of the car. Be right back." He picked up the coat he'd taken off. "Morg, take him to the shower?" Then he whispered something in Morgan's ear.
Morg nodded. "My pleasure. This way, little man."
Colin set his jaw. Little man? He might be shorter than the other two, but he'd never felt small until now. He reluctantly handed over the blanket, exposing himself, once they got to the shower.
Morg chuckled. "Might have a better time of it in there without the blanket, right?"
Colin stepped into the shower and watched as the big man set the knobs and closed the curtain. The first blast of water was cold, but almost immediately he felt a pulsing, hot spray enveloping him. He leaned into it, thankful he hadn't needed to spend the night in the church with only soggy clothes or a thin towel to cover him.
"You'll find a bar of soap up on the window ledge," Morg said.
Colin jumped, realizing he wasn't alone. He looked for the soap, found it, and worked it back and forth in his hands, wondering if Morg could see through the shower curtain.
The bigger man was obviously nonplussed by Colin's nakedness or having a stranger in his home. In fact, he was quite chatty.
"We don't get many folks from out of town up this way," Morg said. "What brings you here?"
Colin had lived in a dormitory during his university years for a spell, but it'd been a long time since he'd shared quarters with anyone, and he'd never talked to someone he didn't know through a thin shower curtain. His heart thundered against his ribs at both the probable impropriety and the possible danger. He supposed if one of them had wanted to harm him, however, they'd have done so by now.
"My older sister lives here. We grew up in Dublin before our parents died."
"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss, lad."
Colin felt the beginnings of a smile tickle the corners of his lips. Lad. "Thanks. It was a long time ago. Anyway, she married and lives here with her husband and four children. I took a job in Brisbane once I graduated."
"You're an Aussie, then? How marvelous. I love the Aussies."
"I'm Irish," Colin reminded him. "But I've lived in Oz for several years."
"Then you're an Irish Aussie," Morg said with a hint of satisfaction. "Nothin' wrong with spreadin' your talents elsewhere, as long as you don't forget where home is, right?"
Colin was beginning to warm to Morg's propensity for ending his sentences as questions. He was a big, lovable bear of a man, and while he looked like a virgin's nightmare, Colin was no virgin and rather liked bears. He had a thing for athletic blonds with runners' bodies too, come to think of it. His hands drifted to his cock and balls as he compared the two men in his mind. Then the thought that Morg might be able to see him, or at least his silhouette, through the curtain made him self-conscious, and he stopped before he started playing with himself.
"So you're from Dublin, eh? Harry's a Gill. They hail from County Armagh, on the east coast, only a short ways from Dublin. They have their own castle, ya know? Well, did. I mean, there are millions of the Gills now, so it's not like Harry can lay claim to it or anything, but I like to rib him about it, call him my rich boyfriend. Makes him happy."
Colin listened to Morg chatter, envying the way he said boyfriend and wishing he had someone who was so obviously in love with him. Not that he'd taken the time during the past few years to form any sort of close attachment.
"How long have the two of you been together?" Colin asked.
"Forever? Seems we met about ten years ago in Belgium, found out we were both of the Blarney persuasion, that we come by it naturally, that is. Bummed around Europe together a bit, ran out of money, and came home. I'm from here, and I had a place in town before I bought the pub. Well, I bought it, and then Harry came along. I consider it ours. You'll have to go with us tomorrow if, weather permits. We're having a Christmas party. Harry's our cook, and a better one you'll never meet. He loves this time of the year. I swear, he's part elf."
Morg parted the shower curtain, exposing Colin to Morg's friendly face. "You wouldn't like a mug of coffee, would you?"
Colin nodded. "Love it. Thanks." He smiled weakly. Did the big guy have no personal boundaries whatsoever?
Morg grinned, and Colin almost shot off a load just looking at him. If Harry had the face, Morg had the most sex appeal. All the man had to do was smile or lift an eyebrow expressively, and already Colin was willing to bow down and say yes, master to anything Morg asked of him.
"Good God, man." Morg stared at Colin's erection. "How long's it been since you had that thing serviced?"
"Since last Christmas." The words were out before Colin could stop himself.
Morg nodded, but he didn't make fun of him. "We need to take care of that for you before you give yourself a coronary." He closed the curtain, but Colin could tell he was still on the other side of it.
"Harry's gone back to the church to retrieve the rest of your belongings from your vehicle," Morg told him. "Hope that's all right, because you won't be driving that car anytime soon."
Shit. Really? "Weather's that bad?" Colin asked.
"Let's put it this way. I have a four-wheel drive. Big fucker. And I'll be lucky if I make it to work tomorrow, much less throw a party. Don't have a choice, even if I have to walk. Need to do payroll and put up more of the supplies. I didn't quite finish before I came home."
Colin didn't know what to say. Did that mean he'd be stranded? Not that the situation seemed so bad, considering the two men who would be accommodating him.
"I'll pay you for lodging me," he said.
"Bullshit. You'll do no such thing. What else would we do, dry you off, only to send you back out in this miserable shit?"
Then Colin heard the big man leave. He didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated. It seemed ever since he'd left Oz, he'd been at the mercy of the weather or the kindness of strangers. He was beginning to feel like Blanche DuBois. Only Tennessee Williams's ditzy heroine had been raped and lost all her marbles. His marbles were intact, and he didn't figure he'd put up too much of a fuss if Harry or Morg wanted sex. Hardly. It was all he could do to keep from thinking of them. They'd be lucky if they weren't the ones assaulted.
Fucking weather. Fucking writer's block. Looked like he wouldn't make that deadline his editor had requested. Colin snorted. Demanded was more like it. The short stories he'd been doing for the men's magazine where he worked were to be turned in six months in advance, and this time Rupert Evans, the managing editor, had instructed him to have a novel they could serialize.
"We're paying you well enough, Colin," Rupert had told him. "Give me something meaty. Something with real grit and emotion, something to make our readers sit on the edge of their seats. You can do it."
Colin sagged against the shower wall, all the frustration over the evening's events evaporating. Whatever anger he'd felt at the kid who'd caused him to fall in the first place? Gone. His adrenaline rush at finding himself naked in church? Dissolved. He was somewhere in limbo between feeling peaceful and lethargic, hopeless and accepting. And he was hungry.
He was about to turn off the shower, when he realized he had no towel, only the musty blanket that had been wrapped about him, if it was even still in the room.
The shower curtain opened again, and Morg thrust a cup of steaming coffee at him. "Take a sip now before you get out. Better to have heat inside you-the air's a bit chill in the house."
Colin gratefully did as he was told. The coffee was strong and laced with liquor. He stifled a sputter.
Morg laughed. "Irish coffee, yes? Best in the world, if I do say so." He turned and came back with a towel much like the one he had on, only this one was folded and obviously clean.
Colin handed back the coffee, turned off the water, and grabbed the towel. "Thanks again."
"You're welcome." Morg still had the grin.
I am in such trouble, Colin thought.

© Cash Cole, December 2009
All Rights Reserved

EXCERPT: Roslyn Hardy Holcomb's Santa Baby

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 01:49:50 GMT

An Excerpt from Santa Baby

Roslyn Hardy Holcomb
Genre: Erotic Contemporary Multicultural
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Santa-Baby.aspx

Having been burned by his father's betrayal, real estate tycoon Trip Wakefield has no interest in love or relationships. Until he meets Arietta, a struggling, sultry, blues singer, in his favorite club. Seduced by the silken velvet of her voice, he pursues her with a single-minded purpose--Arietta in his bed, at any cost. He offers her a deal; if she will be his mistress she can have anything she desires, except his heart.

A woman who knows her own mind and goes for what she wants, Arietta decides that she wants him and his heart so she takes the ultimate gamble and agrees to become his mistress. But when the stock market crashes Trip loses everything. Knowing that he can't keep up his end of their bargain he tells Arietta it's over. Arietta takes another gamble and moves in with him and gives up everything she owns to help him rebuild his wealth. In a gift worthy of the Magi she offers him everything she has: herself.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play, exhibitionism.

~ * ~

Stanton "Trip" Wakefield III stopped, transfixed as he watched the elegant woman who took her time crossing the small stage before she sat at the baby grand piano. He stared, trying not to salivate, unable to look away as her fingers stroked the keys. He could almost feel those long digits against his flesh. It wasn't until her voice rang out, saturating his senses with the pureness of the sound, that he realized he'd stopped breathing, that everything in the crowded room had ceased to exist except the two of them: he, the enthralled listener, and she, the enchantress. He closed his eyes in rapt anticipation as each note lingered as she held them, caressing and soothing them like a lover. Then they trembled on her lips, hesitating there as though loath to leave until she released them to shower over him with a sensuality that was almost tactile. He shivered as though under an erotic spell. When the last note wafted through the air, he finally opened his eyes to see the sorceress before him, her lithe body swaying from side to side like a reed on the river's edge. Then she opened her eyes and looked directly into his. Mesmerized by their velvety brown depths, he couldn't look away, thought and consciousness suspended. Just when he'd decided to approach her, someone placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Phenomenal, isn't she? Now you see why I've been trying to get you down here for over a month."
Trip looked up into the face of Pink, proprietor of the eponymous blues club. When he glanced over at the singer again, he was annoyed to discover that she was no longer looking at him but had tilted her head to look down at the piano keys as she picked out the opening notes of "Stormy Monday."
"Hell, man, you didn't tell me you'd hired the most amazing singer ever. I've never heard anything like her. What the hell is she doing here?" he asked, his accompanying gesture encompassing the club's less-than-elegant interior.
Pink placed the beer he was carrying on the table and took a seat across from his friend. "Are you implying that my establishment is not fit for talented musicians? I've had plenty come through my door, and you goddamned well know it."
Trip nodded, never taking his eyes off the singer. "I've been coming here for almost twenty years, Pink, and you've never had anyone like her. What's her name?"
Pink sighed. "I told you that in the dozens of voice mails I left for your ass."
Trip shrugged. "I told you, I've been busy. Money doesn't make itself, you know." He snagged Pink's beer and took a long sip before the other man could protest.
Pink gave him an annoyed look, then signaled a passing waiter. "You're paying, fucker. I hadn't even tasted it yet."
"Her name, Pink. What's her name?" Trip asked his eyes still focused on the stage.
"Arietta, Arietta Hathaway. She just moved here from Alabama. You know, the usual story. Wants to make it big in the city."
"So she's singing in a hole-in-the-wall in the Old Fourth Ward?" Trip gave him a disbelieving look.
Pink bristled in defense of his club, a gesture made even more intimidating by his impressive height and bulk. "I run a respectable joint, and I've got a good ear. You know the record companies send their artist and repertoire people through here to scout talent from time to time."
"Hey, I didn't mean to insult you, but this is hardly the kind of place I'd expect to find a woman like her. Her stage presence is incredible; she has everyone in here, including me, in the palm of her hand. She just oozes sophisticated elegance. This place is many things, but even you can't call it sophisticated."
"I got plenty of classy clientele. You're not the only member of Atlanta's elite to hang out here."
Trip abandoned the argument as Arietta launched into another song, this time accompanied by a talented young trumpet player he'd seen before. She stood alone on the stage, her luminous almond-toned skin glowing in the illumination of a single spotlight. Unfamiliar with the tune, Trip listened to the tale of a woman who had gone off seeking fame and fortune and now only wanted to return to her man's loving arms. When she finished and turned to leave the stage, he looked at Pink again.
"I've got to meet her."
"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a pimp," Pink said with a snide look.
"Yeah." Trip picked up his stolen beer and took another long sip. "Somehow I don't think your rap sheet would hold up under scrutiny. Anyway, what gave you the idea my interest was sexual?"
Pink snorted under his breath. "I've been around a minute, son. I know when a man's on point. Besides, I doubt there's a heterosexual man alive who's heard that voice and not wanted to hear it in his bed. She's been here for a few months, you know."
Trip sat up, giving Pink his undivided attention. "Other guys have been meeting her?"
Pink spread hands the size of catchers' mitts in a gesture of supplication. "Some have tried. She's not interested." He rolled his eyes at Trip's crestfallen expression. "No, she's not into chicks, though I'd pay money to see that."
Trip refused to acknowledge that he would too.
Pink shrugged. "Word is from Gabriel. You know, the trumpet player?" Trip nodded. "She's a small-town girl who's wary of these big-city macks. I doubt she'd be interested in you, even though you are one of Buckhead's finest."
Trip gestured toward the stage, where Gabriel was now playing a solo set. "Look, I'm not trying to get into the girl's knickers."
"Yeah right," Pink said.
"Okay, I'm not only trying to get her in bed. She's a beautiful woman, but she's an amazing musician. I would like to meet her. Get to know her."
Pink apparently decided to take pity on him. "Look, she'll be singing another set tonight." He glanced at his watch. "In about thirty minutes. After that I'll introduce you, but no fucking around, man. I mean it. She's a real moneymaker, and I plan to keep her that way. You fuck with her head and she's liable to run back to Alabama, and then where would I be?"
"Nice to know you've got your priorities in order, old man."
"Goddamned straight."
Trip narrowed his eyes. "You know I'm not a player, never have been."
Pink returned his glare, then nodded before heaving his bulk up from the table. "I'll see you after she finishes singing."
* * * * *
Trip watched as Arietta sang her last song. It was another unfamiliar tune, and he wondered if she'd written it. She wore her hair in a sleek pixie cut cropped to her elegantly shaped head. With her head tilted toward the piano, the nape of her long, graceful neck looked vulnerable and inviting. From time to time, she would close her huge, doelike eyes as though caught up in the emotion of the music she was making. It was then that he couldn't help but notice the succulent lips forming the words that sent shivers down his spine. When her eyes were open, they so dominated the delicate lines of her face, it was almost impossible to notice anything else. Studying her mouth, he felt an instant surge of lust as he imagined the voluptuous contours of her lips against his, the gazelle-like lengths of her arms and legs entwined with his, their rich darkness outlined on his pure white Egyptian cotton sheets.
He was so caught up in the fantasy, it took a moment to realize that she'd opened her eyes once again and was staring directly at him. He smiled, and her lips curved upward in response; then she looked over at Gabriel, the trumpet player who had accompanied her earlier. She began an encore, accompanied by the muted wails of the instrument. When she finished this time, Trip stood with the rest of the standing-room-only crowd to give her a much-deserved standing ovation. She and Gabriel gave a series of bows, and then she spoke her thanks into the microphone and introduced her accompanist. Her speaking voice was deeper and somehow even richer than her singing voice, Trip noted.
When the house lights came up, he signaled to the waiter for another drink, then stared in shock as Arietta approached his table. He'd always known Pink could get things done when he wanted to, but this was quick even by his standards. He wondered when his friend had had a chance to talk to her.
"Hello, I'm Arietta," she said, extending her right hand.
He took her hand, enveloping its fine-boned softness in his own. "Hello, Arietta. I'm Stanton, but everyone calls me Trip."
"What did you think of the show, Trip?"
"Like everyone else in here, I thought it was brilliant. Can I buy you a drink while I tell you all about it?" he said smoothly.
She nodded her assent and took the seat Pink had abandoned earlier. She requested water from the hovering waiter. Just then Pink bustled over to their table.
"Wow, man, you're a fast worker," he said cheerfully as he approached.
"Actually she came over to me," Trip said.
Pink gave Arietta a puzzled look. "Really? That's surprising."
"What's surprising about a singer approaching a record-label rep?" Arietta asked.
"I'm not from a record label," Trip said with a puzzled frown.
"You mean you're not the A-and-R guy from Blue Note?" she squeaked.
"Uh, no. I'm in real estate," Trip replied. He'd never in his life wished more fervently that he were an A&R man-or anything else she wanted him to be.
Arietta stood up, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. "Oh my God. I'm so embarrassed. Pink said I'd gotten some label buzz, that someone might be here tonight, and you're the only person I didn't recognize here tonight. I thought you must be the guy. You must have thought I was crazy just coming over to you like that." Her words tumbled out of her mouth as though suddenly released from captivity, her embarrassment making the task of forming sentences almost impossible.
"Actually I thought I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world. Sorry I'm not who you thought I was. Won't you at least finish your drink? You must be thirsty. It's never a good idea to parch the instrument." He nodded as the waiter placed her drink on the table. He continued in a stage whisper. "You know the money-gouging bastard who runs this place does a helluva markup. I'm probably paying ten bucks for that bottle of Fiji."
"Five fifty," Pink grumbled at him. "I'd think you would be able to mack a pretty girl without insulting me."
Arietta laughed and visibly relaxed. Trip realized that she probably felt more comfortable with her boss there. He gave Pink a pointed look as she returned to her seat. Pink lifted his empty glass to indicate that there was a price for his continued cooperation. Trip groaned inwardly as the waiter returned and took Pink's order for a very expensive boutique bourbon. Bastard.

Arietta took a thankful sip of her drink. Much as she appreciated the work-and she really did, considering that she had been only a few days from eviction when Pink hired her-the long sets he required were hard as the dickens on her throat. As Trip continued bantering with Pink, she took the opportunity to study him undetected. He was somewhat taller than her five-nine, which put him at six feet or a bit over. Of course, Pink was half a head taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier, which made it more difficult to judge the man's size. Next to Pink, everyone looked tiny. Trip was long and lean; she was pretty sure that was no optical illusion. He looked healthy and in shape but not bulky. Although the conservative lines of his suit would indicate otherwise, she could tell he didn't spend all his time behind a desk. He was either a runner or a swimmer, though she supposed he might have been a tennis player as well if his lightly tanned skin was anything to go by. Despite his gunmetal gray hair, she guessed he was younger than forty. There was something youthful about him, though she couldn't pinpoint what it was. Everything about him, from the perfectly tailored navy blue suit on his back to the Italian loafers on his feet, said money in the discreet way that old money did. The lines of his patrician face were kept from being perfectly classical by a nose that was just a bit too large and by the sensuality of his lower lip. Just when she drifted into speculating how that lip would feel against her skin, she realized that he had been covertly watching her the whole time. He smiled as though he'd read her mind, and she couldn't help but smile in return. When he excused himself to use the facilities, she immediately turned on Pink.
"What on earth is going on? Did I hear you say that Trip wanted to meet me?"
"He did. He asked me to introduce you. I was going to do it, but then you-"
"Made an ass of myself." She frowned. "Why did he want to meet me? I thought he said he's in real estate."
Pink gave her a chiding look. "Why does every heterosexual male who comes through those doors want to meet you? I know you're from a small town, but presumably they have mirrors even in East Bumfuck, Alabama."
Arietta waved her hands dismissively at his exaggeration. "Come on, Pink. Even I can tell that guy is some type of real-estate tycoon. Why would he be interested in meeting me? I hope you told him-"
"That you're not that type of girl? Sure did. If this were any other bloke, I'd be concerned, but Trip's always been a straight shooter. He's never tried to hit on any of the singers before. I've known him for a long time, and I'm pretty sure he's not a player."
Arietta refused to succumb to a sigh of relief. So he didn't make a habit of hitting on the singers in this club. Who knew how many clubs the guy hung out in? After all, despite his reputation, Pink couldn't know everything about the man.
Besides, she wasn't interested in the guy. Okay, she refused to lie to herself. Of course she was interested, but nothing could come of it. Arietta frowned at her boss, deliberately distracting herself. Not for the first time she noted that, though he had the accent and demeanor of a Southern good old boy, something about the man was slightly off. Well, something besides the incongruity of a man the size of an oil tanker going by the name Pink. Certainly his appearance, including a shaved head, bulging biceps, and numerous tattoos, seemed straight out of central casting. The hubcap-sized Confederate battle flag belt buckle pretty much ended any speculation to the contrary, but every now and then his accent changed to something more Artful Dodger than Billy Bob. This was especially true when he used words like bloke. All in all, it left her wondering just who he was.
Trip returned to the table and resumed his seat. "I'm a big blues fan, but I hadn't heard some of the songs you sang tonight. Are they original compositions?"
Arietta nodded. "Yes, I've written a lot of songs over the years. I try a few out in each set. I'm trying to put a demo tape together."
"Over the years? How long have you been singing?"
"I've been singing professionally for more than twenty years."
"This is unpardonably rude, and my saintly mother would be appalled, but either you're considerably older than you look or you began singing when you were still in diapers," Trip said.
"Darn near. I come from a large family of gospel singers. I started singing with them when I was five. I'm thirty now."
His brows shot up. "Gospel?" He looked around the club's less-than-sacred confines. "You're a long way from home."
You don't know the half of it. "Yeah, I'm the black sheep of the family." Might as well make it a joke.
"You, the black sheep? I can't imagine you doing anything scandalous," he said, but the look he gave her was an open invitation to do just that.
She couldn't help but respond to his flirtatious tone, and the frankly male appreciation in his cobalt blue eyes. "I'm a good girl, and I try to stay out of trouble," she said with a coy glance from beneath her lashes that would have done Princess Di proud.
"Hmmm, maybe you should tell that to whoever wrote those songs you were singing, because some of them were decidedly.naughty."
The soft way he purred the word sent a pool of moisture directly to her panties. "Well, you know the blues. Naughtiness is par for the course, but you shouldn't believe everything you hear."
"I don't make a habit of doing that, and somehow I don't think I'd be disappointed," Trip said.
Pink stood up and gave both of them a disgusted look. "You two need to get a room," he said as he walked away.
Trip threw back his head on a bark of laughter, and Arietta couldn't restrain a giggle as well.
"Look, I'm not usually this direct, but you throw me off my game."
"I do?" Arietta said.
"Yeah. I'm hoping you'll have dinner with me."
"When?" Arietta asked, trying to give herself time to recover from the shock.
"I want to say tonight," he said with a derisive twist of his lips.
She glanced down at her watch. "It's nearly midnight. If I start eating this late, I'll need a new wardrobe."
He gave the formfitting black sequined gown an appreciative look. "That would be a tragedy. If you insist, tomorrow."
"I suppose that's okay. You have Pink's stamp of approval."
He raised his brows. "Oh really?"
"You seem surprised."
"You work for the man. You know how contrary he can be. I'm not exactly easygoing myself."
"Is it wise to tell me that right before a date?"
"Full disclosure is the only way to go. So can I get your number?"
She pulled a business card out of her purse and passed it to him across the table.
He studied the plain white card in the dim light of the club. "You teach?"
"Yes, piano and voice. I have a degree in music and my teacher certification. I taught back home, but most schools are canceling arts programs. I'm lucky Gabe hooked me up with an agency, and I've been able to pick up lots of private clients since I got here. Mainly kids, but most of my voice students are adults. I'm hoping that an adjunct position as a local community college will open up this fall."
He secreted the card into his inside jacket pocket.
"Hey, Arietta, you ready to go?" Arietta looked up and smiled at Gabriel.
"Sure." She stood, watching as Trip did the same. "Trip, this is Gabriel. Gabriel this is Trip." She watched as they sized one another up. She didn't know why she felt compelled, but found herself explaining. "This neighborhood can be a little rough. Gabriel always walks me to my car."
Trip inclined his head. "Of course. I'll walk out with you." He moved back to let her pass, then deftly moved between her and Gabriel to follow her out. She paused, surprised by the alacrity of his move, but there wasn't anything she could do about it without making a big deal of it in the crowded room, so she continued walking. The crowd was gradually dispersing, but there were still quite a few people milling about in the club's tiny space, eliminating any chance of a quit getaway. Several stopped with an appreciative word or a desire to chat about her performance. This was a common occurrence, which was why she usually left through the stage entrance.
Finally they emerged into the sultry evening air. Even at this late hour the temperature was hovering in the low eighties with matching humidity. Such a heat wave was unusual during the spring, even in Atlanta, and she wondered grimly if the weather would break before she was forced to dry-clean her stage clothes after each wearing. That would put a considerable dent in her already one-meal-a-day-tight budget. The short walk across the small parking lot was nearly unbearable in her slim-fitting evening dress. She glanced back at the nondescript red-brick, building that housed the nightclub. There was not even a sign to indicate there was entertainment to be found there. Pink developed his clientele strictly by word of mouth.
When they reached her car, she turned to her two escorts with a smile. From Gabriel's smirk, she knew she'd never hear the end of this. "Thanks, guys," she said, opening the door of her ancient Corolla. She'd had it since college and wouldn't be replacing it anytime soon.
"I'll call you later today about our date," Trip said with a pointed look at Gabriel.
Arietta gave Trip an exasperated glance. Much more of this and they'd be sniffing each other's asses.
Gabriel, troublemaker that he was, said, "What's your morning like? Want to do breakfast?"
Damn him. He had no interest in her that way; he just wanted to get her goat. "I'm teaching almost all day tomorrow," she said sharply, annoyed by his troublemaking, but he was a good friend, if a bit twisted, so she relented. "But if you want to go by the Flying Biscuit and pick up a scramble and coffee around seven, I won't kick you out."
Gabriel grinned at her; then apparently deciding he'd pushed his luck as far as he could, he took his leave of them, strolling over to his own vehicle parked just a few feet away. She always appreciated the way his decrepit Honda somehow made her car look almost showroom new.
Arietta resisted the urge to explain that there was nothing between her and Gabriel. She'd just met Trip; she didn't owe him any explanations. "I've got a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and I'm bushed. It was nice meeting you."
"Nice meeting you too. See you later."
He stood in the brightly lit parking lot, his arms crossed over his chest as she started the car and backed out. She wondered if he did it out of chivalry or for fear that her car wouldn't start. She sighed in relief when it started, though she knew the ancient air conditioner wouldn't kick in until long after she reached her apartment a few blocks away. She forced herself to give him a casual wave, which he returned with a smile. Somehow she had a feeling her life was going to be a lot more interesting, and that was probably not a good thing.

© Roslyn Hardy Holcomb, December 2009
All Rights Reserved

EXCERPT: Wren Boudreau's Ice Cream on the Side

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 01:47:58 GMT

An Excerpt from Ice Cream on the Side

Wren Boudreau
Genre: LGBT Erotic Suspense
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Ice-Cream-on-the-Side.aspx

Dylan Forest is really pretty happy. He's a successful architect, lives in a great little town, and has good friends. More than ten years ago, Dylan's first boyfriend betrayed him. Since then he's learned to appreciate men briefly and intensely, with no lingering complications. But Dylan finds himself wanting something more with Michael Gilmore, the new art teacher in town.

Michael moved to Raven Pass to get away after a bad break-up. He just wants to teach and he's got an exhibit of his own work coming up. He doesn't expect to find himself attracted to anyone just yet. He has to give up his fear so he can explore a possible relationship with Dylan.

The guys manage to get past their insecurities and into bed, where they find out just how compatible they are. Before their romance gains momentum; however, life gets complicated. An old dead body and a new murder are both connected to Dylan's love life, and if the guys can't stop it Michael will be next.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

I expected the next three days to drag by, but before I knew it Friday night was upon me. I cleaned the place as if Miss Manners herself were visiting. I think it was the first time in the three years I'd lived there that the carpet under the couch felt the tug of the vacuum. I threw out stuff from my fridge that hadn't even turned green yet. As I contemplated life from behind the toilet bowl, I realized that living alone as a grown man wasn't much different than living with roommates as a young man. Ugh.
Saturday morning found me at the grocery store, stocking up on a variety of beverages, alcoholic and non-, as well as snacks, healthy and not. I had no idea, of course, what Michael liked, and I wanted to be prepared.
I put fresh sheets on the bed and stacked clean towels in the bathrooms. Because I was always so thorough in my cleaning.
I thought the best place to work would be the kitchen table. My large country kitchen had been created out of two smallish rooms. The farmhouse table was big enough to spread out full sets of blue prints, as well as the other paperwork I pulled from the Roswell Burns file. The kitchen was also a nonthreatening kind of space. I thought if I sat next to Michael on the couch, I might be tempted to touch him in ways he might not appreciate. I felt unusually conflicted; I was attracted to Michael on a sexual level, yes, but I also itched to learn more about him. I enjoyed our dinner and conversation, and I thought I got a similar vibe from him. I worried that I might do something that would scare him away.
At noon I sat on the couch of temptation, looked around at my nice and shiny abode, and reveled in my domestic dorkiness.
At two o'clock I woke up to a ringing in my ears.no, the doorbell. Jesus H. Christ, I'd fallen asleep. I stumbled to the foyer and swung open the door. There was Michael on my front porch, backpack over one shoulder, six-pack of Yuengling in hand. He stood in that sideways way people use when they're at the door but don't want to stare at it. He seemed to be checking out the sugar maple tree that lorded over the front of the house. He wore straight-leg jeans and a brown T-shirt with a faded design down one side. The sun brought out red and gold highlights in his hair. It was banded at the nape of his neck, which accentuated his jawline. Either he'd recently shaved or his beard wasn't heavy-the skin of his face lacked any sign of stubble. He was, quite possibly, the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.
I felt like Quasimodo on a bad-hair day.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," I replied.
"Um." He scratched the back of his neck and looked at me through his eyelashes. "You gonna let me in?"
"What? Oh, yeah, come on in." I stepped out of his way and realized I needed to dispel the fog surrounding my brain. "Listen, I took an unplanned nap on the couch, so do you mind if I take a minute to regroup?"
Michael chuckled. "No, go ahead. I've been there."
"Thanks." I pointed toward the kitchen. "You can go on in there. I've laid out everything I thought would be helpful. Make yourself at home. There are snacks in the fridge. Bottle opener is in that top drawer. I won't be long."
I went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and studied my face in the mirror. I had showered and shaved earlier, but I couldn't do much about my hair at this point. I ran my fingers through and got the strands corralled. Okay, so maybe not Quasimodo. I traded my wrinkled T-shirt for a clean blue one, a little voice in the back of my mind suggesting it would bring out the blue in my eyes.
When I returned to the kitchen, Michael looked up from poring over the blueprints. "Feel better?"
"Much."
He smiled and offered me one of the beers he'd brought. I took it and put the rest of them in the refrigerator. I sat in the chair next to his, took a long sip from the bottle, and said, "Okay, let's get to work."
We got lost in planning the adventures of the Young Architects Club. We slid easily into the jargon of each other's fields of expertise, batted ideas back and forth like badminton shuttlecocks, and finished each other's sentences. He was almost constantly in motion: jiggling his leg, pacing, tapping a pen. It made me feel uncannily calm, and I wasn't usually one to sit still. We had a few beers. Somewhere along the way, he dumped his backpack out, rifled through the mess, and withdrew his planning calendar.
The pile from the backpack was an interesting assortment of things: tins of charcoals and pastels, pencils of different sizes, crumpled papers, an orange, several sketch pads, an iPod, headphones, tubes of acrylics, a six-inch wooden manikin, and a notebook computer.
The whole thing reminded me of Mary Poppins's carpetbag. "If I stuck my arm in your backpack, would I pull up a hat rack?"
He didn't bat an eye. "No, but you might get a floor lamp."
Michael used the computer to make notes and write an outline of our plan. His fingers flew over the keyboard. When I tried to think, my eyes were drawn to his hands, and thoughts of architecture were replaced with thoughts of what those hands would feel like. I had to get up and move around the room in order to speak coherent sentences.
Eventually, my stomach pointed out that I hadn't eaten yet by growling loud enough to be heard in New Jersey. Michael stopped typing and tilted his head to listen.
"Sorry," I said. "Snack time?"
"Good idea." He closed the laptop, set it off to the side, and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. My mouth watered when his stretch exposed a strip of skin at the bottom of his shirt. I turned rapidly toward the fridge and stuck my head in, hoping the cold would wash all the way to my cock.
"Do you feel like veggies and dip, or chips and salsa?" I yelled from the bowels of my Amana.
"Definitely chips and salsa." His voice sounded from right next to me, and I nearly gave myself a concussion when I jumped. My scowl was lost on him; he only grinned at me when I straightened up. I handed him the salsa, and he poured it in a bowl while I dumped the chips into a basket. We each grabbed another beer and returned to the table, sitting at the far end away from the mass of papers strewn about. Michael turned his chair to face out toward the deck. Our conversation turned from our project to other topics.
I discovered, among other things, that he was originally from western Pennsylvania, had two sisters and a brother, graduated from my alma mater-Penn State-with a major in art education and a minor in graphic design, and at twenty-six, was six years younger than me. He learned that I was born not far from right here, my mother died when I was ten, my favorite thing to do was design buildings and landscapes, and gardening was a stress-relieving hobby.
I was just about to ask him about the kind of music he liked when I noticed a glop of salsa at the corner of his mouth. "You've got some, um, salsa, there." I tried to point without pointing, to, you know, be polite.
"Where?" He rubbed at the wrong side of his mouth.
"No, the other side."
He wiped a spot on his cheek. "Did I get it?"
"Here," I said and scooped the offending sauce off with my thumb, which somehow then ended up in his mouth.
I watched with fascination as he sucked gently, pulling the digit in, swirling his tongue around it, his eyes closed as if this were the best thing he'd ever tasted. My other fingers rested on his face, feeling the suction through his cheek. He pulled back and opened his eyes; I got lost in them for a minute. When I moved my hand to the back of his neck and drew him to me, he gave no resistance. Our lips met, flavored with salt and salsa. We shared a series of little kisses, tasting each other gently.
He had turned his chair around, and we sat facing each other. His hands rested on my biceps, and my hands slid to his chest-where they noticed that Michael did have more interesting piercings.
The soft little kisses grew stronger. The more I had, the more I wanted.
Without moving his lips away, Michael said, "I've wanted to kiss you since I met you."
"So kiss me," I mumbled back.
I caught his tongue with mine and sucked on it, a hopeful foreshadowing of events to follow. He pulled on my bottom lip with his teeth. The frenzy meter ratcheted up, our lips and tongues exploring, probing, claiming. I felt his hand in my hair, and my own hand twisted his shirt. Breathing became a secondary need, behind tasting. When air proved to be necessary, we slid back into short, small kisses. It didn't take long for me to feel refreshed, and I plunged back into kissing him deeply, rolling my tongue across and under his teeth. He groaned when I held his face between my palms and bit lightly at his lips. He tried to take back control, but I couldn't get enough of tasting him.
His tug on my hair pulled me away enough to look in his eyes. "Dylan," he whispered.
"Shh," I said. "A moment." We were still, just breathing, and I could feel the reverberation of each kiss.
He gave me that moment; then he leaned back. "Wow." His hands slipped away from my shoulders as he stood up. He walked to the sliding glass door and leaned against the jamb, staring out across the hills. This did not seem like a good sign to me. I didn't know if I should follow or back away. I opted for the middle road, stood up but stayed near my chair. He turned toward me.
"I.that was." He shook his head. "I've never been kissed like that."
"That makes two of us. Why are you over there?"
He looked out the window again. "I'm overwhelmed. This wasn't what I expected."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Neither. Both. I'm not sure." He crossed the room to where his belongings were piled. "I have to go. I need to think."
"Michael, no. I want you to stay." This time I did follow him, stopping just within reach. He threw his things into the backpack. I grabbed his hands to hold them still. "Listen. I maybe didn't do this right. I moved too fast." He stared up at me, waiting. "I like you, and I don't want to screw this up." I thought about the different men I'd been with and how everything with them happened so fast because there was so little time for it. I realized I was walking new ground, here. "I'm sorry I scared you."
He clenched my hands. "No.don't.I think I scared myself. You remember I told you about the relationship I'd been in?"
I nodded.
"When I left, I promised myself that I would not jump into another one. I can't do things part way." He let go of me, and his pacing emphasized the words he spoke quietly. "Tim-my ex-and I, we were together almost a year, and I completely misread him. I was so excited about our being together-I was looking at houses and furniture, but he was looking at other men. Our arguments left me realizing that I expected too much-made too many big plans. Tim said some cruel things to me, but he made me think about not only ours, but other relationships I'd been in. I leap too quickly. I can't trust myself." He stopped moving, shrugged, and gave a little unhappy laugh. "My mom used to tell me I was too passionate about, well, everything. My brother used to tell me I was a nervous breakdown waiting to happen."
He suddenly looked so very young. I felt like a lecher. I wanted to rewind back to where we were building a friendship. Before I could say anything, he continued.
"I thought I'd learned my lesson, but you were so unexpected. And it threw me."
I've been called a lot of things, but "unexpected" was a new one. "I'm not sure I'm following you."
His pacing brought him to the opposite side of the table. He leaned on it. "I never expected that I would find anyone like you in this place. You're smart. Funny. Kind. Gorgeous. I've been thinking about that kiss for so long, I was sure the reality would never live up to the fantasy. I was wrong. It was better."
I stood speechless. No one had ever said anything like that to me. I replayed his words in my head a few times so I wouldn't forget them.
A sigh came from deep in his chest as he shoved his belongings into his bag. "It scares the shit out of me." He zipped up the backpack and headed to the front door.
I tried to shake off the fog that was swirling around my head and stopped him with my hand on his arm. "Wait. Can't we work through this together?"
"I just need a little time. I don't want to go into anything blinded by my fantasies. And I don't want to ruin something with exploding baggage before it begins." A look of fear passed over his face. "Oh, God, have I ruined it already?"
I was too flummoxed to answer anything with conviction. "No, no, you haven't ruined it. I think we both have baggage we need to unpack."
Michael gave me a shaky smile and reached up to kiss me on the cheek. As he opened the door and stepped out, he said, "I will call you. I know that sounds stupid, but I promise I will."
Before I could think of anything else to say, he was gone.

© Wren Boudreau, December 2009
All Rights Reserved

Santa Baby, save some romance all for me. Santa Baby, leave it at Loose Id for me.

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 04:35:37 GMT

Santa Baby, save some romance all for me.
Santa Baby, leave it at Loose Id for me.

~ * ~

Ice Cream on the Side
Wren Boudreau
Genre: LGBT Erotic Suspense
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Ice-Cream-on-the-Side.aspx

Dylan Forest is really pretty happy. He's a successful architect, lives in a great little town, and has good friends. More than ten years ago, Dylan’s first boyfriend betrayed him. Since then he’s learned to appreciate men briefly and intensely, with no lingering complications. But Dylan finds himself wanting something more with Michael Gilmore, the new art teacher in town.

Michael moved to Raven Pass to get away after a bad break-up. He just wants to teach and he's got an exhibit of his own work coming up. He doesn't expect to find himself attracted to anyone just yet. He has to give up his fear so he can explore a possible relationship with Dylan.

The guys manage to get past their insecurities and into bed, where they find out just how compatible they are. Before their romance gains momentum; however, life gets complicated. An old dead body and a new murder are both connected to Dylan’s love life, and if the guys can't stop it Michael will be next.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Ice-Cream-on-the-Side.aspx

~ * ~

Santa Baby
Roslyn Hardy Holcomb
Genre: Erotic Contemporary Multicultural
Length: Novel
Price: $5.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Santa-Baby.aspx

Having been burned by his father's betrayal, real estate tycoon Trip Wakefield has no interest in love or relationships. Until he meets Arietta, a struggling, sultry, blues singer, in his favorite club. Seduced by the silken velvet of her voice, he pursues her with a single-minded purpose––Arietta in his bed, at any cost. He offers her a deal; if she will be his mistress she can have anything she desires, except his heart.

A woman who knows her own mind and goes for what she wants, Arietta decides that she wants him and his heart so she takes the ultimate gamble and agrees to become his mistress. But when the stock market crashes Trip loses everything. Knowing that he can’t keep up his end of their bargain he tells Arietta it’s over. Arietta takes another gamble and moves in with him and gives up everything she owns to help him rebuild his wealth. In a gift worthy of the Magi she offers him everything she has: herself.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play, exhibitionism.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Santa-Baby.aspx

~ * ~

Christmas in Killarney
Cash Cole
Genre: LGBT Ménage
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Christmas-in-Killarney.aspx

Waking up naked in church definitely distracts writer Colin Zachary from the writer’s block that's been plaguing him. Harry Gill, who rescues him, has altruistic intentions until he gets up close and personal with his sexy new charge. Ditto for Harry’s significant other, Morgan O’Hanlon.

The weather is miserable, and Colin has no choice but to stay with the handsome hunks, but he’s a workaholic who hasn’t been laid since Santa’s last visit, and all he can think about is easing his aching body and lonely heart. Not a problem. Harry and Morgan want him under their Christmas tree, in their bed, in the snow—any way they can have him.

But Colin can’t concentrate to finish an assigned deadline. Harry is up to his ears in Christmas orders, while Morg is beside himself with grief and worry that so many families will be without funds because he has misplaced their checks. The bar’s nemesis, who has tried unsuccessfully for years to buy the business, calls on them, offering money if Morg will sell O’Hanlon’s Pub to him.

Can hot sex and a cool Santa save Christmas in Killarney?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices, ménage (m/m/m).

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/Christmas-in-Killarney.aspx

~ * ~

All I Want for Christmas is You
Brenna Lyons
Genre: Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/All-I-Want-for-Christmas-is-You.aspx

Two years after Robin’s fiancé dies in a car crash, she has sorted her priorities and decided to follow through with one of their plans. A baby. Of course, it would be best if that baby shared some of Zach’s genes.

Enter David, Zach’s older brother. He’s her best friend, her confidant, the one person who won’t dismiss her plans as insane…she hopes. And maybe sex with him will get David out of her fantasies, fantasies where he takes Zach’s place.

Or maybe they won’t. If Robin hadn’t been Zach’s when David met her, he would have stopped at nothing to make her his own. If she doesn’t hate him for giving her what she’s asking for, they might both get the Christmas gift they want most.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse.

Read an excerpt at http://www.loose-id.com/All-I-Want-for-Christmas-is-You.aspx

~ * ~

EXCERPT: Willa Okati's Buddy Holiday

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 03:37:53 GMT

An Excerpt from Buddy Holiday

Willa Okati
Genre: LGBT Shape-shifter Paranormal
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99
http://www.loose-id.com/Buddy-Holiday.aspx

T.J.'s a man--okay, a shape-shifting tomcat--with a plan. He intends to ask his wizard lover MacGowan to officially move in with him and make this the best Festivus ever. Unfortunately--or not unfortunately, really--he keeps getting distracted by MacGowan's hot bod. You know how tomcats are. Purrrr.

That aside, T.J.'s got a minefield's worth of hurdles to jump before he can give MacGowan the keys to his apartment. That list includes meddling Nereids, pointedly absent friends, and a Psychokitty with a decided inclination to meddle in the affairs of cats and men. As the cherry on top, MacGowan's almost too busy stressing out over learning to be a "real" wizard to pay attention to T.J.

Still, this tomcat has learned that home is where the heart is, and he's going to hang onto his magical relationship with MacGowan with all four sets of claws, come what may. (And a lot may come, including them if they're lucky).

Happy Holidays?

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices.

~ * ~

My name's Thomas Cattrell Jones, T.J. for short. What can I say? My parents had a rotten sense of humor. I turn into a tomcat during the full moon, and more often if something tips the balance between man and tabby.
Like MacGowan. Love makes you crazy, right? MacGowan, my main squeeze, the wizardly wonder to whom I also am a feline familiar. He tends to have a certain.effect on my morphic control. As in, when he's around, my control isn't. Relationships are hard enough without adding in shape-shifting snafus, so trust me when I say that blindfolds and handcuffs aren't the only kinks we've got to work out. High emotions, physical exertion, and stress tend to trip my morphic trigger.
Normally-for a given value of normal-it's all good. But the holidays are upon us, and they have a way of bringing everyone's inner beast out to play. Plus the elemental critters that flock to a wizard aren't crazy about cats, and they're out to cause some havoc.
Tidings of comfort and oh.joy.
* * * * *
T.J. had one foot on the stairs that would lead him up to home sweet home when his pocket rang. Fortunately when he checked he did have a cell phone in there. Given the world he lived in, where anything could happen-and usually did-it didn't pay to take even the simplest things for granted.
He paused, awkwardly posed, to juggle the slimline out of his pocket and wedge it between ear and shoulder. Impressing himself, he even managed to keep two plastic deli bags from slipping free and splattering tofurkey goodness at his feet. Dexterity: you're doing it right.
And after all that? "About fucking time you answered," was what the caller had to say by way of greeting.
T.J. raised his eyes toward heaven. Might have known. "Arden, this better be good. What are you calling me for, anyway? It's not like you aren't lurking upstairs planning to steal my dinner."
"Not.exactly," Arden drawled.
That didn't bode well. Vague nonspecifics never did. "Whatever you've done, I'm not paying for it or bailing you out. Just so you know."
"Whatever, kitty-boy. Put me on video."
T.J. squinted up at the sky and its massed clouds, rolling from the gray of MacGowan's eyes in a somber mood to steely darkness. Snowflakes floated down, lazy now but with a definite sense of just getting started. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret asking, but why can't I just come inside and talk to you face-to-face?"
"You'll see," Arden said. Sounded like he'd been taking "ominous and menacing" lessons from Shavey. T.J. grimaced. Yeah, regret was definitely on the horizon. "Video me."
Damn his feline curiosity, anyway. T.J. gave in to the urge to check it out-and hey, how about that? Regret. The screen appeared to be filled with something large. Cavernous. Red. Moist. T.J. stared, transfixed. Also horrified. "Arden? Please tell me that's not what I think it is."
Arden cackled. The zoom drew back from-oh thank God-Arden's nostril. Wait. Oh. Oh, that's not right.
"You're sick."
"I'm a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Had you going for a second, didn't I? Sucker. And it got your attention, didn't it? A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do when dealing with a pussy like you. Now zip it and keep your focus on me."
T.J. considered that order. Decided said order could go fuck itself. "Arden, I've just gotten home after a twelve-hour day grading freshman-level biology exams. It's snowing. I'm hungry, tired, and my vegan dinner is getting cold. MacGowan's up there because we're supposed to share this food, and I need him to hug me until the world goes away. Speed it up, or I swear I'll hunt you down and pluck all your nose hairs out one at a time. Which, by the way, would be doing the world a public service."
"Calm down." Arden waved an airy hand. "I'm going to make this well worth your while, you'll see."
"Do I have any choice?"
"Not really. Ever hear of 'ask, and ye shall receive'?"
"Uh-huh. That usually comes right before 'be careful what you wish for.'" T.J. propped his elbow on the stair railing. "Y'know, the odds are good that I'm going to freeze to death out here before you're done. MacGowan's going to come downstairs in search of a tomcat and find a catsicle. I so wouldn't want to be you right about then."
Arden ignored him. Grandly. However, he did hop right to the point. T.J. decided to call that a win on behalf of MacGowan's developing skills. "If you will look to the left and to the right of you, you'll notice that your neighbors appear to have gone walkabout. No cars in sight, right?"
T.J.'s automatic scoff halted midsnort. Whoa. "What did you do with them?"
"Me? Absolutely nothing." Arden gave fantastic straight face. "That would be very, very wrong."
"Uh-huh." T.J. decided not asking was the wiser choice. Some things he didn't want to know for sure, and besides, honest plausible deniability came in handy when dealing with the inevitable law enforcement.
On the tiny screen, a dark shadow passed behind Arden. It planted a meaty paw on Arden's shoulder and squeezed. With intent. Arden squawked. "All right, Shavey, I'm getting there. Behave, or no sex for you."
Sometimes T.J. wished Arden hadn't gotten in touch with his gay side. By which he meant, "anytime Arden and Shavey are in the same room together. With me."
"Anyway," Arden said with a subsonic growl, "it's been brought to my attention that you and MacGowan haven't really had what you might call much 'private time' lately." He made quote fingers just in case T.J. missed the point. "And seeing as it's Festivus Eve-"
"It's December seventh," T.J. interrupted.
"Festivus is whenever it needs to be. That's the joy of the holiday."
"Wait, wait." T.J.'s brain caught up. "Go back to the bit about MacGowan. And me. And how we are never, ever alone. I liked where that part was leading."
Shavey squeezed Arden's shoulder. Firmly. But silently. T.J. thought he might suddenly have to revise his opinion of Shavey.
Arden rolled his eyes and sighed the sigh of the truly put-upon. "Happy Festivus, you sorry bastard. This is a gift to you, from all of us. The apartment is yours. The entire fucking complex is yours. No neighbors, no friends, no interruptions. Well. We don't actually know where Sur Lune is right now, but Mr. Jontan's on the case."
"It's a Festivus miracle," T.J. said, staring at the phone. Tiny angelic choirs sang ecstatically cold and lonely hallelujahs in his head. Hot damn! "How long is this going to last?"
"Until morning. Dawn's early light is as long as we can keep the mojo jo-jo-ing. So you'd best make good use of your time until then, if you know what I mean."
Arden jabbed his elbow backward. Shavey oofed.
T.J. watched. Warily.
"Right. This part is for your ears only," Arden muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Come closer. Put me on audio. Press that delicate, pearl-like shell to the phone, because I'm going to whisper."
And just like that, we're right back to "wary." Hell with it, though; T.J. would have gone so far as to kiss Arden just then if Arden had been within lip reach.
"Just like that, yes. Come closer." Arden wheedled. "Closer. Now." He paused for dramatic effect. Damn him if it didn't work too. "I happen to know, my feline friend, that there's an envelope hidden beneath your couch. Taped to the springs. Wouldn't have found it if I weren't incurably nosy. I also happen to know, because I broke it open and looked, that within that envelope is a copy of your apartment key."
Uh-oh. "Arden-"
"There's even an adorable key chain attached. Custom job, very classy, burgundy and silver. Engraved with the name 'MacGowan.' Considering that he's already got his own key to the place and has likely used it even today to let himself in to wait for you after work, I can only see this as a symbolic gesture."
"Arden," T.J. said. Threateningly.
Menace didn't carry as well over the phone as a tomcat could hope. Arden carried on with blithe abandon. "Hearts and flowers and lace, oh my. Dare I hope your plan is to ask your fine piece of wizardly ass to live in sin with you, his feline familiar? Yes? I approve. But-"
"There's always a but with you."
"I should hope so. Otherwise I'd look damned funny walking around with waist-legs." Arden started to carry on. Stopped. Snickered, no doubt thinking Shavey-related jokes. Any second now he'd come out with a line about junk in trunks, and no.
"You were humiliating me. Get on with it so I can go inside. I'm freezing."
"Right, right." Arden cleared his throat. "The key chain. Now, given the amount of dust on that envelope, you've been considering this fine romantic option for more than, say, a month. Tsk-tsk-tsk, my lad."
"I'm waiting for the right moment. What's so bad about that?"
"BZZT," Arden blared. T.J.'s wince, violent enough that he nearly dropped the phone, went a long way toward making him regret any earlier, kindlier thoughts. "A little more action, a little more satisfaction. In other words, shit or get off the pot."
"You're all class, Arden."
"That's me," Arden agreed, sunny as a June morning. "Take my advice, and you'll thank me ver' much. My hand to Bob. And that's all the time we have tonight, folks. T.J.? Twelve hours till dawn. Enjoy. Arden, over and out."
The phone silenced as its twinkling lights died to black. T.J. barely noticed, too busy listening to something else: Silence. Sweet, sweet silence. Peace and quiet. Almost terrifying in its strangeness. Utterly fantastic.
T.J. might actually have to thank Arden for something. A house wasn't a house without someone you loved to come home to. Sure, MacGowan hung out in the apartment all the time, even slept there as often as not, but it wasn't "theirs." As Festivus presents went, T.J. couldn't think of a better one.
On that note, T.J. tossed the cell phone gleefully skyward. A guy could do that when he had wizards in his life. He preferred their service contracts, especially the Happy Ending Special. "Fuck yes. Happy Festivus to me! To us! Hey, MacGowan!"
© Willa Okati, December 2009
All Rights Reserved

EXCERPT: Jianne Carlo's A Paratrooper in a Pear Tree

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 03:36:51 GMT

An Excerpt from A Paratrooper in a Pear Tree

Jianne Carlo
Genre: Multicultural Erotic Contemporary
Length: Novel
Price: $6.99
http://www.loose-id.com/A-Paratrooper-in-a-Pear-Tree.aspx

Destiny Driven hasn't used her real name in forever. It doesn't exactly inspire professional confidence if you sound like a stripper. When she's ordered to "sex up" former bestselling author Angel Roland's latest manuscript, armed with whips, cuffs, "classic" (who knew?) porn DVDs, that hits a little close to home. So Destiny heads to a remote cabin in Healey, Alaska.

Deployed to fight an inferno, Master Parachutist Lincoln Chapman's veers off course, his chute fails, and his reserve opens at the 10,000 mark. The paratrooper lands in the pear tree adjacent to Destiny's cabin.

The man's massive and unconscious. The cabin's cold and isolated, and Destiny's no girl scout. Then Linc wakes to Destiny's Madonna features, stripper body, sex toys, and 70's porn DVDs. Just as they're trying to leave, electricity fizzles. There's only one way to stay warm. Luckily they have all the supplies they need.

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable.

~ * ~

"I'm going insane. First I think Nadine's feeling me up, and then I see a parachute in a pear tree." Destiny Driven straightened and shot the ceiling a furious glare. "It's the middle of September, there's a blizzard outside, and now I'm seeing things."
"You actually see a parachute in a tree?" Jess Blaine, senior editor for St. Paul's Publishing, asked.
"You're not going to believe me, but there's a man with a parachute in a pear tree." Destiny's breath fogged the windowpane; she used the sleeve of her cotton sweater to wipe the glass. "He's wearing army fatigues. I think something's wrong. He's not moving." She groaned and thunked her head on the cold glass. "This is the last thing I need."
"Hang up and call 911."
A burst of static blasted Destiny's eardrums. "Damn. Jess, you there?"
She looked at her iPhone's screen. No bars.
Nothing had gone right from the moment she'd left St. Paul's New York headquarters that morning. A momentary lull in the offending white fluff spinning by the wall of windows allowed her a clear view of the man hanging from the branches of the tree. Large neon orange letters on the man's green and black fatigues spelled out the words 82nd Airborne Division.
I can't leave him out there.
Call 911.
No dial tone came from the old-fashioned rotary phone on the kitchen counter. She scowled at the black receiver and blew out a long sigh.
He could be injured.
"I might as well get this over and done with." She shrugged on her denim jacket, zipped up the front, and pulled the hood around her face.
A shudder racked her body the second she opened the door. A blast of frigid air blew the hood off Destiny's head; then her hair took flight, whipping her cheeks and chin and scrambling her vision. At least two inches of snow carpeted the green turf. Sandals and a blizzard didn't mesh. Her toes curled as she sprinted across the narrow clearing, heading for the grove of fruit and pine trees lining the ridge of the mountain.
Destiny hopped from one foot to the other in an effort to stay warm as she surveyed the man stuck in the trees. He hung around seven feet off the ground. The parachute's white material lay in a pine tree, the ropes attached to his bulky form threaded through the thick silver-gray-green branches of a heavily laden pear tree. The impact of the man's landing had scattered brown fruit around the tree's trunk. A jagged cut ran from his temple to the edge of his ear and splotches of scarlet stained the green leaves nestling his cheek. Nothing looked broken. But my, he was a big man.
How to get him down from the trees and into the cabin?
She'd have to climb the tree and cut the parachute's ropes.
Fifteen minutes later, Destiny dragged the sheet she'd rolled the man onto through the cabin's entrance and closed the door. She slumped to the wooden floor, cupped her hands, and blew warm air over fingers so numb with cold they burned.
"You probably gave me frostbite," she complained, glowering at the wounded man lying face up on the floor next to her. "Damn, it's cold out there."
On one of her frequent trips back to the cabin, she'd located the thermostat and turned the heat to the highest temperature possible. The interior had warmed marginally, but what she wouldn't give for a roaring fire. Blowing out a sigh, she shot the fireplace a yearning look usually reserved for chocolate soufflés, pursed her lips, and then grumbled, "I bet you know how to start a fire," before shooting the man a frown usually reserved for errant authors.
How long would they be stuck here? How long would the snow keep falling? The phone wasn't working, and her rented Ford Focus didn't seem any match for narrow mountain roads made treacherous by layers of white muck. Not to mention the fact she'd taken wrong turns at least five times getting here.
A moan drew her attention to the paratrooper.
Surely he could help. The man was a paratrooper after all. Weren't they all big, bad tough guys who could survive jungles and deserts? "I suppose I should clean you up first."
When Park Ranger Tim Dalton had given her the keys to the cabin earlier, he'd also mentioned a full emergency kit in the room off the kitchen. Grumbling under her breath, Destiny levered to her feet; her legs felt like wet noodles and her arms like melting Jell-O. Paratroopers weighed a ton.
Shaky steps took her to the room Tim had mentioned.
A plastic neon lime carton labeled Medical Supplies lay on top of a chest freezer in the small square room. Baskets of apples and pears and root vegetables, along with a webby sack of potatoes, stood adjacent to the white appliance. A miniature desk, really a slab of wood bearing multiple communication appliances she had no clue how to work, punctuated the far end of the alcove.
Returning to the kitchen with the box in hand, she spotted a Pottery Barn-style bowl. After filling the slate container with warm water, she ambled over to her parachutist, squatted, and set the supplies on the floor.
A rat-a-tat-tat drew her glance from the cut on the man's cheek, and she looked outside. The snow fell so fast and furious now, Destiny could see nothing but a white sheet.
What if the snow doesn't stop until next spring?
Stop being dramatic, Destiny; at least we have heat.
Even though the cabin had warmed to tropical-beach temperature, an arctic shiver gamboled across her neck.
I'm a New Yorker. I can cope with anything.
Focus, focus. One line at a time, one task at a time. Clean his wound.
Sitting on her heels, she edged closer to him.
Getting the helmet off his head proved a harder task than she'd anticipated. Destiny worked up a good sweat and almost gave in to the temptation to turn the thermostat down a notch. Almost. One glance at the wet white snowflakes thud-thudding on the window nixed that notion.
He had to weigh well over two hundred pounds. His shoulders were rock hard, and both her hands couldn't span his corded neck. When she cut his helmet's chin strap, he groaned. She flinched at the low rumble and lost her balance. The hard hat jerked off his head, Destiny landed on her backside, and the helmet slid across the wooden floor.
Gasping for breath, she swiped a palm across her damp forehead and blew a lock of hair off her right cheek. "You owe me, Mister."
Shifting, she braced her elbows on her bent knees and surveyed her booty.
He had the usual armed-forces buzz cut, a square face, and a nose that had met a few fists at some point in time. "I bet you have an ego the size of this state."
She found gauze in the medical kit, dampened the cloth, and dabbed at the dried blood covering the thin diagonal slash running from one temple to his earlobe. His skin smelled of Irish Spring soap and leaves. The layer of stubble covering his chin felt soft and downy.
All angles and planes, his face held no hint of softness, his swarthy complexion spoke of mixed blood, and the last adjective she'd use for him would be handsome, because he wasn't. Testosterone and pheromones jumped out of every pore, he smelled the way a man's man should smell, hard and capable and in command of his own destiny. A jagged scar ran along the line of a jaw punctuated by hollow cheek dimples and ridged bones.
Definitely not urban-male-model handsome, yet being mere inches away from those craggy features made her lungs work harder and her toes curl and uncurl. Leaning across his visage to sponge away the blood streaked into the tanned crinkles bracketing his eye, she muttered to herself, "You are not attracted to him. He probably barely graduated high school. Ten to one he hasn't a clue what War and Peace is, far less who wrote it."
"Tolstoy," he said.
Destiny yelped and sat back on her haunches.
He couldn't have woken up twenty minutes earlier?
How long had he been conscious? A lick of flame scorched her throat and cheeks; she studied the camouflage pattern of his jacket.
Please don't have heard that. Please. I'll volunteer at the food bank four times this year if he didn't hear that. She bit her lip to fight the urge to look at the ceiling.
"Who are you?" He had a voice like the deep, belly-echoing roar of a Long Island ferry idling.
She tried to even out her ragged inhales, trailed her gaze inch by inch up a throat the delicious color of caramel toffee, and swallowed around the molten ball sucking the moisture out of her mouth.
Hazel eyes, clear and focused, met hers; then his glance swept the cabin. "Where am I?"
God, what a voice. His words rumbled and shuddered up her spine, and the barometric pressure in the cabin dipped and hip-hopped.
It'd been a long time since she'd been with a man.
And she'd never been with a man whose muscles looked hard enough to ricochet bullets.
Stop, Destiny. Stop. You will not think of a roaring fire and naked, entwined limbs.
"Ma'am. Where am I?"
Ma'am? How old does he think I am?
"Healy, Alaska. Or near it anyway."
Wincing, he sat up. Thick fingers traced the line of the cut on his face. "I was supposed to touch down on the east side of Denali."
"Denali?"
"Denali National Park. Two hundred acres are on fire." He rose in one fluid, graceful move.
She stood right away. For such a big man, he moved lithely. Destiny felt like a dwarf and had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.
"I don't think you have to worry about fighting a fire," she said. "It's blizzarding."
His eyes flickered to the picture window and then back to her. "I can see that. Where did I touch down?"
"In the pear tree." She squared her shoulders and wished she were wearing three-inch stilettos. "You were all tangled up in it. How're you feeling?"
"You cut me down?" One sandy brow lifted a fraction. He didn't sound the least bit grateful.
"Not an easy feat. It took me fifteen minutes."
"I've been out for fifteen minutes? Shit. Do you have a phone?"
"No bars. I think the weather's interfering with reception."
He rolled his eyes. "Is there a landline?"
"Yes. It's dead."
"Do we have a radio connection?"
"Like a CB? Like what the truckers use?" Destiny rolled a shoulder. "Hell if I know."
"You seem remarkably uninformed, ma'am. You don't know if you have a radio?" An edge of irritation slipped into his husky voice.
He showed no awareness of her as a woman. Her boobs always captured a man's attention; if she had a nickel for the number of times a guy spoke to her chest instead of her eyes, well, she'd be writing full-time instead of editing. Destiny fought a scowl.
"It's not my cabin. I'm only here for a couple of days."
"Really?" But he wasn't looking at her, his narrowed eyes found the pile of DVDs she'd dumped onto the kitchen table.
Damn it.
There was no way he wouldn't notice the titles.
"I apologize for my manners, ma'am. I'm Sergeant Lincoln Chapman. And you are?"
"Sara Parker," she replied. If he got wind of her real name after seeing the classic collection of seventies porn she'd purchased for research, he'd never believe she wasn't a stripper. She'd bought the porn to set the mood for the sex scenes best-selling author Angel Robinson had to rewrite during the next couple of days.
"Do you have a vehicle? I have to touch base with my troops."
"I have a rental car."
Two long strides took him to the picture window. Destiny couldn't tell because his back faced her, but Lincoln Chapman appeared to be studying the falling snow.
"How're you feeling?"
"What?" He glanced over one shoulder; the corners of his lips twitched.
"You were unconscious; you could have a concussion."
"No concussion," he quipped. "No wooziness, no dancing black spots. Where's the car?"
"In the driveway." Destiny's shoulders slumped. He was going to leave and go to his troops. In her car. "Look. I understand you need to make contact with your men. But could you help me start a fire before you go?"
"You're a city girl." He twisted to look at her. "I'm afraid I can't. If we don't leave now, we'll both be stuck. This weather isn't going to stop soon. Last report we had, this front's going to last a week. You'll have to come with me."
And who died and made you king of the mountain?
The thought of being stuck alone in a blizzard didn't make her jump for joy. "Where are you going to go?"
"Healy."
"There isn't a hotel in Healy. That's why I'm here." No way in hell she'd stay by herself in this godforsaken cabin. "I'll grab my things."
"We don't have time for that." His gaze raking her head to toe, he added, "Just grab your coat and boots." Lincoln's lips curled as he stared at her bare toes and sandaled feet.
Destiny stifled a sigh. "This is it." She waved a hand down her front. "I looked up the temperature. It's supposed to be in the seventies."
"You spent twenty minutes outside wearing that? Have you no sense at all?"
"What was I supposed to do? Leave you in the tree?" Destiny jammed her hands onto her hips. "You know, an ounce of gratefulness wouldn't go amiss."
He shook his head. "Where are the keys?"
"I'm driving," she stated. Seizing her Dooney & Bourke oversize tote from the coffee table, she slung the straps over one shoulder, fished the key hook out of the purse, and stalked to the door.
Suddenly she was swept off the floor and cradled in his arms. A waterfall of sensations strummed through every fiber, her blood heated and jumped Olympic hurdles, and she had a mad desire to lick the cleft in his chin. This near, a hint of his aftershave-sandalwood and patchouli-wafted to her nostrils. Choking back a groan, she bit her tongue hard enough to get her dizzy brain cells working again.
"What're you doing? Put me down."
Think. Think, damn it.
"There's at least three inches of snow on the ground. You'll get frostbite if you walk outside in those shoes." He shifted her closer, his large palm curving under her ass while the other hand opened the door. "And I'm driving."

© Jianne Carlo, December 2009
All Rights Reserved