Sunday, August 31, 2014



The Kataru-Book One

Candy Morales is a cosplayer by trade and a picker at heart. She has no problem digging through trash if it means finding a treasure. When a friend leaves her a box full of antique glass eyes in a garbage bin, she decides to dive right in.

Emmett Bradshaw is an alpha wolf shifter ex-Marine with a weakness for curvy females. After ten years of self-imposed exile, he’s come home to take over his pack. One thing he never expected was to find the woman of his dreams rummaging through garbage. Emmett did what any warm-blooded wolf would—slap her tempting, round backside.



Blackrock had undergone a drastic transformation from blue collar town to a bustling hipster community. Gone were the boring gray buildings, replaced by vibrantly-painted storefronts. To say he was surprised was an understatement. Emmett drove down old Morrow Street when something odd caught his eye.

He parked his fully-loaded top-of-the-line sedan and then walked into the empty alley. Sticking out of big old rusty garbage bin was a pair of shapely legs. First thing on his agenda after dropping his gear at the big house was getting laid. Doyle would laugh his ass off if he ever learned how a pair of dummy legs had distracted Emmett. For a moment, they looked real enough. Unable to take the stench of the bins, he headed back to his car. A clanking noise stopped him in midstride.

“Where the fuck are those damn eyes?”

Emmett heard the voice, but couldn’t find its source. It was dammed sexy, husky enough to make his cock twitch. He glanced back in time to see the legs move. How’d he mistaken them for a mannequin? Curious to see the rest of the woman attached to them, he crossed back to the bin and pulled her up.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing head first in a garbage bin?” His balls tightened to a painful knot when her generous ass brushed over his face. It was big and round. Emmett couldn’t stop his hand from smacking it. Hello, sweet cheeks. Where have you been all my life? he thought, swallowing back drool. Today is my lucky day…OohRah!

“Ouch. What the fuck is wrong with you, jerk?” The woman squealed with outrage and tried to pull out of his grip.

He’d no idea why he’d done it. Just a glance at her butt and his hand acted on its own. His rod was so hard he could have drilled a hole through a concrete a wall. Emmett hoped she wasn’t too angry, because he had plans for her later that evening.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were slipping and I tried to grab you. Here, let me help you.” He plastered what he hoped was his charming smile on his face, lying to her without a second thought.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Slappy. I can get out without your help,” she yelled, tugging his arms to try to get free.

Fat chance. She was right where he wanted her. He tightened his grip around her waist, but she screamed bloody murder, bringing everyone within earshot. Now why had she gone and done that and ruined such a romantic moment?

In a town ran by a wolf pack it meant everybody. She squirmed against him, trying to break loose. She gasped before painfully digging her nails into his arms. His wolf growled a warning. I’ve scented my mate. If you hurt her, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life.

“Candy, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Emmett recognized the voice as to belonging to Max Dietz. He remembered him as a little boy genius always trying to build or fix something. Max’s defiant stared told Emmett he wasn’t that little boy anymore. The protective stance he’d taken in front of the woman spoke volumes. His wolf snarled at him, trying to assert his ownership. To the boy’s credit, he flinched but didn’t move.

Emmett looked at his arms. She’d drawn blood. It pooled around her nails. Now that she was out of the bin her scent hit him like a pie on a clown’s face. Mother fucker, she smelled good, even among garbage. The more he tightened his hold, the harder she squirmed, rubbing that ass against his happy cock.

“Oh, hell, no. Are you growling at me? Is that your… Ewww, dude, stop poking me with your shit.”

Boy was she full of spirit, but he had to work on her language. “Stop rubbing your bubble butt against it. You’re making me horny,” he whispered into her ear. To make his point he ground his hips harder.

“You’re disgusting.” She gasped angrily, but Emmett wasn’t fooled. He could smell her. She wanted him.

“Your ass is sweet like your name,” Emmett whispered again, then gave Max a warning growl. The young pup reached for his woman. His? Where the hell had that came from? Startled, he pushed her into Max’s arms. What was wrong with him? He’d never reacted to a woman this way before. She’s human. I can’t get involved with one right now or ever.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

TURKISH DELIGHT by Rosemary Laurey

TURKISH DELIGHT by Rosemary Laurey

Special Investigations Agency

For Special Investigations Agency Operatives Destiny Tremayne, Jenna MacDonald and Nur Aydan, Christmas isn’t all about celebrating.

Nur Aydan, a moroii—a living vampire—accepts a commission in the UK, investigating investment of terrorist funds. The supposedly routine job has Nur involved in a local protest over rights-of-way, rescuing demonstrators from attackers, using her moroii abilities to thwart terrorists…And falling in love.



She'd sworn she'd never do this again. So much for oaths and promises. Not only had she come to meet Paul, but she was seriously considering accepting another assignment. Or was she? Nur Aydan looked down at the narrow street below. A party of tourists, like a pack of sheep, with digital cameras instead of bells around their necks, paused as their guide indicated the building opposite: a former Ottoman merchant's house. The tourists hung on every word of the patter, soaking up a mass of historical inaccuracies about life in the harem, while a few meters overhead, stood a true relic of the past - a moroii- a living vampire, blood-linked to the gypsies who roamed the reaches of the empire in the days of the sultans. A moroii employed, to her mother's constant worry, as an secret agent by The Special Investigations Agency.

Heaven help her! She was thinking like Aunt Zenip, who endlessly lamented lost glories of the Empire and times long gone. Meanwhile...Nur turned back to Paul Morel, seated on the divan in the corner. "I'm not ready for another job, Paul. Give me some time."

"This isn't a real job, Nur. All it will take is a weekend. You'll be back by Monday. It's what out English friends would call a 'doodle'."

"I think you mean a 'doddle'."

"Ah! You agree."

"How can I agree, when I have no idea what you're talking about?"

"How about an all-expenses paid holiday?"

The man was a comedian as well as a spy master. "I've earned it after that last job. How about a week or two in Antakya?"

"A weekend in England."

"At this time of year? Forget it. I'll take Iskenderun if Antakya is all booked up, but..."

"Nur! Will you listen?"

She should have expected that. Walking back to the cheap divan against the wall, she sat down. This place got shabbier each time they met, but neither of them came for the decor. She folded her arms on her chest, leaned back against the pillows, and eyeballed Paul Morel. "I'm listening."

"Brussels got a communique from our Washington Bureau. About investment of suspected terrorist funds." Ha! Paul knew that would get her attention. Nur acknowledged with a nod and he went on. "They want someone to check on things.."

"There's no one in the UK?" There was a catch. She knew it.

"No one with your strength. It's you or a bulldozer."

"You know how to pay compliments! A bulldozer!"

"Nur, I saw you stop a forklift."

A tactical mistake on her part. "Alright, so I can stop moving machinery with my bare hands. What have these terrorists been buying up? Old factories?"

"A prehistoric stone circle."

Damn good thing she was sitting down. Anyone but Paul, she'd have thought was joking, but Paul didn't have a humorous bone in his body. "You can't just buy them! They're historical monuments, national treasures." Would be like buying up the Dolmabaçe Palace or the Topkapi. "Aren't they owned by the government?"

"Most of them."

"But one just happened to be up for sale, and was bought by a suspect group?"

He nodded. "Should I send out for tea?"

"Coffee, Paul and very sweet." She didn't miss the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as he turned to the telephone. He'd hooked her and they both knew it.

"In the name of the Special Investigations Agency, thank you," Paul said as he put down the phone.

"Just a weekend job, eh? Good! I have a dinner engagement on Monday."

He gave a flicker of a smile. "Hollrigg is a megalithic stone circle on the edge of the North Yorkshire Moors. Until a year ago it belonged to a local family. One of only two privately owned megaliths in the UK. Recently the aging owner-she was well over eighty I believe-put it up for sale, hoping a local preservation group would raise the money. A business consortium bought it, preempting the proposed arrangement, and paying about five times the asking price."

"A lot of money for a bunch of old stones."

"Very old stones."

"So they need a tax write-off. They are amateur archeologists wanting to preserve the site for posterity. They need a novel site for employee training. Doesn't mean they are terrorists."

"The company who bought it, Rudicorp, is based in Yemen, and has definite ties to terrorist funding. They do, admittedly, have some legitimate business operations, and maybe, just maybe they bought it in the interests of preserving western culture," Paul paused, "but unlikely. and in the present climate, we investigate everything."

"What am I supposed to do? Pick up the stones up one by one and check for bombs underneath?"

"If you deem it necessary."

"Very funny, Paul. What am I really supposed to do?"

"Find out what the hell is going on. Lurk around the site, and use your superior hearing and sight to ascertain whatever you can."

"Why me? You've got other agents with special abilities."

"They are all occupied. We've been particularly busy the past year or so."

"So, you're scraping the bottom of the barrel and calling on me."

"Don't talk rot! You're one of our best. I know you need a break after the last job, but this is more investigation than action. You're going to look around, that's all." She bet!

At a knock on the door, Paul crossed the room. The teenager from the cafe downstairs entered, placed two small cups were on the table in front of Nur, and left with a generous tip. Paul handed her a cup. She caught the rich, heady aroma, sniffing appreciatively before tasting. Wonderful! Sweet, hot and thick, she might as well enjoy, she'd not get coffee like this in England.

Paul placed an envelope on the table. "Tickets, driving license, car rental reservation, credit cards, a little traveling money, and the passport you'll use."

He'd been that sure she'd agree, had he? Nur scowled and took another sip before setting her cup down and reaching for the envelope. "Yildiz Geçtan? School teacher? Give me a break, Paul!"

"It's a good cover. People expect teachers to poke around, ask questions and look at everything."

"And why am I wandering around the UK in December when I have a students to teach back here in Turkey?"

"You have a three month sabbatical, to travel in the UK and improve your English." She had to smile at that. Her English was better than Paul's. "You teach at the Dursan Academy in Istanbul. They will back up your story if needed."

How Paul did these things, she didn't want to know. She flicked open the ticket. Okay, teachers went tourist class, but... "Tomorrow morning!"

"An early flight. Stay tonight at the airport Radisson, in your traveling name. Your flight leaves at seven."

"What about minor details, like a tooth brush?"

He nodded towards the end of the divan. "There's a toothbrush in the bag, Nur, and your essentials. You'll have the usual supplies waiting for you at the hotel. If you need anything else, use the credit card in the envelope, and be sure to save all the receipts for accounting."

"I leave in the morning? Drat! I had an appointment for a manicure tomorrow morning."

"Reschedule for when you get back."

Paul really did have no sense of humor.

It started off, like the nice easy break Paul promised: a room service dinner at the Airport Radisson while Nur looked over Paul's notes before burning them in the bathroom wash basin and flushing the ashes. Not that they told her much. Paul seemed to think leaving her to find out for herself was the way to go. Which probably meant there was nothing going on and she was off on a routine mission-not that she'd ever had one of those, and half-doubted she'd recognize one if she tripped over it in broad daylight. But she gave up worrying, enjoyed the grilled shrimp and fish she'd ordered, and indulged her favorite desert: rosewater ice cream. She should go out and hunt, but lacked the energy. Tomorrow she'd find some willing Brit and feast.

Friday, August 29, 2014

WILD CHILD by Shelley Munro

WILD CHILD by Shelley Munro

Zoe Underwood is one sexy disruption.

From the moment her father married Matt’s mother, Zoe has tempted Matt Cantrell with her seductive curves and driven him crazy with her flirting and provocative manner. The thing is they have no future because Zoe is his stepsister. Determined to dodge trouble, Matt leaves Auckland to live and work in the Gold Coast of Australia. A sea between them should do the trick and let him move forward without the “Zoe” distraction in his life.

Matt Cantrell is one stubborn dude.

No one presses Zoe’s buttons like the tall, dark and gorgeous Matt. In fact, every other man pales in comparison. One last play. Zoe decides to invade Matt’s territory and make her move before some other clever woman snaps him up. She’ll bust through emotional walls and push boundaries. By the time she’s finished, Matt won’t know what hit him. Yes. Good or bad, she’ll stir things up and take a chance on love.



Note for Readers: You must be over eighteen to read this excerpt.

Matt Cantrell frowned when he pushed open the front door to his Gold Coast beachside house. He was certain he’d locked it before he left for work. Positive. But it wasn’t locked now. Adrenaline rising, he reached around the corner and flicked on a light, glancing around the wide spaces of the open plan room. The trail of feminine apparel littering the tiled floor erased the lines from his forehead. Marisa had apparently recovered from her sulk at him for having to work late and cancel their date. A slow, satisfied grin curled his lips as he shut the door. Maybe showing her where he kept the spare key hadn’t been a mistake. A bout of hot sex was just the thing he needed to unwind.

He took half a step toward the bedroom, pausing to scoop up a shoe. When he fingered the flimsy leather straps, his smile turned feral. Damn, he’d thought he was in for months of empty-bed syndrome. With his current workload, he didn’t have time to find a replacement. Matt picked up the shoe’s mate and set them down, out of the way. The hair scrunchy came as a bit of a surprise. Marisa didn’t like to wear her hair loose and always wore it up in a fussy style he wasn’t game to touch. He registered the bright jewel colors of the scrunchy next, and a soft whistle broke the silence. The visit was definitely impulsive. His cock pulled tight in pure anticipation and an appreciative grin bloomed. Impulse wasn’t normally Marisa either, but he was happy to go with the flow.

The phone rang. Matt detoured to grab it up impatiently, his gaze on his bedroom door.

“Matt Cantrell.” He toed off his shoes and juggled the phone while he bent to yank off his socks.

“Matthew, thank goodness you’re home.” His mother’s anxious voice poured down the line.

Alarm bells clanged. Matthew straightened in concern. The time difference between New Zealand and Australia meant it was late in Auckland . Too late for his mother to ring. “Mum? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Matthew. It’s Zoë. She’s gone!”

“Gone where?” Matt asked, his breath easing out in relief. A storm in a teacup. Zoë was always testing parental boundaries. This time wouldn’t be any different. He shook his head, thinking about his feisty sister. Stepsister, actually, since they weren’t related in any way. They’d become a blended family when his mother and Zoë’s father had fallen in love and married. Not that he’d spent much time with his new stepsister since he’d already left home when Zoë and her father came on the scene. Prior to his mother’s remarriage, he’d started work at a large accounting firm in central Auckland and had already moved into a flat with three of his friends.

“We don’t know. We haven’t seen her since the day before yesterday,” his mother wailed.

“She’ll come round,” Matt said, wondering how soon he could join Marisa in his king-size bed. He didn’t want to think about Zoë. Hell, he tried not to think about her. The eight-year gap was a big one despite his sister’s maturity. Stepsister , his mind reminded him tartly. They weren’t related. “She’s probably staying with university friends.”

His mother sighed. “That’s what we argued about. Zoë’s dropped out. Says she doesn’t want to be a teacher any more. And she’s running with a wild crowd. I’m sure she’s sleeping with one of them. She came home with bruises all over her neck.”

Hickeys? Matt’s hand gripped the phone so hard his knuckles whitened. He’d moved across the Tasman Sea to avoid temptation—the siren lure cast by Zoë. Matt snorted inwardly. And the joke was she had no idea. He cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”

“I wondered if you’d heard from Zoë.”

“Not since Christmas. She told me off because I couldn’t make it home.”

His mother laughed—a forced laugh, but at least she sounded more in control. “Zoë was furious with you. She sulked for days.”

“Which makes it unlikely I’d hear from her,” Matt said in an even tone, ignoring the fact that Zoë had filled his thoughts every day since.

“I know, but it was worth a try. Matt, I’m so worried. Since Christmas, she’s been acting very strangely. Ring me if you hear from her.”

“Sure, Mum. Don’t worry. Zoë is an adult. You have to let her make her own decisions. Her own mistakes.” Shit, he didn’t want to think of Zoë. And definitely not as an adult. Thoughts of adults led to thinking of the things they did. Together. Hell, he’d thought he’d got over this thing for Zoë. A hickey for God’s sake. A hickey implied more togetherness than he was comfortable knowing about Zoë’s love life.

“Matt? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m working long hours.” A yawn punctuated his statement.

“Go to bed, dear.”

“Good idea,” Matt said, relaxing a little at the idea of Marisa waiting for him. Naked. Warm, willing feminine flesh. Maybe he could hold his fatigue at bay for long enough to enjoy Marisa.

After promising to contact them if Zoë rang, Matt hung up. He rotated one shoulder, aware of the tension inside. Matt groaned, a low, pained sound. He’d wanted Zoë in a sexual way since the day of her nineteenth birthday. Like a bolt of lightning, it had hit him without warning, bringing confusion and guilt. The feeling was just as strong three years later. And still forbidden.

A sea between them wasn’t helping. Perhaps he’d try London . Maybe an ocean or two would do the trick.

Matt stared at a silky black top. He picked it up and rubbed the sumptuous material between his fingers. Suddenly, his tiredness dropped away. He loosened his tie and tugged it off, draping it over the back of a cream leather chair along with Marisa’s top. Nimble fingers undid the buttons on his pale blue business shirt. The shirt joined the top and tie. Matt slipped into his bedroom.

The room was in total darkness, the whisper of breathing the only audible noise. Matt smiled. He stripped his trousers and boxer shorts off and placed them beside the bed. Matt tugged back the covers and crawled into bed. Marisa was lying on her side, facing away from him. Matt slid closer, smoothing his hand across her shoulder. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her bare back. She smelled of flowers—carnations to be exact. Nice. Different from Marisa’s usual spicy perfume. He liked this one much better.

Matt nuzzled behind her ear, and she stirred with a sleepy sigh. Smiling, he pressed a kiss to the smooth skin and stroked his hand down her arm and across her hip. She murmured again, starting to rouse. Good, cause he was definitely beginning to stir, his cock pressing insistently against her curvy backside. Time to rev up this interlude. Matt slipped a finger into the valley between her butt cheeks and traced a path toward her pussy. Her warm flesh parted. She sighed and spread her legs a fraction, just enough that he was able to graze his finger across her clitoris. She moved again, pressing her luscious ass against his swollen cock. Marisa had put on a bit of weight. He liked it. Matt massaged her clit with soft, gentle strokes until the tiny bud swelled. Marisa stirred again and froze. Then, she let out a shriek loud enough to wake the dead in the local cemetery and leapt from the bed.

“Keep away from me.” The note of fear told Matt she wasn’t playing games.

“I’ll get the light.”

“No! Just go, and I won’t tell anyone.”

Matt froze in the act of reaching for the light. His gut churned with acute apprehension. He knew that voice. Suddenly, all the new things he’d noticed about Marisa made sense.

With a sick and sinking sensation in his stomach, Matt stood and fumbled with the bedside lamp. Soft light bathed the masculine room. He swore, low with feeling. “What are you doing here, Zoë?”

Instead of answering, Zoë stared at him with big, brown eyes. When her gaze dropped, Matt cursed again and reached for his trousers, rapidly stepping into them and forcing the zipper over his erection.

“Put some clothes on.” There was a distinct snap in his voice. Self-loathing sat heavily in the bottom of his gut. His mother and John would die of shock if they found out. They weren’t going to find out. He sure as hell wasn’t going to confess to his monumental cock-up.

“I’ll make coffee.” He strode from the room but couldn’t resist a last look at Zoë. She caught him in the act, and he jerked as if touched with a hot poker. Matt swore. Zoë’s curvy image was seared on his retinas for life.

Instead of making coffee, Matt strode across the terracotta tiles and headed straight for his liquor cupboard in the ultra modern kitchen. He opened the door and pulled out the first bottle that came to hand. Whiskey. Unscrewing the cap, he drank straight from the bottle. A peaty flavor cut across his taste buds. He closed his eyes and swallowed. Mistake. Zoë’s sexy shape flashed in front of his eyes. He’d… Matt shuddered, still able to feel the warm, clinging flesh of her pussy even though he wasn’t touching her any longer.

“Do you grope every woman you find in your bed?” Zoë demanded.

“It’s my bed,” he snapped, his eyes flicking open. Zoë wore his robe belted around her trim waist. Shit, he wasn’t the one in the wrong here. He was the innocent victim in this… debacle. “You were naked.”

“Because the airline lost my luggage,” Zoë said, folding her arms across her chest. His eyes followed the move, noting in the years since he’d last seen Zoë, she’d filled out in a spectacular fashion. His cock jerked in displeasure, reminding Matt he required satisfaction. But that wasn’t going to happen—not with a woman at any rate.

“Why did you leave your clothes all over the place?’ Matt demanded, trying to wrest control of the interrogation from Zoë.

“Do you have sex with all the naked women you find in your bed?” The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten the plump curves of her lips. Matt followed the innocent move with avid attention. He’d forgotten how beautiful Zoë was with her tangle of long dark curls hanging loose around her shoulders, her deep brown eyes, olive skin and sexy, kissable lips. Wild child. Matt shook himself from the sensual spell, but his palms itched with the need to touch.


“What?” Concentrate, dammit. “I’m asking the questions here.”

Zoë ignored his question. “Touching me was no big deal. I’ve had sex before. I won’t tell tales.”

Matt realized his mouth had dropped open and snapped it shut. He’d lost control of this situation the minute he’d realized he’d had his hands all over his stepsister. “I thought you were Marisa,” he snarled. “What the hell else was I meant to think when I arrived home to find a trail of clothes leading to my bedroom?”

“Marisa?” Her bottom lip quivered.

“My girlfriend.”

“Looks like she stood you up.” The hurt expression disappeared, replaced by an enigmatic one. An impish smile glinted in her eyes. “I’m going back to bed. You coming?”

Thursday, August 28, 2014

PHOTOREALISM by Julia Talbot

PHOTOREALISM by Julia Talbot

Nature photographer July is determined to capture a moose in his lens during a trip to Colorado. What he finds instead is a beautiful wolf who seems more than happy to pose for him. Rhys wants July to see him as a man, too, but can he convince July that his shifting abilities are real?

Also available in the DAWG DAYS Anthology which includes stories from Julia Talbot, Jae Christopher, V.L. Locey, Winnie Jerome, Mychael Black, Cecil Wilde, M. Lee, Tray Ellis, Rob Rosen, L.J. Hamlin and Lorne Rodman


July James aimed his powerful lens at the wolf cavorting in the water. Wolf reintroduction on Grand Mesa was going well from what he could see. This guy was a huge, healthy male with a glossy gray and black coat. The wet tail waved furiously, the wolf jumping and playing in the cold creek, bouncing as if he was hunting in the snow.

God, that was adorable. July had come to the big flattop mountain in Western Colorado to photograph moose, which were also a successful reintroduction, but this wolf had caught his attention three days ago, and he'd been stalking the silly beast since then.

The only worrisome thing about the big gray was how solitary he seemed. Wolves ran in packs, so why was this one so alone? He didn't seem to have any rabies symptoms, and God knew he looked healthy. Then again, he wasn't wearing any kind of radio tag, so maybe he was a wandering male.

Still, the pictures were totally worth the extra time he'd have to spend camping so he could get his moose shots, too. There was something about this animal, something that drew him, made him want to fill a dozen memory cards with images.

He brought the camera around to another angle, his eye at the view instead of watching the digital screen. July froze then, because the wolf stopped its play and turned its head to stare at him, right at him, it seemed. Those golden eyes met his, steady and unafraid, and July felt a lot less like a professional photographer and more like a yummy chew toy for those few moments.

Backing off slowly, he packed his camera away, careful to keep one eye on the wolf. Then he moved carefully toward the main trail, which would have enough foot traffic during these summer months to deter the wolf from following him. His heart slammed against his ribcage. Damn, he was lucky this particular wolf wasn't running with a pack and had only himself to protect and feed.

That had been entirely too close.

Maybe he'd take the rest of the day off. Who really wanted to work on a day as pretty as this anyway?


Wednesday, August 27, 2014



Vic Fallon Book 3

A tough private eye gets involved with a blonde beauty in a search for her missing husband—but how many more wives are waiting in the wings?

Former cop Vic Fallon is content to live in Sandusky, Ohio, on his disability settlement and take the occasional private eye job when he isn’t fishing. He doesn’t really want to get involved in a missing persons case, but when Amy Bergen arrives from Tennessee looking for her estranged husband who’s avoiding divorce court, Vic is taken in by her southern charm and agrees to help her. His search brings him into contact with a local gangster wannabe, a crooked cop and a gambling syndicate. When another woman shows up claiming to be the missing man’s wife, the case takes a bizarre turn. Can Vic find the wayward husband before all of his wives catch up with him? Will his feelings for Amy develop into something more than professional?



Detective Dave Becker sat behind his desk at the Sandusky, Ohio Police Department, looking at the complaint report in his hand. He reached up with his free hand to tug at the open collar of his short-sleeved shirt, then lightly scratched behind his ear. The air conditioner was on but not working efficiently enough to impact the late June heat. He exhaled a slow breath and looked at the woman seated across his desk. She was a petite, busty blonde in her early thirties, about five-feet-five with light blue eyes, who had traveled to the northern Ohio village from Tennessee. Becker mentally prepared himself for the speech he was about to give.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bergen, but this isn’t really a police matter. You say your husband…”

“Ex-husband,” Amy Bergen corrected in a voice that had a slight southern drawl. “I mean, he will be my ex as soon you track him down and get him to sign the divorce papers. Then I can get together with my new beau.”

“As I was saying, this really isn’t something we can help you with.”

Amy looked surprised. “You do look for missing persons, right?”

“Yes, but your husband…”

“Soon to be ex-husband.”

“Right. Your soon-to-be-ex-husband isn’t technically missing. You say he left…where did you say you were from?”

“Lenoir City, Tennessee. It’s just outside Knoxville.”

“He left Lenoir City and you think he came here, but if he isn’t wanted for a crime and there are no outstanding warrants, there’s nothing we can do.”

She exhaled an exasperated breath. “Well, I just find that hard to believe. Back home the police would’ve served those papers and made him sign them.”

Becker shrugged. “I’m sorry, but unless the police or court issues a warrant, we can’t do anything.”

“There must be something. I tracked that polecat to this part of your lovely state on my own. He can’t be that hard to find.”

Becker opened his desk drawer, withdrew a business card then handed it across the desk. “That’s the card for someone who may be able to help you.”

Amy scrutinized it. “Vic Fallon,” she recited then looked at Becker. “What is he, some high-priced private eye?”

“Not exactly. He’s a friend who used to be a cop. He does this sort of thing once in awhile. If you can’t reach him at the number on that card, try Freighters Lounge on Marblehead.”

“Try what on where?”

“Freighters Lounge is a local bar where he hangs out. Marblehead Peninsula is about ten miles from here. Just go west on State Route 2 and follow the signs. Anyone can tell you how to get there if you get lost.”

Amy stood and politely extended her hand across the desk. “Thank you for your time, Detective Becker.”

Becker smiled, shook hands with her then watched her leave his office. He lowered his eyelids slightly. Oh, if only I weren’t married…


Tuesday, August 26, 2014

HER ANCIENT HYBRID by Marisa Chenery

HER ANCIENT HYBRID by Marisa Chenery

Brolach is old. Ancient. A hybrid, half vampire and half werewolf, he’s a true immortal who can never die. He’s lived for three thousand years, but has slept buried for two of them. It isn’t until a female comes to the hill where he sleeps does he come awake, ready to protect her, his vampire side knowing she’s his mate.

Physically threatened by her ex-boyfriend while out on a hike in the grasslands has unexpected results for Waverly. A man, muddy and covered in dirt, explodes out of the ground to rescue her. After he turns into a wolf and chases off her ex, she soon loses it when he turns his attention to her.

With the help of Waverly, Brolach adjusts to the new world he’s awakened in to. The new life he sets about making with his mate is soon threatened by one of the vampires who’d killed his family and had buried him alive.



Brolach was three thousand years old and had “slept” through two thousand of them. He was the only one of his kind—a hybrid, half vampire and half werewolf. Even though he’d been under the ground for so long he’d been partly aware of the surface world. People traversed the area, and as the years went by, the language they spoke changed. His mostly-asleep brain learned it enough to understand it.

Something brought his mind closer to wakefulness before he was ready to be roused. There was a presence on the hill where he was buried. It drew him and captured his attention as nothing had done for centuries. It was female, which caused a part of him to stir.

Soon a male joined her. Brolach listened to their conversation, his sensitive hearing able to pick up each word spoken. The longer he listened the more he awakened from his long slumber. The need to protect the female came to life. Never before had he’d felt like that toward a member of the opposite sex. The vampire side of him instinctively knew she was his. His mate. The werewolf wouldn’t know for sure until he had her scent in his nose.

The sound of the male’s voice raised in anger would have had Brolach’s hackles rising if he’d been in wolf form. It wasn’t until the female screamed did he come fully awake. The sound was full of fear.

Brolach burst out of the ground. His fangs lengthened at the sight of the male holding the female by the arm with a raised fist, ready to strike. Brolach snarled his upper lip and growled a warning. All his protective instincts roared to the surface. He latched his gaze on to the human who threatened his mate.

He surged into action. Brolach closed the distance between them, broke the male’s grip on the female and tossed him away. He landed with a shriek, then whimpered as Brolach approached him. He was tempted to kill the weaker male, to drain him of the blood he needed after his long sleep, but he decided against it. This new world he awoke to wasn’t the same as the one he’d known. Death wasn’t doled out so easily or frequently as it’d once been.

Rather than take the male’s life, Brolach reached for the werewolf half of himself and brought on the change. He took on his wolf form in a matter of seconds. His hackles rose and he growled as he made a threatening step toward the male. That was enough to send the human scuttling backward before he clumsily gained his feet and took off running down the hill.

Once he was sure the male wouldn’t come back, Brolach turned to take his first good look at the female who was his mate. She had long, light brown hair that she wore loose around her shoulders. She was the perfect height to tuck her head under his chin when he held her against his chest. Her hazel eyes were wide and filled with fear, but that didn’t take away any of her beauty. His cock stirred to life for the first time in two thousand years.

He slowly walked toward her, which had a whimper pushing out of her. Even though she was scared of him, Brolach didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of her. He shifted back to his human form, thinking she’d find it easier to handle.

He took a deep breath. Her scent filled his lungs and his head. He found it intoxicating, and it set off his werewolf’s senses. His wolf side recognized her as his mate along with the vampire. She was his. A mate. The first woman he’d ever wanted to claim.

Brolach reached out for her only to have her suck in a lungful of air and then let it out in a high-pitched scream. That didn’t bother him so much as how fast her heart beat. The sharp bitter scent of her fear grew stronger. As she opened her mouth to scream again, he caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look him in the eyes.

With his vampire ability to compel lacing his words, he said softly, “You’ll no longer fear me. You’re perfectly safe. No harm will come to you. We’ll leave this place and you’ll take me to your home to provide me with food and clothing.”

All at once, she calmed down. Her heart beat at a normal rate, and the scent of fear blew away on the slight breeze. She nodded as her gaze remained fixed on him. “Okay,” she said, sounding in a daze.

“What’s your name?”


“I’m Brolach.”

“Brolach,” she repeated in the same dazed voice.

“I’ll release you now. No more screaming. You’ll always feel safe with me.”

He stopped compelling, releasing the hold he had over her mind. Waverly blinked a few times, coming back to herself. Brolach hoped never again to have to use it on his mate. If there had been any other way to have calmed her, he would have chosen it rather than take her free will away.

Waverly took a deep breath and looked him up and down. “Come on. We’d better get out of here before someone sees you.”

Brolach stayed at her side as she headed down the hill. As they walked, he gazed at the landscape around them. It really hadn’t changed much over the last two thousand years. He still recognized it as the land where he’d hunted buffalo and deer.

Monday, August 25, 2014



Every dream can come true…in unexpected ways.

The only time Glenn Brody acted on the waking dreams his mother called second sight, he landed in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Now he keeps himself grounded in the real world, turning a neglected Scottish mansion into a co-op that gives ex-cons a second chance.

He’s almost managed to ignore the persistent, erotically charged dreams featuring a beautiful, passionate woman—until that woman accosts him in the street to ask for a job.

In hiding from her violent ex, Izzy Ross has made a peaceful life for herself and her young son in the isolated Highland village of Ardknocken. Handsome men with a criminal record aren’t high on her list, but when work dries up, she’s forced to ask Glenn for a menial cleaning job at the big, dusty house.

Their mutual attraction turns all their preconceived notions upside down, and stirs the mansion’s legendary ghost. Attracting the kind of media attention that could force Glenn to make a perilous choice to save the woman he’s grown to love.


Excerpt:Copyright © 2014 Marie Treanor
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
He didn’t look like a laird. He was big and rough, wore tatty, mud-stained jeans and a baggy grey sweater, and he crouched on the roof of the largest outhouse, hammering nails into slates. His thick, too-long brown hair was tied back in a careless ponytail.

As Fiona and Jeremy emerged around the side of the big house into the yard, he lifted his head to face them. For the tiniest instant, he remained perfectly still, then he slid down the roof and dropped lightly to the ground. He still gripped the hammer in one large hand as he walked toward them. Something in his stride reminded Fiona of a caged animal, its violence temporarily controlled but far from tamed. It did things to her libido—until she looked into his watchful, scarred face and remembered, finally, why his name had seemed familiar.

Oh shit! He was holding a hammer, and Jeremy had no idea who he was.

Frozen, Fiona watched Jeremy walk forward to meet him, hand outstretched. “I’m told you’re the laird,” he said jovially.

“I’m Glenn Brody.”

She was right. It was him—Glasgow gangster and reputed hit man, recently released after serving ten years of a murder sentence. And yet G. Brody was listed as the owner of Ardknocken House and estate.

Clearly, the name meant nothing to Jeremy, who’d never had the benefit of working in Scotland. He beamed at the ex-con. “Excellent! My name’s Jeremy Danehurst. I work for a television company called Genuine. This is my colleague, Fiona Marr—whom you may recognize!”

Brody took his time to shift the hammer to his left hand before grasping Jeremy’s in his right for the briefest shake. Then he glanced at Fiona, who felt like a rabbit trapped in headlights. Or staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle. His lips twisted slightly, but no one could have called it a smile. To her relief, he didn’t offer to shake hands with her.

Jeremy said, “Fiona’s going to be fronting a new series we’re doing on haunted houses.”

“Another one?” Brody said sardonically.

“This one’s going to be a bit different,” Jeremy assured him. “We’re looking at historically significant places, bringing genuine background into the story of the haunting. So we’d love to feature Ardknocken House in one of our programmes. You should have had a letter, but we didn’t receive your answer, so I don’t know—”

“I didn’t send any answer,” Brody interrupted. “I understood that would be taken as ‘no’.”

Jeremy laughed easily. He was good at this stuff. But even his southern English ears must have picked up Brody’s accent, by now—hardly public school, or even regionless Scottish like her own. Brody’s was pure Glasgow. Although, admittedly, you could make out the words.

“Mr. Brody,” Jeremy said with an expansive wave toward the weathered grey turrets and stone walls of Ardknocken House. To Fiona, they no longer looked romantic and atmospheric; they seemed as threatening as the man who owned them. “You can’t expect us to give up on such a fabulous opportunity without a second try.”

“Is that why you’re here? Sorry you’ve wasted your time. My answer’s no. Unequivocally. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Somewhere, in prison or out, he’d developed enough social presence to make it impossible for them to stay. Almost like obedient children, she and Jeremy allowed themselves to be shepherded around the side of the house. From inside, a muffled cacophony of rock music and machinery drifted through the stone or from open windows. Fiona could hear a television too.

“Can I ask why?” Jeremy hazarded, still not giving up.

Brody shrugged. “Too busy. And besides, the house isn’t haunted.”

“We wouldn’t get in your way,” Jeremy promised.

Brody looked at him. “Yes,” he said, “you would.”

Even Jeremy blinked rapidly at that, a rare sign of fluster.

They rounded the corner to the front of the house, where they’d parked the car. Outside the impressive—and now open—front door, a young woman and a wiry, middle-aged man were arguing, although they shut up when they caught sight of “the laird” and his visitors.

“Good-bye,” Brody said with finality. He stood still as they walked on to the car. Fiona felt only relief.

But Jeremy, bloody Jeremy, paused with his fingers already on the door handle. He turned back and said over his shoulder, “You do understand that we’d pay you?”

It was, she supposed, inspiration. A place like this must cost a fortune to keep up. And even Brody, who didn’t look exactly tempted, gazed at him consideringly before he asked, “How much?”

Fiona gaped when the number rolled off Jeremy’s lips. Twice what they’d agreed to pay even the most mercenary of participants so far.

“F*ck,” said the wiry man on the doorstep with undisguised admiration.

Brody’s expression didn’t change. Then: “I’ll think about it,” he said abruptly, and turning on his heel, he walked up the steps past the two people at the door and disappeared inside.

“What’s to think about?” Chrissy demanded, following him into the house. “Money like that would solve more than a few immediate problems!”

Glenn could hear the car’s engine starting up outside. He shrugged but kept walking toward the dark oak staircase. “Whether or not we want them here. They’re making TV programmes about haunted houses, so they’d be under our feet day and night.”

“Meeting tonight, then?” Chrissy pursued.

Without turning, he could see the pound signs in her eyes. With the TV money, they could buy the new equipment now and still deal with the most necessary of the house repairs. Though she’d have to sell the idea of visitors to more grumpy ex-cons that him.

When he’d first got out of prison, Glenn couldn’t bear being indoors, even in the pouring rain or howling gales. But here at Ardknocken, it never felt like being enclosed. The house was too big, too gracious. Light poured in its big, Victorian windows, flooded all the way down the main stairwell from the huge skylight in the roof. It was why he’d first let others stay here, because even if you heard their voices, you never needed to see their owners, let alone walk into them. Unless you chose.

He chose now to leave the rest of the outhouse roof until tomorrow. Instead, he felt the urge to play, solely for his own amusement. And making these choices for himself was still a pleasing novelty. He leapt up the stairs two at a time, stretching his legs out, and strode along the landing to the next flight, which he took at equal speed.

At the end of the next hall, he pushed open his bedroom door and went in, swiping up his favourite acoustic guitar as he went. Then he sat cross-legged on his unmade bed, by the window, the guitar resting on his thighs as he gazed out over the rugged landscape to the scattered village and the sea beyond. Farther to the right, the hills loomed tall and ancient, reminding him of his own and everyone else’s tiny place in the hugeness of the world.

He strummed the guitar once, and then he saw her, the woman who’d been haunting his waking visions for months, a fraction of a second before the world altered.

That was different. The tilt into the dream usually happened first. Perhaps it had just been hard to perceive, because in the dream, he was still in bed, just not with the guitar. And it wasn’t this bed or this room.

But the really important thing was, he lay naked, cradled between the bare hips of a woman, pushing slowly and exquisitely inside her. Her long, black hair spilled over the white pillow. Her huge, liquid-brown eyes stared up into his with aching passion as she clung to him, undulating beneath him.

He was so struck with her expression, with his effect on her, that it was several moments before he recognized his own state of physical bliss—something he seemed to have no control over. He didn’t choose how or when to move, he just did, sliding in and out of her, arching to bend his head and kiss her beautiful dusk-peaked breasts. She had such beautiful breasts, full and pert, a perfect fill, surely, even for his big hands. He wanted to try, to see if the hand that caressed her was his, but he was stroking lower down, holding her hips steady.

He plunged faster now, licking the tiny beads of perspiration from her brow as she moaned and gasped with increasing intensity. Her fingers ran up and down his spine, digging, clutching. He could stay here all day and into the night. Oh yes.

When the storm broke over her, a smile split her face like sunshine, and yet tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as she writhed and convulsed beneath him. He took her mouth, swallowing her cries, driving into her again and again until, finally—

He sat on his own unmade bed, the guitar barely held in his slack hands.

Glenn squeezed his eyes shut in desperation, but the vision had gone.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

MILES' REDEMPTION by Marisa Chenery

MILES' REDEMPTION by Marisa Chenery

Roxie's Protectors-Book Seven

Miles knew using Dirk’s online dating service wouldn’t be the best way to find his mate and is proven right when his date stands him up. But his bad luck turns to good when his would-be mate walks through the restaurant’s doors.

Kareena has been on a dating dry streak since her fiancé of seven years dumped her the year before. She wants the hottie who sits close to her and her friends’ table to be the one to end it, but she doesn’t have enough nerve to go up and talk to him. After meeting Miles, her life ends up going in a direction she never thought would exist. She soon learns she's the only thing that can secure Miles’ redemption.



Her heart beat faster as she neared his table. You can do this, she told herself as a pep talk. As his gaze latched on to her and didn’t waver, Kareena lost her nerve. She quickly changed direction and walked as fast as she could in her drunken state to the women’s washroom.

Once she was closed inside, she groaned as she silently called herself all kinds of vile names. While she was there, she used the toilet. Kareena was sure her friends were all shaking their heads at her. She hadn’t always been like this. Before her ex, she’d been more outgoing with the opposite sex, but since her breakup, she’d found she couldn’t get back into her old groove. Even though it’d been a year, Kareena hadn’t been out on a single date. With her busy work schedule, and trying to get over being dumped by her fiancé, she hadn’t made a point of getting back into the dating world. And being over thirty, she didn’t think that’d be an easy task, anyway.

She washed her hands and took some deep, calming breaths. She’d march back out and walk straight to the guy’s table. She’d introduce herself and then ask him to take her to his place and screw her brains out. No. Kareena wouldn’t say that. Maybe he’d be more interested in sneaking her into the men’s room and taking her against the washroom stall door. She shook her head, which only made the room spin a bit. Where the hell had that idea come from? The men’s room? Ah, gross. She had to be drunker than she’d thought. Or horny enough to do the hunk anywhere. It had been a year since she’d last done the horizontal mambo, after all.

Kareena left the washroom and headed once more in the direction of the table where, thank god, the hottie still sat. His gaze latched on to her, and it felt as if he physically touched her breasts when it lingered there. She forgot to breathe as her pussy grew wet, an ache building deep inside it.

In her inattention, she stumbled into a chair, which made a screech as the legs dragged across the hardwood floor. Embarrassed by her klutziness, Kareena lost her nerve again and made a beeline for the table where her friends sat. She couldn’t even look over at the hunk to see what his reaction was.

She slid onto the bench seat, grateful to see a full glass of wine on the table in her spot. Kareena picked it up and took a big sip. She looked at all her friends and found them giving her disappointed looks.

Kareena shrugged. “All right, I’m chicken shit and couldn’t do it.”

“You need to get out of the slump you’re in,” Alice said.

“I will. It just won’t be with him unless he comes over to talk to me.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then it wasn’t meant to be.”

There was still disapproval on her friends’ faces, but they didn’t say anything else. Kareena finished her wine, knowing full well she’d gone over her limit and would probably come to regret it in the morning. Right now, she just felt way too good to care.

Once they’d taken care of the bill, all four of them slipped off the seats, then headed for the restaurant’s entrance. Kareena was definitely not very steady on her feet, but she managed to keep in a straight line.

It didn’t remain that way when she reached the doors. She stepped back so Lacy could open them, and Kareena’s sense of balance went all out of whack. She would have fallen, but a set of strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind and pulled her against a hard, male body. She turned her head to look up at who held her and saw it was the hunk. Her mouth suddenly went dry, especially when the unmistakable ridge of his erection pressed into the small of her back. Arousal tore through her, making her knees even weaker.

He smiled. “I’ve got you.”

“Hi,” she said, the one word coming out a bit slurred.

“Let me help you outside.”

Kareena didn’t say a word as he shifted her to his side and tucked her under his arm. He was tall—at least six-foot-three. She liked tall men since she was no munchkin. The heat from his body seemed to envelope her as she put her arm around his waist to anchor herself. The scent of his cologne hit her nose, and she dragged in a lungful, liking the smell.

Outside, her friends gave her encouraging smiles and said their goodbyes, leaving Kareena alone with the hottie. She was sure she’d get phone calls from all of them tomorrow.

She looked at the hunk and found him intently watching her. Her pussy clenching with need, Kareena said the first thing that came to her mind. “I’m Kareena. Why don’t you take me to your place?” Of course all her words kind of slurred together, but the smile he flashed her said he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m Miles,” he said in his deep voice. “Are you sure you’re in any condition for that?”

“I’ll admit I’m a bit drunk, but I’m good.”

“How about I drive you home instead?”

“Okay. You can spend the night with me.”

He chuckled and walked her over to the parking lot and a fancy black Audi. With a push of a button, he had the car unlocked. Once he had the passenger door open, he helped her onto the leather seat and waited until she’d buckled her seatbelt before he closed her inside. In a matter of seconds, he was behind the wheel and starting the engine.

Kareena settled deeper into the seat as Miles backed up and then drove out of the parking lot. Her eyes grew heavy as he merged with the traffic. Unable to keep them open any longer, she fell into a deep sleep.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

CUT THE CARDS by Desiree Holt

CUT THE CARDS by Desiree Holt

Club Fantasy Series

Kelly Leblanc had played with the top Doms at Club Fantasy. The private dungeon had truly lived up to its name for her, making all her sexual dreams come true. But one look at Tanner Sloat and she knew she hadn’t even scratched the surface. Especially when he introduced his new game, Cut he Cards. Learning that she would be performing with him before the crowd was the sexual icing on the cake. But then the game began and she discovered a whole new level of eroticism and satisfaction.


Excerpt 1

But with all the women he’d met, all the partners he’d had, none had ever been a punch to the gut like Kelly LeBlanc. He wanted to see her naked on her knees, hands behind her back, his cock in her mouth. Maybe with a plug in her butt and a vibrator keeping her right on the edge of orgasm. He might have a lot of self control, but there was a hard edge to his desired methods of play. He hoped Kelly was ready for it, because after only one look, he certainly was. He shifted the fabric of his leather pants to ease the pressure on his swollen cock.

“Ready?” he prompted. If she licked her lip one more time he was going to open his pants and thrust his cock into that tempting mouth.

She looked up at him. Whatever she saw in his eyes made her bow her head, cut the cards, and begin to lay them out.

He’d seen them all, of course. This was a game that worked for him whenever he was a guest at a new club, or breaking in a new sub. It gave both parties a sense of what the other would tolerate, would want, would eventually crave. He watched through narrowed eyes as she discarded some cards, placed others to the side. Interesting that she kept the picture of the St. Andrews Cross, the single tail whip, the electric violet wand, and the rider fucking ball. She paused at the three pictures of butt plugs, discarded two, and kept the medium sized one.

Oh, yeah. He wanted that plug in her ass while she rode the inflated ball with the dildo in her cunt. Blindfolded. Hands cuffed behind her back so her balance was unsteady. Shit! He was getting hot just thinking about it. His cock hardened, his balls tingled and the blood in his veins flowed in a heated rush. Her scent drifting up to his nostrils aroused him even more. He bet the juice of her pussy tasted like the finest nectar. Shit, his tongue tingled just at the thought of it.

She shuffled through another few cards, kept the one with the paddle on it and the one with the spreader bar. She hesitated at one and he leaned down to get a closer look.

Excerpt 2

At this point in her life it took a lot to steal Kelly’s breath away, but the man with Reulas managed to do it in an instant. He wasn’t as tall as most of the men she played with, probably not more than five ten, which suited her petite frame just fine. But it was a well-defined, sexually sizzling five foot ten. His body was muscular, not gym-conditioned, but that of a man who did some kind of hard labor for a living. Midnight black hair hung in a thick curtain of silk just to his shoulders and matching hair dusted the hard wall of his chest. His eyes were an unusual pale grey, fringed with thick black lashes, silver beacons in a square-jawed face with high cheekbones.

He exuded raw power, masculinity, and sex. Every muscle in Kelly’s body tightened, cream flooded the tiny crotch of her thong and her nipples hardened, poking into the soft material of her halter. An image flashed through her mind of this man naked, standing before her, his cock in her mouth while she sucked on it hungrily. Would his shaft be large? Of course. Her eyes dropped involuntarily to his crotch, where the soft leather of his pants did little to hide a significant bulge. She was instantly wet and needy and he hadn’t even said hello to her yet.

When she looked up at him a tiny knowing smile flirted with the corners of his mouth and sexual hunger flared in his eyes. Tanner raked his gaze over her slowly, taking in every inch of her. Now she knew what the phrase “undressing someone with his eyes” meant, because that was exactly how she felt. At that moment, if he’d told her to strip naked, get down on her hands and knees, and let him fuck her ass she’d have done it without a moment’s hesitation.

Holy shit!

She swallowed and curved her mouth in a smile. “Welcome to Club Fantasy.”

He dipped his head once. “I can see you’re everything Reulas said you were.”

And exactly what was that?

Friday, August 22, 2014

GETTING DIRTY by Erin Nicholas

Sapphire Falls Book Three

Travis Bennett is exactly the kind of guy Lauren Davis has been avoiding for the past nine years. Religiously. Stubbornly. Successfully. She knows too well how easy it is to let lust ruin perfectly laid plans. And a small town farmer with no ambitions beyond the borders of his own cornfield is not going to change her mind. She’s got important stuff to do. Her company is literally working to stop world hunger. Her plans are much bigger than Sapphire Falls. No matter how hot those farmers might be. 

The problem is—Lauren is falling in love. With Sapphire Falls. To kick her sudden desire to buy a welcome mat and start baking pies, she asks Travis to help her get over her crush. She wants him to show her what life in the small town is really like behind all the sweetness and sunshine and remind her that there’s no place for French manicures and Gucci heels on the farm. 

Travis has everything he wants or needs—a quiet, simple life in his hometown, a successful farm and his friends and family all around. A hoity-toity city chick who looks down on everything from the local coffee to his favorite music is the last girl he wants sticking around. So he agrees to her crazy plan. He can definitely show her the less-than-glitzy, rough-around-the-edges side of Sapphire Falls. In fact, things just might get downright dirty.



© copyright Erin Nicholas, 2014

“Whatever.” She was leaving. What the hell she was doing in the midst of chickens and cows, she didn’t know, but this was Sapphire Falls and it was the annual town festival—most of both of those things didn’t make sense to her.

She turned her back on the calf… and ran directly into a hard chest.

And something cold and wet.

“Ah!” She jumped back, shaking her hands free of the icy liquid that cascaded down the front of her soaking into her shirt and freezing her skin.

It was a warm June evening so she was quickly more concerned about the fact that the liquid was purple. On her white shirt. Because of course it was.

She looked up into the grinning face of the man whose grape slush had just soaked her.

Travis Bennett. Because of course it was. She sighed. Mud, cornstalks, manure… she’d had all of that on her at various times in Sapphire Falls and Travis Bennett was always the cause.

“Why am I always getting dirty when you’re around?” she demanded, grasping the front of her blouse and pulling the wet stickiness away from her stomach.

“Oh, darlin’ that ain’t dirty.”

No apology, no reaching for a napkin, no sheepish look. All she got was “darlin’” and the word “ain’t”. In a drawl that was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Oh, and a big, fat, cocky grin.

“I’m soaking wet!”

His grin pulled up more on one side. “Now that I have some theories about.”

Lauren narrowed her eyes and planted a hand on one hip. “Theories about what exactly?” She knew where he was going with this, but she wanted him to say it so she could shoot him down. Like every other time he’d made any kind of sexual innuendo.

“You being soaking wet when I’m around.”

She gestured to her clothes. “Clearly, you need carnival food to get me wet, Farmer Boy.”

“No kiddin’. I woulda pegged you for a fancy schmancy wine and caviar girl.”

Liquor actually. She loved a good martini.

“But hey, a girl who likes meat on a stick and funnel cakes is my kinda lady.”

Meat on a stick. Yeah, right. Though funnel cakes weren’t horrible. They involved powdered sugar after all.

She blew out an exasperated breath. Travis talked like a hick. Why did she want to put her hand down the front of the blue jeans that had been covered in who-knew-what in the course of the years he’d owned them?

Travis was a farmer. A small town farmer. A small town farmer who had never traveled outside of the county in which he’d been born—and his father had been born and his grandfather had been born. She knew the type. Too well. She’d been surrounded by the type, involved with the type, in love with the type, until she escaped to the city. Where she’d found real life. Real culture. Real coffee.

And it didn’t matter what city. She loved them all. Traffic, people, action… life. And not a cornfield or haystack for miles.

She was a city snob, a small-town-phobic. She knew it. She owned it.

And no good-looking, suntanned, slow talking, cheap beer guzzling small town farmer was going to change her opinion.

“Clearly the slushie needs to be applied externally for it to get me wet,” she told the cheap beer guzzling small town farmer she wanted to lick from head to toe. In a cornfield.

She hated him.

“You city chicks are into some weird stuff,” Travis said. “But darlin’, I’ll apply anything you want anywhere you want.”

Stupid tingles all over her body.

She put on an unaffected expression. “And I suppose it would be some sexy set-up like the bed of your truck with mosquitos buzzing around and maybe some straw poking me in the ass while we’re at it?”

He gave her a slow grin. “You, me, the bed of my truck... I’ll put twenty bucks on soaking wet in five minutes.”

The bed of his truck. Of course.

But it wouldn’t take five minutes and he knew it. Somehow.

Damn him.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

UP IN FLAMES by Tory Richards

UP IN FLAMES by Tory Richards

Rachel Masters has had a crush on her sexy boss for three years. As far as she knows the millionaire architect is oblivious to her, walking past her desk every morning with barely a nod in her direction. But when the power goes out and they're trapped in an elevator, the truth comes out in one steamy episode designed to take Rachel's mind off being claustrophobic.

James White doesn't have a crush on his receptionist. He wants her, it's as simple as that. He senses there's a real beauty hidden beneath the granny glasses and professional suits. And he plans to find out how hot she is as soon as the chance presents itself.


“How bad do you have it?”

His breath was warm against her face. Rachel swallowed. “I can overcome it most of the time, if I think of something else. But knowing that I can’t get out right this minute is the problem. I can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can. Just breathe in deep through your nose and release it slowly through your mouth.” He pulled the glasses off her face and tossed them away. “You’re tense. Try to relax.” His strong hands began to massage Rachel’s shoulders.

She closed her eyes and tried to do what he suggested, then shook her head no and said fiercely, “I can’t breathe. There’s no air.”

“Think of something else.”

She felt his hands move from her shoulders to the buttons at her blazer. She could tell he was unbuttoning it, and the next thing Rachel knew he was slipping it off her shoulders.

“It might help loosening up some of your clothing.”

Rachel felt a scorching blast of heat envelop her when James’ hands began to pull her silk blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. When his knuckles brushed her skin at the top of her blouse, she realized he was undoing more buttons at her breast. Her eyes bolted open, and her hands encircled his wrists. His movements stopped.

“What are you doing Mr. White?” she whispered.

“Helping you, I thought.” There was amusement swimming in his eyes.

“By undressing me?” Under normal circumstances she would be thrilled but she was still stressed over her situation.

“You can relax, Miss Masters. Your virtue is safe with me.”

“I’m not a virgin.” Why had she said that? Rachel wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

His soft laughter filled the elevator. “Well in that case, maybe you’re not safe with me.” He nudged her hands away and continued what he was doing. His gaze followed his hands while he unbuttoned her blouse, and when he was done he raised his eyes to hers.

She detected a slight difference in his breathing, and his features hardened with what she wanted to believe was growing desire.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

NIGHTFALL by Desiree Holt and Joey W. Hill

NIGHTFALL by Desiree Holt  and Joey W. Hill

Ranch owner Quinn Pedraza has to find someone to run the saloon he won in a bet, but more than that, he needs a woman who can handle his alpha personality…and closet submissive sexual cravings. When vampire Selene Torres arrives on the scene, he gets everything he wants—and learns what he really needs.

Inside Scoop: Quinn’s BDSM journey is not for the faint of heart and includes extreme sexual situations and dubious consent, as well as male/male scenes.


By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, please exit this site.

An Excerpt From: NIGHTFALL

Copyright © JOEY W. HILL & DESIREE HOLT, 2014

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Chapter One

Quinn Pedraza stared at the stack of bills and swore colorfully to himself. He didn’t need this aggravation. The After Hours Saloon had become nothing but a pain in the ass to him. Vendors wanted payment right now and, even though it was crowded every night, the place wasn’t generating the cash he’d hoped.

What did you expect out of a place you won in a poker game? He’d thought it would give him an extra source of income. What a laugh that was.

The office, its tiny space filled with the desk, a filing cabinet and two chairs, was a symptom of everything that was wrong. The floor and furniture were scarred and scuffed, paint was peeling on the walls and it seemed every day he accumulated more trash. He’d even stopped changing from his work clothes before heading out here. What difference did it make if the smell of horses and cattle and everything else still clung to him? The saloon wasn’t much better.

The inside of the building needed work and the bar setup needed a good overhaul, but with the end of summer and work ramping up at the ranch he didn’t have any time to get to it. He’d shut the damn place down, except in Nightfall there wasn’t another spot for people to hang out. That included men and women, ranchers and hands, good people and bums. If he shut down, they’d probably lynch him.

On the plus side, bad as things were going, he was lucky there was no competitor within miles of the place. But working the ranch all day then spending hours here at night was draining him, and not just financially. He’d spent too many years on the rodeo circuit, living out of trailers and tents, crowded into places with mobs of people. Privacy was important to him now. So why did he hang onto this place where he was thrust in the middle of people every night?

His Comanche grandfather, his mother’s father, would have berated him for even having a place that sold alcohol. Which was ironic, because Quinn had kept the place thanks to the advice of another Comanche—Sam Red Elk.

The Indian who looked as if he was a baked part of the Texas landscape had been in and out of Quinn’s life since his teens, the kind of steady mentor his volatile father never had been. He had an odd way of showing up at unexpected times, giving Quinn counsel that, while sometimes cryptic, usually steered him onto the right path.

The night Quinn had won the saloon, Sam had pulled one of his unexpected appearances at the game. He hadn’t wanted to play. Instead he propped himself in a chair in the corner, whittling on a stick. Didn’t say a word until Quinn won the saloon. Then Sam looked up, dark eyes meeting Quinn’s. He nodded and rose, leaving the game as if his task was done. When Quinn caught up to him in the parking lot, he mused aloud about selling it, but the Indian shook his head.

“You’ll want to keep this, Quinn. It will bring something good into your life.”

Quinn knew Sam was considered a shaman among his own people. He himself had seen enough in Sam’s company to accept it without a doubt. Though when it came to the saloon, he was starting to wonder if the man had been in a snake-bite delirium. Not that he’d ever say that where Sam could hear him. The shaman might be able to turn him into a coyote or something. Though if he had to deal with this mess much longer, that might start to look pretty appealing.

Leaning back in his chair, his booted feet up on the scarred old desk, Quinn closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache that wouldn’t quit. Beyond the closed door he could hear the usual noises of a rowdy crowd, warming up as the evening wore on. He needed to check on Artie. Make sure he was taking care of business out there.

He’d thought hiring a manager and a couple cute local girls to help him bartend and bus tables would keep him from putting in all these hours at the saloon at night. But he’d quickly found out he couldn’t afford a good bar manager, not when the bigger cities had more to offer one. Hiring Artie Sampson had truly been a last resort. The man had been fired from every job he’d ever had, but Quinn was desperate and told himself he was giving the man a second chance. Apparently, some people didn’t deserve second chances. The girls seemed too busy flirting most of the time to be any help at all.

A loud crash jerked him out of the chair. Rolling up his sleeves, he yanked open the office door and stomped out to the saloon, his boots striking the boards loud enough they should have been heard over the noise. The scene he walked into made him want to shoot someone. Or himself.

The blast of the old-fashioned jukebox overrode the hooting cheers of the beer-guzzling crowd, egging on the two men pummeling each other in the middle of the room. As Quinn watched, they rammed into a table, overturning it and shattering the wealth of uncollected empty glasses it had been holding. A chair splintered under the men’s weight as they rolled over it.

Fucking shit. Drawing a breath, Quinn prepared to wade in and yank the two drunks apart by the front of their shirts. But then she beat him to it.

He was sure no one like her had ever walked into After Hours, or any other local bar or saloon he’d experienced. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, but the high heels of the fancy dress boots she wore beneath a pair of snug jeans gave her at least another four inches. Hair like spun gold fell in waves to her shoulders, shimmering as she moved. A thin blue short-sleeved top with a light spray of sparkles across a New Orleans bar logo hugged breasts that would be a nice handful, and Quinn had large hands. A silver pendant that looked like a tiny dagger through a heart pointed right down at the tempting hint of cleavage, a warning and invitation together.

When he pushed himself past the usual focal points to get to her face, he found features like blown glass, perfect and delicate. At first glance, he thought she wasn’t much older than the pair of twenty-one-year-old girls he’d hired for low wages to pour drinks. But a second look said this was a fully mature, sexy woman. Ethereal yet earthy. Her eyes matched the blue of her shirt, the smoky color of an early dawn sky.

When she stepped between the two men without hesitation, he bit back an oath. He was ten paces away, too far to keep her from getting mashed like Spam between two slapped-together pieces of Merita.

Instead, one slim hand landed on the barrel chest of Howie Gold, a regular, the other on the arm of a drugstore cowboy who’d probably said something stupid to set off Howie. They both had clenched fists and alcohol-induced stupid written all over their faces, but then she leveled that blue gaze on them. “You’re interfering with my getting a drink. And that pisses me off.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but she didn’t need to do so. The impact of her expression turned them into deer frozen in the headlights, waiting for a truck to hit. Those blue eyes held something… Well, he knew how crazy it sounded, given he could have picked her up under one arm, but the word that came to mind was dangerous .

Mesmerizing was a close second, and he meant it literally. Something about her quieted the crowd and held both men in place, those fists loosening into uncertain curls.

In contrast, that sense of danger made Quinn want to keep coming toward her. His cock had hardened, pressing against the denim of his fly and demanding release. No, demanding to be plunged into the tight wetness of her body.

There was no way she could sense his reaction. A handful of occupied tables were between him and her, plus a bunch of people on their feet to corral the fight. He was just one in the crowd. Yet when his cock stiffened, her gaze flicked away from the two men and lasered right to him.

He had a voracious sexual appetite and liked a dozen different kinds of kink. All the women he’d chosen in the past fifteen years—and the rodeo circuit had provided a lot of those—had seemed to enjoy sex with him. He tried to be a generous lover and, without ego, he knew he had the kind of alpha male personality women liked, strong and demanding in the right ways. Their willing compliance should have been enough for him.

Yet sometimes, lying awake in the hours before dawn, a sleeping woman next to him, he wondered if they were too obedient. Too acquiescing. And damn it all, that didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t as if they just lay there and waited for him to give them orders. Most of those relationships had had some substance to them, such that a couple became more than just casual sex. Annie had been the last of those, some time ago.

Since then, he’d had the occasional casual fuck, but it was halfhearted. He’d told himself it was because of how hard he was working, but he knew that was a lie. Every relationship had lacked some intangible thing he couldn’t put his finger on.

Something that he had the oddest feeling had just put its finger on him .

In her eyes, he saw a deep, reciprocal interest. Deep as in dark and mysterious, a cavern that held unknown hazards. But almost as soon as he registered it, her attention went back to the two would-be combatants. “You can take this outside,” she said. “Beat the shit out of each other in the parking lot. I don’t care. It’s not happening in here. But whether you do that or you stay inside and behave, you’ll go give the bartender an extra twenty for the glasses you broke. That’s only fair, right?”

She wasn’t patronizing or sarcastic, which might set them off again. If anything, her no-nonsense tone reminded Quinn of the way his own mother used to handle problems between him and his brothers. She had a quiet firmness that convinced them of two things—she loved them, and she would beat the hide off them without remorse when they deserved it. Even when they reached the ages that they towered over her, they respected her the same way. She also stood between them and their loud, domineering father, the only one he seemed to listen to.

This woman gave Howie’s chest a light tap, her fingers tightening on the drugstore cowboy’s arm. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, boys. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes ma’am,” Howie mumbled as the other man dragged his hat off his head.

“Good.” She gave them a tight smile and glanced over her shoulder at Maria, the goggle-eyed waitress and barmaid on shift tonight. “Charge my tab for one of those pizzas with all the fixings and bring half to each of them with a pitcher of ice water. That’ll soak up some of the alcohol interfering with their better judgment.”

Releasing them, she stepped back. With only a brief shift in expression, she made it clear they were dismissed to do her bidding. Quinn watched in amused disbelief as the stubborn cowhand and dumbass kid both moved to the bar, reaching for their wallets.

Then he had bigger concerns. As the crowd started to wander back to their tables and own conversations again, her gaze came right back to him.

He knew he had features that most women found pleasing—a rugged physique, thick brown hair and brown eyes. One woman had told him when he looked her way it was like falling into a vat of melting chocolate. However, this woman considered him from head to toe as if she was watching molasses meander down his naked body. It was the first time a woman had looked at him like he was something she was literally considering eating.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014



When they were young together back in their werecat pride, Bowie and Channing experimented with love and sex, as well as flirting with a threesome with their best friend Emma. Channing and Emma both ran from their needs, leaving Bowie to break away and find his own life. Now a confident Dom, Bowie discovers Channing again through a video of a consummate sub, one Bowie knows he needs to find once more.

When Bowie shows up on his doorstep, Channing feels like a teenager again, all confusion and need. He doesn’t date his own kind, only humans, and he’s not in the market for a full-time Master. Bowie is impossible to deny, a force of nature, and while both men know they’ll have to think about Emma eventually, now is the time to see if they can get to know and love each other all over again.

By reading any further, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of 18, please exit this site.


Copyright © BA TORTUGA, 2014

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Bowie took the train to L.A. There was something so decadent about the Coast Starlight, especially when he got a private sleeper. The steady bub-bub-bub of the wheels on the track was oddly musical and he found himself nodding along with it at the oddest times. He only ventured out to eat in the dining car at first, before boredom took him and he wandered around and played solitaire in the club car.

The trip was designed to give him time. Time to figure out what he was going to say to Channing Lanier when he saw the sorry son of a bitch again.

He could start with “Hey, you rat bastard. Amazing how you came out after you dropped me like a hot rock”. That would be fun. Or maybe “I thought you weren’t into spanking and bondage, and your precious asshole was sacrosanct, but now you’re a bottom in the underground BDSM scene” would work better.

Bowie wouldn’t even be going to see said bottoming asshole if it wasn’t for the flyer tucked neatly away in his briefcase.

Tawny Catnip.


Their Emma was a fucking stripper?

A Vegas stripper? The revue was touted as a classy burlesque show and topless nightclub called Catnip Crazy.

Hell, the crazy thing was that both of his ex-lovers had called him a goddamn perv.

Him. Because he’d wanted them both. Because he’d wanted Emma over his lap. Because he’d wanted to see Channing bound and on his knees between the both of them.


Bowie guessed he’d been lucky, to be so damn young and know what he wanted, who he was. Emma had been the spark that set him alight, his alpha female, the one who would stand beside him forever and love him. And Channing—their beta male—was caring and real and nurturing and…


He’d bared his soul one night after an evening of beer and firelight and awkward, desperate kisses, wild humping under rough blankets, Emma caught between them. He’d told them what he’d seen in the depths of the flames during his initiation into the pride, what his heart had told him. Channing had been the first to go, shifting into the lean golden cougar that Bowie had loved since he was a child, spitting and hissing, refusing them.

Emma had left next, in the dull gray of early morning, tears streaking her face.

A triad couldn’t survive with just two, she’d said. Better to be alone than fight. She wasn’t into kink anyway. She wanted her own life.

Bowie groaned, the pain from that night still fresh and raw.

He should have followed them both, but he hadn’t. He’d roared and screamed and then spent an entire summer in a bottle until the pride’s dominant male had run him off.

He’d gone north, found a life, found wealth and pleasure and control. Even a kind of happiness.

The thought dulled the anger, put out the fire of fury like water on a candle. They’d been kids and scared, and he’d been sure that he could fix everything he didn’t understand with a paddle and a pair of cuffs. He’d been just as stupid as they had. Maybe more.

He wasn’t going to be stupid this time, though. He was going to get his beta and then, once he’d torn up that sweet little ass, they were going to see Emma. She could take off her clothes for other folks as much as she wanted, but she belonged with them.

He knew it, nose to tail.

After all, wolves weren’t the only beasts that mated for life.

He stretched, pleased with the little sleeper cabin. He’d been able to spread out and groom himself once he’d locked the door. You could never do that on a plane. His paws deserved special attention. He lapped at his claws, carefully groomed his whiskers. Soon they would bring him warm milk and he’d have to be human then and wear a robe.

For now, though, he could let his tail go wherever it wanted.

He let his mind wander, let his imagination remember the information he’d seen on the internet. Channing, lean and blond and lovely, bound in leather, bare ass crisscrossed with evidence of blows. He’d had to fight a fit of anger and hurt the first time he’d seen it. That was supposed to be his job, after all, beating that ass rosy.

Then Bowie had decided he was grateful. Now he could find Channing and show the man what a really good beating felt like.

His cock filled and he groaned, his toes curling at the thought. Yes. His body shivered, his tail disappeared and he let his human form come. That was so much better when he was having daydreams like this one.

Bowie would hear Channing yowl for him, would have that tiny, tight little hole. He’d make Channing beg for it, though, first, beg to be taken. He’d remind the man how damn wrong he’d been to leave, make him crazy with need, maybe bind that fine cock and plug that tight, tight ass.

His cock ached and he wrapped his hand around it, moaning as he imagined Emma’s hand touching him.

It had been so long. Oh he had plenty of subs who would do whatever he asked, but that was training—something he got paid for. He missed having lovers.

Having his mates.

Emma’s scent… By the stars, he longed for that. She had this spicy, deep, yet utterly feminine smell that made him hard as a rock. Her nipples were sensitive too. He’d made her come once, manipulating those sweet, pink buds alone.

Then there was Channing. That skin was such a pale gold, so wonderfully pliant. Long, perfectly sized prick, lips meant for cock sucking, and an ass… He growled. That ass made him want to write odes, and he was way more an action man than a word slinger.

He stroked himself, base to tip, tugging his cock. His belly tightened, his balls aching a little in the best way. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.

He could see them, kneeling before him, kissing over the tip of his cock. They would be so beautiful—Emma’s mouth candy pink, Channing’s a deeper red. They would turn to him, licking and sucking between kisses.

Teeth gritted, he jacked faster, working himself hard. He needed to come, needed to release the pressure deep in his belly. Bowie grunted, imagining fucking Channing while his boy licked Emma, tongue pushing deep into her cunt.

He’d be able to see Emma’s green eyes. Watch her come.

He wanted to watch her face when she came, feel the way Channing’s ass clamped down on him when he came. Fuck, that was good. Damn. His fingers brushed over the tip of his cock, rubbing the slit, working it.

That tiny electric shock was what he needed to send him over the edge. Bowie growled, his cock jerking as he came, his lovers’ names on his lips.

When the fantasy disappeared, he was left with memories, an address and a flyer.

Suddenly Bowie wished he’d taken a quick commuter flight. He needed to see Channing as soon as possible. Thank God for the knock on the sleeper-cabin door. Time for breakfast.

Soon he’d figure this shit out. Soon he’d have his mates in one room and he would remind them who the fucking dominant male was, damn it.

He couldn’t wait.


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