IT'S ALL RELATIVE by J.M. Snyder

IT'S ALL RELATIVE by J.M. Snyder

Re-released with an updated cover!

When Michael Knapp brings his lover Dan Biggs home to meet his parents, he doesn't expect things to go smoothly. His mother's been trying to marry him off for years, and sometimes he isn't even sure his father knows he exists. He has always felt like the shadow son, competing with his terminally stupid older brother and smart-mouthed little sister for his parents' attention. Coming out to them over dinner seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally get noticed.

But an unexpected phone call interrupts his announcement -- Aunt Evie, the family matriarch, is dead. With Dan in tow, Michael follows his family to Sugar Creek, where he spent his summers growing up, to prepare for the funeral.

Amid an overabundance of memories and relatives, Michael's world begins to slip. His dysfunctional family, Evie's death, and an old friend's confession all threaten to smother him. Worse, in his grief and confusion he seems determined to inadvertently push everyone away, including his lover. Can he and Dan move beyond his family and his past to a new life together, before Michael's insecurities tear them apart?

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.


Dan wakes before my parents or Ray -- it's the military in him. He can't sleep in even if he doesn't have to be on base before dawn. When I hear him in the kitchen, I give Caitlin a quick grin and hurry in to kiss him good morning. "Hey," I sigh, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. He stands at the sink, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, and he looks something close to amazing in his gray ARMY t-shirt and PT shorts. They're tight around his ass and hang loose on his thighs -- whoever designed those things knew just how to show off a soldier's best assets. I'm glad the t-shirt hangs low enough to hide what Dan's packing from Caitlin's young eyes and sarcastic mouth.

He half-turns in my embrace and kisses me in greeting. "Did you sleep well?" he asks. I nod in reply. With him beside me, I slept like a baby.

"I can make you breakfast," I tell him, just because that's what I do in the mornings, I cook for him. Mostly eggs, though I saw some pancake mix in the cabinet, if he's up for that. Since we're alone in the kitchen, I run my hands up beneath the bottom of his t-shirt and rub his taut stomach. Kissing his shoulder, I murmur, "I love you."

He sets the orange juice aside and turns to hug me close. His hands smooth the bangs away from my forehead, tuck the wavy hair behind my ears, but the strands fall back into place on their own accord as he cradles my chin to kiss me again. "Love you," he purrs, and between us I feel faint stirrings of interest at his groin. "We can head back to bed, if you want," he suggests. "Breakfast can wait."

"My eyes!" I frown at Caitlin as she stumbles into the kitchen, eyes closed, cereal bowl in one hand and the other thrown out in front of herself dramatically to feel her way. "Jeez, boys. Take it upstairs, why don't you? What will the neighbors think?"

I kick out at her as she passes, but she's quick -- she dodges my foot and still manages to sock me in the arm with one small fist. I slap her shoulder and she hits me again. Damn, she has good reflexes. When I'm about to try a third time, though, Dan catches my hand and folds my arm between us as he holds me tight. "Don't," he admonishes. "No fighting."

I'm well aware that I'm suddenly Caitlin's age again, picking with her the way I am, but she doesn't seem to mind. "You're just jealous," I tell her. I stick out my tongue and marvel at how I can go from twenty-five to two in one minute flat. "I've got a hot boy to freak and you don't."

Caitlin flips her hair over her shoulder and gives me a look that simply says, puh-leaze. "You don't know my hot boy," she says. "I ain't jealous of yours, trust me."

Intrigued in spite of myself, I let Dan slip free and lean against the sink. "You have a boyfriend?" I ask as Dan pours himself a bowl of cereal.

"Of course," Caitlin snorts. As if she might not. "I'm not Ray, Michael. I date."

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MIMI ATTACKS! by Hayden Thorne

MIMI ATTACKS! by Hayden Thorne

Book 5 in the Masks series

Following Arachnaman’s bigoted, hateful attacks, life in beleaguered Vintage City finally quiets down, but it doesn’t last long. Eric’s father begins to show symptoms of extreme fatigue, symptoms that Eric notices in a number of other people he sees elsewhere. Along with the superheroes, he tries to find a common denominator in all this, the surprising result being a new perfume shop that hawks very strong fragrances. A familiar pair of supervillains is suspected, but before the heroes can further investigate the motives behind this threat, people exhibiting symptoms of illness are transformed in the most shocking way, throwing Vintage City in a state of panic.

In the meantime, Eric monitors the Unofficial Calais Fan Club, which is now exploding with romantic Mary Sue fanfiction involving Calais as well as curious messages posted by a girl who’s apparently wildly in love with the superhero. References to her making “new friends” alert Eric to suspect that she and the current mayhem being inflicted on Vintage City are somehow tied together. The stakes are now raised for Eric, whose father has become a victim to a new crime wave and whose superhero boyfriend might also be under threat. All this, and he’s yet to survive school and find a job.

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EXCERPT:

I stopped about ten feet from the pile of crates and boxes. “Look, you’d better give yourselves up now before you get into more trouble,” I said.

The munchkin whispers continued. Then they fell silent, and I waited for another minute. I opened my mouth to say something when a figure appeared from behind a battered box.

It was a little girl, creeping out in a rainbow-striped T-shirt and shorts. She looked at me without blinking, her stolen stash hanging from both hands. Without saying a thing, she inched closer, and I couldn’t help but crouch down to come as close to her height as possible. Maybe having some towering gay boy who was running on perpetual sexual frustration intimidated her.

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to sound as gentle as I could. “No one’s going to hurt you. It’s not your fault you’re breaking the law.”

She nodded, pinching her mouth into a tight line. I waited for her to come closer, but she stopped about three feet away. It was pretty hard to read what could be going through her head at the moment. I’d never been in a situation where I had to communicate with a saucer-eyed kid-adult before. The only thing that crossed my mind was the thought that she looked like a Japanese anime character without the funky colored hair.

“Hey,” I said, even braving a smile. “Could you help me find your friends?”

She regarded me for another second, all sweet and cute. Then her face contorted, turned red, and she yelled, “Now! Get the motherfucker!”

And just like that, I heard shouts and screams coming from everywhere, and I turned in time to see a couple of tiny boys flying out from a pile of crates, their little faces twisted in rage. They landed right on top of me, and I fell back with a loud yelp. Stars exploded behind my eyeballs, and the world spun crazily. From elsewhere, I heard other little voices shout, and soon they were all on top of me, pounding away with their fists, kicking me, and in one case, biting my arm.

“Ow! What the hell! Get your stinking paws off me! Ow! Ow!” I flailed, pushed, squirmed, kicked, and tried just about everything short of actually punching a toddler, but there were too many of them ganging up on me.

“Someone grab his arms!” a girl cried out. “He’s yanking at my ponytail!”

I felt someone lock on to my left arm, nearly twisting my elbow out of its socket. I managed to turn my head and catch sight of a curly-haired boy literally clinging to my arm with both hands and legs, pulling it away from my body and forcing it down on the ground. I only had one arm and two legs to use against about six or seven psychotic kids.

“Let’s use him for ransom!”

I gritted my teeth and struggled more even though my energy was totally spent, and my back hurt, with me being pinned on top of my bulky-ass messenger bag. The world continued to whirl around in a bizarre psychedelic pattern, and I was getting really dizzy. My limbs were all sore, and my legs throbbed with pain from being kicked repeatedly.

“Hold his legs! Quick!”

Both my legs immediately flattened out on the ground, with two kids holding them down. They gripped my ankles and sat on my knees, tearing another jolt of pain from my strained muscles. For one crazy moment, I had to stop and think about what they’d just said, and I shook my head at it before continuing my one-armed struggle, which, I was sure, looked pretty pathetic from an overhead view.

“Got you now, you little meddler!” a boy crowed, and my right arm was finally immobilized. Like my left arm, someone had wrapped himself around it and brought it down, so that I lay on the filthy, slimy ground with my limbs all splayed out. Not only were toddlers clinging to them to keep me from moving, but I had a couple of girls sitting on my groin, which was a bad, bad, bad thing.

I wasn’t turned on by the pressure, no. I realized then that I needed to take a leak so badly. Little screwballs.

The dust finally cleared, with all of us panting and gasping for air. I was drenched in sweat as I stared dizzily up at the sky. “So what now?” I finally demanded once I found my voice again. “Are you going to sit on me like this all day or something? Not very impressive if you’re all trying to score your way up the supervillain ladder.”

“Oh, look, he’s beaten, and he still gives us sass,” the curly-haired boy on my left arm said. He actually sneered. “Typical.”

“Sounds like my twins,” the little girl, who was my distraction earlier, said. She was the one who sat on my genitals. That was a totally inappropriate -- not to mention illegal -- picture we made. I glanced down at her and saw her stick a thumb in her mouth. Yeah, absolutely, totally so not legal.

I squirmed despite being pinned down like that. “So what’re you all going to do now? Hold me for ransom? How? You don’t even have a plan. My family ain’t exactly swimming in cash, and the superheroes will kick your teeny asses and probably pass out from boredom doing it.”

“Yeah, really sassy,” someone piped up.

“Sassy can be a good thing. It’s great distraction, if you ask me,” a voice said from somewhere down the alley, and my heart leaped. I actually grinned at the sky even though it threatened to spew acid rain on us.

“Heya, Miss Pyro!” I called out. “Good to have you here!”

“How’s it going?” she replied, all cheerful. “How’s babysitting working out for ya?”

“It sucks ass.”

“The heroes!” the toddler sitting on my right leg cried out. He and his buddy had their backs to where Miss Pyro stood -- or hovered. The rest of their gang just froze where they were, glaring and channeling all their toddler fury into those expressions.

“Well, just one for now,” Miss Pyro said. I heard the crunch of her boots against the slimy asphalt.

I cleared my throat. “Uh -- try not to turn me into Peking duck when you save me, okay? I kind of want to live long enough to marry Peter and run off into the sunset with him.”

“No sweat. I’m doing a head count right now.”

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INSIDE PASSAGE TO MURDER by Alan Scott

INSIDE PASSAGE TO MURDER by Alan Scott

Paranormal sleuth Mark Shotridge dreams of an Alaskan cruise ship in trouble and books passage to investigate his vision. After leaving Seward the first night at sea, Mark has another vision that suggests someone has been thrown overboard into the icy waters of the north Pacific.

Though no one is reported missing, Mark begins to question his special abilities. But soon a crew member is found murdered in his cabin, and Mark is certain there is more going on than he originally suspected. As the body count rises, he realizes a serial killer might be on board.

With his psychic abilities put to the test, can Mark stop the ruthless killer and unravel the mystery behind the murders before the ship docks in Vancouver?

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EXCERPT:


Mark looked in both directions along the promenade. Something jingled again in the back of his mind, beckoning him to the rear of the ship. He turned and walked toward the stern, maintaining caution with each step. Using his telepathy to scan ahead of him, he searched for any indication of danger, but he sensed nothing. As he approached, the soft hiss of the wake behind the ship became louder. He stopped and looked out over the stern railing at the broad wake, lit by the dim overhead lights. The foam disappeared into the blackness behind the ship.

What’s going on here? Frustration prompted a return of the nagging question. Every time I think I feel something’s wrong, I find nothing. Am I losing my touch?

Everything seemed to be in order. The sound of the wake and the cold morning breeze on his face calmed him, rather than indicated something was wrong. In contradiction, his psionic power rang loudly in his head. He took another deep breath, inhaling the frigid air, and tried to relax.

He extended his right hand to lean on the rail. As he made contact with the metal, he suddenly felt a sharp, excruciating pain in his right side, and doubled over in agony. Mark reached across with his left hand to grab his side, unable to release his right. He became disoriented and light-headed as though he was falling from a great height, swaying from the feeling.

A shock of black hair flashed before his eyes followed by a naked, portly body tumbling over in the air as it fell. A impression of light-headedness came over him, like he was doing flips off a springboard. Then he had a violent sensation of icy cold water over his head. The cold was painful, sapping all his strength and stealing his breath. He gasped for air, but he could not find the surface. With extreme effort, Mark yanked his right hand back from the railing, clutching it with his left. The painful and terrifying sensation began to fade.

“Gotta watch out for static electricity there, son!”

Mark jerked his head around as the military man and his wife approached at a brisk pace. Both wore sweatshirts and pants with sneakers, clearly out for morning exercise.

“Excuse me?” Mark asked, startled and very uneasy, since he had felt no other presence on the promenade when he walked out onto the deck. Also, his telepathy had not sensed them when he had used it just seconds ago.

“I saw you put your hand up there then snatch it back like you had been zapped or something,” the man said with a huge smile, as he and his wife strode past. Mark realized his vision had lasted an instant, although it seemed like several long, horrifying minutes.

“Yes, that’s it,” he grinned weakly, still holding his hand as though it had been injured. “Nasty shock.” Mark did his best to look casual. “It’s a cruise. Aren’t you supposed to sleep in?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“We did sleep in,” the woman beamed with a cheerful smile as they headed up the direction from which he just came.

Mark waited until the couple had walked away a short distance. From this vantage point at the stern, he could see the entire length of the port side of the ship. Turning in the opposite direction, he hurled his telepathy forward to the other side of the ship.

No one there. At least, I hope no one is there.

His failure to sense the presence of the military man and his wife left him rattled.

Mark glanced back at the railing, scanning it with his percipience, careful not to invoke the horrific vision he just witnessed. Something else was there, grabbing at his attention.

A handprint! His mind's eye saw an image, where someone had clutched the railing, leaving an impression of their hand behind.

What am I seeing? Is it residual heat? Paint? A chill ran over his body that had nothing to do with the cold air. Blood!

He took off in a frantic run to the starboard side. Bolting through the doors opposite the ones from which he’d exited, he bounded up the stairs to Deck Ten, officers’ quarters. The elevators would be too slow. As with the bridge, the corridor to the officers’ quarters was barricaded against would-be intruders by a less-than-intimidating door adorned with a keypad. No time to figure out the combination now using his usual methodology. Mark gave the interior doorknob a nudge with his telekinesis and the door opened. He searched the immediate area with his telepathy, found the mental signature he was looking for and crept to the Security Officer’s cabin as silently as possible.

Mark knocked on the door to Dale Jacoby’s cabin. He didn’t want to arouse any of the other officers. He waited for a few seconds, and then knocked again, a little louder this time. On the other side of the door, his clairsentience told him Dale had awakened, and was climbing to his feet.

“Who is it?” Dale demanded from the other side of the door, his voice heavy with sleep and almost incoherent.

“It’s Mark. Open up!” he hissed. “Hurry!” He waited a few more seconds. Dale opened the door and blinked in the bright lights of the hallway.

“Shotridge? What the hell is going on? What time is it?” he said, gruff and confused. The white terry cloth robe he wore had the Netherlands Star logo on the left lapel.

Mark rushed past him into the cabin and told him to close the door.

“Someone’s been thrown overboard,” he declared, once inside.

“What? What makes you say that? Who was it? Did you see this happen?” Dale gasped, wide awake now.

“I don’t know who, but whoever it was, they were shot or stabbed prior to being thrown overboard.” Mark described his vision and experience. “I’m pretty certain it was a male, and he was naked when he was thrown overboard. I think he was still alive when it happened, although he would not have lasted long once he hit the cold water. Hypothermia would have set in almost at once and in his injured state he wouldn’t have the strength to tread water.”

“How do you know all that?” Dale was skeptical and caustic.

“The image I received showed a body unclothed, and I could also see some body hair and short black scalp hair, but that’s about all. The vision happened too fast for me to concentrate on the victim.”

Mark waited until Dale had thrown on some jeans, a Mist of the Ocean sport shirt assigned to all of the officers, and a jacket. They left the cabin. Mark led Dale down to the Lower Promenade, to the stern railing where he had his horrible vision.

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CAVE DWELLER by William Nikkel

CAVE DWELLER by William Nikkel

December 7, 1941: Five Japanese two-man mini-subs speed toward the mouth of Pearl Harbor. Four mini-subs are sunk or captured. The fate of the fifth is unknown.

Late at night, nearly three quarters of a century later: Marine biologist Jack Ferrell sails into a mysterious fog off Kauai’s Na Pali coast and discovers the sunken mini-sub. But in a depression in the coral lies a greater mystery: a human skull the size of a grapefruit.

Through a colleague, he learns the skull is from an extinct species of child-sized human beings who lived 12,000 years ago on the remote Indonesian island of Flores. But this skull is no fossil -- the creature it came from died recently.

In search of answers, Jack joins a select team of scientists who plunge into a subterranean world deep within the rugged mountains of the mystical Na Pali coast. What should have been a routine scientific excursion becomes a deadly encounter with the unknown and a race against time as the expedition battles the elements, personal fears, and even one of their own to unearth the key to the origin of the skull and the surprising truth behind one of Hawaii’s famous legends, the Menehune.

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EXCERPT:


Jack Ferrell straightened in the seat at the helm of his sixty-foot catamaran Pono and squinted at the fog that shouldn’t have been there.

Amid a seemingly impenetrable mist hugging the water a hundred yards ahead of him, an unearthly glow lit up the darkness.

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and peered into the night. Normally finely honed, his senses were dulled by lack of sleep and the monotony of sailing miles of flat, open sea.

A frown knitted his thick black eyebrows together, wrinkling his swarthy skin. The phenomenon had to be a figment of his imagination.

No way could this be happening!

His mind searched for answers to the enigma. Red tides, bioluminescent organisms in the ocean. He’d read about milky seas and their incandescence, and the marine bacteria believed to cause them. He’d even seen photographs of them taken from outer space. But he’d never witnessed the phenomena first hand, or anything like them.

They might account for the strange glow, but not the unearthly fog.

Dense fog banks don’t form in Hawaii. And they certainly don’t glow in the dark.

He checked his GPS and mentally noted the coordinates. No one who hadn’t seen the bizarre mist would believe him.

Did he believe it himself?

He could’ve sworn the fogbank hadn’t been there a minute ago. But he had been staring at the heavens, searching the stars in the night sky the way he did whenever he was at sea. Even so, such a glow would surely not have gone unnoticed by his watchful eyes.

Befitting a marine biologist and an adventurer, his curiosity would not let him pass up the unknown. He adjusted his course and headed Pono directly for the center of the ghostly apparition.

The dense cloud closed in around Pono’s twin hulls, leaving the deck slick with moisture, and the rigging dripping wet. At once, the air became quite cool -- at least thirty degrees colder than the night air he’d been sailing in only minutes before.

Immediately, goose bumps rose on his bare arms and the breeze that filled Pono’s sail died.

The boat drifted.

He leaned over the side and peered at the unusually calm water, searching for the source of the light. No squid or any of the other creatures of the sea known to possess bioluminescent qualities.

It seemed the fog itself glowed.

He stood up and stared into the haunting gloom. What he saw defied scientific explanation.

Suddenly, a shrill noise jarred his thoughts.

What ...?

Again he narrowed his eyes and stared intensely into the mist, not sure what he heard. It sounded far off, muffled by the heavy dampness blanketing the water.

Then he heard it again.

A woman’s scream.

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THE PIRATE'S GAMBLE by Eden Winters

THE PIRATE'S GAMBLE by Eden Winters

One man, two lives. In modern day Jamaica, Ian Lewis enjoys a well-earned reputation as a shining star of the archaeology world. However, in the eighteenth century, he's notorious for other reasons: being the captain of a rag-tag crew aboard the pirate ship The Naughty Maid. With the help of a mysterious talisman and his knowledge of ancient treasures, he travels back in time to save priceless artifacts otherwise doomed to be lost forever.

His greatest treasure, however, wants to stay lost ... or rather, deeply in the closet. Tired of hiding the true nature of the relationship he shares with fellow archaeologist David Kane, Ian employs his pirate cunning in a gamble that just may cost him everything -- including his life.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

“I’m Ian Lewis,” he had said innocently enough, extending a dirt-smeared hand.

“David Kane,” David replied, barely managing to keep his voice steady.

Those twin dimples appeared again as the man smiled, showing even, white teeth. “I’ve heard so much about you, Doctor Kane; I’m honored to finally meet you.”

David had heard about Ian, too, via rumors floating around the site, about how the handsome young archeologist had never talked about or been seen with a woman. Well, that certainly didn’t prove anything. David made it a point to be seen with lots of women, though they were merely acquaintances, and never any men who could be mistaken for anything but colleagues. But he had a discreet network of friends who wanted nothing more than an occasional tumble between the sheets. They weren’t openly gay or looking for long-term, either. It was an arrangement that worked well for all.

That night when he’d left the site he sought out one of those friends who, incidentally, had auburn hair and spoke English with an American accent.

The next day, working side by side with the very distracting Doctor Lewis, he reminded himself that getting involved could ruin his untarnished career. Plus, he didn’t know if the rumors of the man’s sexuality were true, so he kept his distance, feeling it safer that way.

On the third day Ian had cornered him. “Look, Doctor Kane, if you’ve got something to say to me then come out and say it to my face!” No dimples were showing now, only righteous anger and blazing green eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he answered defensively.

Ian snorted. “You won’t come within three feet of me, and whenever I hand you something, you won’t even touch me. Is it because I’m gay?”

“You ... you’re gay?” David stammered, secretly reveling in that knowledge, though he knew he could never act on it.

Those grass green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You mean you didn’t know?” Ian asked, clearly surprised. “I thought everyone did. I certainly never tried to hide it. So, that isn’t why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“No!” David lied, unwilling to out himself. “I’m sorry if you feel I have been. It’s unintentional, I can assure you.”

“And you’re not a homophobe?”

“Good heavens, no! Some of my best friends are gay,” David hastened to assure Ian, even if, under pain of death, he’d never reveal his relationship with those friends.

Those intriguing dimples suddenly reappeared as the redhead smiled brightly and asked, “Want to have dinner with me, then?”

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KNOCKING BOOTS by JM Snyder

KNOCKING BOOTS by J.M. Snyder

Johnny thinks he's the only guy on the ranch interested in sharing a fellow cowboy's bedroll ... until he witnesses an illicit tryst between his foreman Hal and another ranch hand named Delfino. After watching Delfino pleasure Hal, Johnny can't get the Mexican vaquero out of his wet dreams. He wants Delfino to do the same things to him, and he'll do whatever it takes to hook up with the cowboy.

To his surprise, Delfino doesn't mind showing Johnny a good time in the barn ... for a price. Once the two men are alone, Johnny learns first-hand just how well a hot stud like Delfino can please a man.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

The footsteps come closer and I raise up a little, just enough to peer around the mare’s neck. Hank comes into view, his blond hair tamped down around his scalp in the shape his Stetson left behind. He runs a hand through the tangled strands, tousling them. The other hand tugs at the bolo tie he favors, loosening it to unbutton the collar of his shirt. “Delfino,” he says in a slow drawl that sounds like smooth bourbon poured into a chilled glass. “Don’t act dumb, kid. You know exactly why I called you out here.”

Behind him comes Delfino -- Hispanic, maybe my age, maybe a year or two older, with dark eyes like pools of liquid ink and black hair that falls straight across his forehead in a blunt cut. He has pouty lips that look too red to be real and cheekbones that hint at native blood. Why hadn’t I noticed this one before? He stands out from the others, from all the others, white or otherwise. He has an insolent air about him, a slow grin and sly eyes, that makes me wonder if Hank’s really the one in charge here or if Delfino has a secret or two he keeps hidden from the foreman.

He wears a threadbare work shirt, the chambray worn shiny in spots where the fabric rubs over his muscles, at his shoulders, his elbows, his biceps. He glances around and I duck down, hands flat against the mare’s withers to keep her quiet. She nickers gently into the bucket of feed I gave her when we first entered the barn and swats at me with her tail, threatening to dislodge the hat hiding my face. I push it down further over my eyes and hold my breath, waiting.

Why are they here? Hank says Delfino knows, and something in the air between them tells me they think they’re alone. If they find out I’m here, hiding, what will be said? I should’ve stood up as soon as they entered, cleared my throat, dropped the curry comb, something to announce my presence. Maybe if I stand suddenly, pretend I don’t even know they’re here, I can still get out before ...

I start to stand, rising my chin to peek out from under my hat, and what I see stops me in mid-stretch.

Hank’s shirt is completely unbuttoned now, hanging open to expose a firm chest covered with thick, graying hair and the start of a slight paunch above his belt. Delfino has closed the distance between them, his hand flat against Hank’s belly, the fingertips lost in the tufts of hair. He’s staring into Hank’s face but the foreman doesn’t see him -- Hank’s eyes are shut, lips parted slightly. As I watch, Delfino rubs his hand up Hank’s furry chest, the tip of his middle finger finding a hard, pink nipple amid the hair. Hank gasps, both hands dropping to the buckle of his belt. “That’s it,” he sighs as Delfino plucks his nipple, squeezing and teasing it erect. “God, yes.”

Holy shit.

I need to get out of here, now, I know it, but suddenly my knees have locked up and my hands are fisted in the saddle blanket still tossed over the mare’s back. A sudden heart beat throbs at my crotch, and in the confines of the tight jeans I wear, my cock swells with eagerness. My mind is a whirl -- Hank, here, Delfino, here, with me not ten feet away and watching.

Here.

Thank you, God, I pray silently. For this, here, now. For letting me see it. For letting me know things like this do exist between men. Can exist. For me.

Carefully I ease around the mare and, staying hunched over so I won’t be seen, I come up against the side of the stall. There are knotholes in the wooden slats, wide enough for me to peer through without being seen. Please keep doing whatever it is you’re doing, I pray as I squat in front of one of the larger knotholes. I have to tilt my hat back so I can press my face to the wood and look through.

Hank’s belt is unbuckled now, his fly open, his dingy gray underwear gaping through the fly with an obscene bulge. He leans back against a stack of hay bales and sighs Delfino’s name as the Mexican trails a hand down Hank’s belly, seeking the package beneath it. When Delfino grips the bulge, I see his fingers encircle Hank’s cock through the thin material and almost come in my jeans at the lusty moan that escapes Hank’s throat. “That’s it, Delfino. You know what to do.”

I watch, wide-eyed and breathless, as Delfino kneels in front of Hank. With both hands, he peels the underwear down, exposing a long, thin, hard dick that curves at the end like a question mark. Delfino ducks below it and, tongue out, licks at the tip of Hank’s hard shaft.

Yes, my mind cries as I rub my hand over the straining crotch of my jeans. Yes, yes, yes.

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GUARDIAN SPIRITS by Helen Ayim

GUARDIAN SPIRITS by Helen Ayim

Robbie’s job at the library gets a little bit more interesting when a dangerous-looking stranger comes in and asks for a book the library doesn’t stock. Undaunted, the stranger settles down to wait.

The stranger returns the next night, and the night after. Finally one evening an elderly patron returns the book.

Before the stranger can claim the book, a rival appears. She, too, wants it, and she isn't about to let it go without a fight.

Who are these people? And what's so special about this book that they'll fight to the death to own it?

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EXCERPT:

The visitor turned his body, like adjusting a puppet, and walked with deliberate steps straight to the lending desk. There he laid both hands on the wooden surface, bent forward, and asked, “Has the book arrived?”

He had long white-blond hair that hung in a straight curtain from his high forehead to below his shoulders. He wore a black T-shirt under a calf-length black jacket with black jeans and boots. His nails were long and cracked and dirty, like he had been digging in soil. There were white hairs on the back of his hands. His skin was too white. Involuntary images of the white larvae in compost heaps and earthworms rose in Robbie’s mind. And this man was old, very old, though Robbie couldn't have said how he knew that. The man's presence was a solid pressure that caused Robbie to take an involuntary step back.

He wore reflecting glasses, and Robbie saw himself, small and distorted in the lenses.

"Uhm, and your name is?" Robbie asked.

"I am Medr." His voice had a curious sound at the back of it, like the rubbing together of rough wings.

"Medr? Medr who? Or is it Mr. Medr?" Robbie asked, confused. The reflecting lenses disconcerted him.

"Medr. That is my name."

"Okay," Robbie stammered. "What is the title of the book, sir?"

"That does not matter. It matters that the book arrives," Medr said.

"Well, there is nothing waiting for you," Robbie said, flabbergasted.

"Then I will wait."

So he waited, perched on a chair like a big bird of prey, the long black coat hanging down to the floor. He did nothing as far as Robbie could see. He didn't read, he didn't fidget. He just waited. At 9 P.M. when the library closed, he stood up and left.

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CAWNPORE by Tom Williams

CAWNPORE by Tom Williams

Sequel to The White Rajah

After his time in Borneo with James Brooke, John Williamson travels to India. Working for the East India Company in Cawnpore, he struggles to fit in: a gay man in a straight society; a farm labourer's son in a world of gentleman's clubs and refined dinner parties; a European adrift in an alien land. But he finds he is good at his job, overseeing a colonial administration that has been running the country for a hundred years. He falls in love with the country and, in particular, with a young nobleman in the court of the local lord.

Successful at work and happy with his lover, he thinks he can finally meet life on his own terms. Then Indian troops rise in mutiny and the country is plunged into war. With the British Raj teetering on the edge of destruction and Cawnpore a byword for horror across the Empire, Williamson has to choose whose side he is really on.

In this sequel to The White Rajah, the fictional Williamson is caught up in real historical events which provide a thrilling background to his own story. Williamson meets some of the key figures at a crucial point in British history and witnesses events which shocked the world and shaped the future of British India.

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EXCERPT:

Now the bombardment stopped and, for a moment, all was silent. Then came the unsteady notes of a bugle at the lips of a man who clearly lacked experience with his instrument. Cracked as the sound was, though, even I recognised the order to charge. We rode from the ruins of the riding school, forming a ragged line as we emerged onto the plain. For a few moments we were trotting. I drew my sword, already finding it difficult to control the heavy blade against the movements of the horse. I worried that if we lurched I could end up pricking my own mount with the point and I wondered how I would cope at the gallop. Already some of the horses were stretching themselves to their full speed. Instinctively, others joined them. My own horse pushed forward and I could hardly have held him back, even had I wished to.

There was still half a mile to the British defences and we were hurtling forward. Dust rose all around, mingling with the smoke which still hung in the air from the artillery barrage. My ears were filled with the thunder of hoof beats and the cries of my companions.

"Deen! Deen!" "For the faith! For the faith!"

We rode on. Now, from the saddle, I could see across the pitiful defences to where my fellow Europeans lay with their muskets ready at their shoulders. Beside them, I saw crouching figures dressed in rags. I did not at first recognise them as the white women of Cawnpore, their finery destroyed, their beauty tarnished. Yet, seeing them steadfast beside their men, ready to reload and pass new weapons to the warriors, I had never thought them finer.

Now we were two hundred yards from the parapet. Now one hundred. Still we rode, with no fire from our enemy. Already, the horses were tiring and the impetus of our charge had been lost but we were almost upon them. Then, when we were just 50 yards from their defences, Wheeler's tattered army opened fire. Three nine-pounders belched flame and smoke. One round of grapeshot found our range. All around me, men and horses were thrown to the ground. Had we not galloped the whole way from the riding school, the speed and exhilaration of our charge might well have carried us to the parapet despite our losses but the horses were already slowing. As riders tugged desperately at their reigns to avoid the welter of bodies beneath our horses' hooves, the animals swung about, causing even further chaos in the line. Within seconds, the charge had turned into a mass of wheeling, panicked horseflesh, riders yelling in impotent rage, scarcely more rational than the beasts they rode.

Ahead of me a horse fell. Its forelegs scrabbled to raise it from the ground but then it collapsed, whinnying its pain and terror. Instinctively, I kicked Kuching on and we jumped the doomed creature but now all around was chaos. I swerved to avoid another fallen horse, reining back until Kuching stood, flanks heaving, eyes rolling in terror. Again and again, the British muskets fired. All around, it seemed, men were falling to the ground. Exposed to the rebels' fire by the inadequacy of the mud wall that offered their only protection, the British gunners nonetheless stood at their posts and I knew that it would be only seconds before the cannon were ready to fire again.

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SBF SEEKING...by LaToya Hankins

SBF SEEKING.... by LaToya Hankins

Four months before her wedding, Yvette Thurman realizes this might be her last chance to have a sexual fling with a white man. But she never thought placing a personal ad would lead her to discover she was a lesbian.

Yvette's small town life in eastern North Carolina never prepared her for the personal journey she undertakes as she struggles to find her heart’s path.

Through personal ads and late night visits to an adult bookstore, Yvette learns more about her own personal desires than she ever did when she was engaged to be married. If she embraces her true self, can she find acceptance and love from her family and friends? Or will she be forced to hide who she really is from those she cares about the most?

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



“So bottom line: you kissed her and now what?”

“That’s the thing. I want there to be a what. I liked her energy and even though she is the second lesbian I have been attracted to, I really think I have a chance to see what could happen with her.”

“I know I gave you the speech in the club about starting fresh, but I don’t want you to start down this path and halfway down you realize you’re not wearing the right shoes. If you plan to get to know this chick in order to ‘get to know’ this chick, then I want you to be sure. I don’t know her, but no one wants to be an experiment just ‘cause lesbian chic is everywhere you look.”

“Agreed. I have been thinking about this since last night, and you know I don’t make any moves until I have thought about all the angles. I guess I will know what to say the next time I talk to her. Speaking of which,” I said, looking at my watch to see its blue face read 7:45 P.M. “Jasmine should be getting home soon. She is taking some night classes at Central towards her MBA. I texted her and told her I wanted to talk to her about last night and she said she would call me around nine on her way home.”

At 9:02 P.M., my phone rang.

“Hi, Yvette, how was your day?”

Hearing her suede purr over the phone released butterflies in my pelvic area. I shared my good news about my job to which she congratulated me and told me about her day both at work and at school. A pause fell.

“About last night,” we said in unison, then replied, almost in unison again, “No, you go first.”

Finally, I took a breath and told Jasmine I kissed her because I was really attracted to her and felt like I wanted her to know.

“I appreciate you feeling that way about me and, trust me, the kiss was nice. Yvette, I have to tell you it took me off guard. I mean, I was not expecting you to kiss me, especially after our conversation about your ex-fiancée and the fact you came out to the club to support your friend, that you were not looking to meet anyone.”

“I know, but even if my intention was not to meet anyone, I did meet you and I felt comfortable enough to come over to your place. I had a great time just sitting, listening to music, and talking. I can’t explain it, Jasmine. I just felt like kissing you, so I did.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed the kiss. But Yvette, straight girls usually don’t kiss women they just met. Hell, lesbians usually don’t kiss girls they just met.”

“I agree, most straight girls wouldn’t want to kiss a woman they just met. So since I did it, I guess I’m not your typical straight girl.”

As the words rolled off my tongue, the implications hit me in the gut. Did I just say I wasn’t a straight girl? Does kissing a woman make you a lesbian? I didn’t think it did, but then again, did being a lesbian require some kind of entrance exam or internship? Maybe it just involves feeling a certain way and acting on it. If that, I guess I’m a lesbian, or maybe a lesbian-in-training.

“Yvette, in the short time I have known you, I would not say you are a typical anything. I have been a lot of places and I don’t think I have ever met anyone like you before.”

“I will take that as a good thing. Growing up with the superstar known as my twin sister, I had to decide to blend in or stand out so no one would be confused. I decided to go for being as much as a singular sensation as I could manage.”

PUBLISH YOURSELF by J.M. Snyder

PUBLISH YOURSELF: CREATE AND SELL YOUR OWN E-BOOKS by J.M. Snyder

If you've ever wanted to retain more of your royalties or try publishing e-books but didn't know where to start, this book is for you!

Recently e-books have exploded onto the publishing scene, making it easier than ever for writers to break into the market. But many people who read e-books aren't familiar with how to create them. What formats should you offer? Where do you sell them? What do you use for a cover? And, most important, how do you go from a Word document to an EPUB, MOBI, or PDF file?

Best-selling, multi-published author J.M. Snyder has written this no-nonsense, hands-on guide. She takes the mystery out of e-publishing while making the process of creating an e-book simple, cheap, and easy.

Using Microsoft Word (or an equivalent word processing program) along with inexpensive or free software readily available online, you will learn how to create the nine most common e-book formats. You will be walked through cover art design, interior book layout, and e-book creation, as well as given many of the tips J.M. has learned along the way. Also included is a brief guide to online bookstores where you can sell your finished e-book.

Let J.M. Snyder help you discover how easy it is to publish yourself!

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EXCERPT:

Introduction

When someone learns I publish e-books, one of the first questions I’m asked is simply, “How?” I’ve given advice on the subject to many authors seeking to self-publish their stories in electronic format, but my general replies never seemed to be enough. People want in-depth explanations, from start to finish, on how to format their stories into e-books: how to lay out the books so others can access them, how to convert the books into a variety of e-book formats, and where to sell the finished product.

After one too many e-mails soliciting advice, I realized what seemed second-nature to me wasn’t necessarily as intuitive to others, so I decided to write this book. Be warned -- it isn’t the end-all, be-all of publishing guides. It isn’t going to make you millions overnight so you can quit your day job and write full-time. Hell, it may not even tell you anything you don’t already know. But it will explain to you in no-nonsense detail how I personally create an e-book from beginning to end, how I format a book into nine of the most common electronic formats, and where I publish my stories online. Following the instructions in this book, you will be able to create and sell e-books, too.

Sure, there are other publishing guides out there, but many of them are overpriced and don’t offer any real assistance. I’ve never understood why someone who spent little or nothing creating an e-book thinks they should make $15 or more per copy. The beauty of an e-book is that there are few, if any, overhead costs, and 100% of what you earn, you keep. Many distributors have no set-up fees, conversion software can be found online for little or no cost, and the techno-savvy person can generate an e-book without spending much beyond what they’ve already paid setting up their home computer. So why spend an arm and a leg to learn how to do it?

You may think my sharing the process with you is tantamount to giving away trade secrets, but I don’t see it that way. There are always going to be writers who want to work with publishers -- people who don’t want to bother with the creation and marketing of books, who don’t want to go through the hassle of dealing directly with multiple distributors, who don’t want to muck about with cover art and interior design and whatnot. People who only want to write and will leave the messy and sometimes complicated business of getting their words into print to someone else.

This book isn’t for those writers.

Instead, it’s for people like myself who enjoy controlling every aspect of writing, from a story’s inception through to seeing it published. People who want to learn how to format their own stories, who want to track their own sales, who want a more hands-on approach than what is offered through traditional publishing venues. People who have already self-published a book in print but now want to explore the budding world of e-publishing. People who want to keep more of their profits.

People who believe in their own stories and are going to get their books out there for readers regardless of whether or not a publisher decides to take them on.

This book is for you.

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LOVE THY NEIGHBOR by Steven Kerry

LOVE THY NEIGHBOR by Steven Kerry

Leaving gay-friendly San Francisco behind, Rick and John move into their first home together in Madison, Wisconsin.

As they begin their new life, everything seems perfect, their love never stronger.

Then they discover the “welcome wagon” isn't quite as welcoming as they’d hoped. The Houstons seem like a friendly couple at first, but the crust of the pie they bring over hides a sour aftertaste, and just below the veneer of good will lies a festering intolerance that ticks like a time bomb.

Soon Rick and John realize their idyllic, Norman Rockwell vision of the all American dream includes a darker side they didn’t expect.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

There was awkward silence. Rick began to feel uncomfortable, as though Vic was looking at him with an air of condescension.

“I’ve got a son, you know,” he said, his expression even more grim now. He opened his hand and squeezed the hoe with a vice-like grip.

“I know,” Rick said, nodding. “How is he?”

“Fine, but make sure that if he crosses the hedge you tell him his daddy will whip him. He is to stay in his own yard.”

Rick flinched at the word “whip.” It sounded like parenting from some bygone era, like discipline that bordered on abuse.

Rick said nothing at first, his eyebrows raised as he looked at Vic. “Okay,” he replied, his voice devoid of conviction. “I’ll remind him. He’s a good kid. I only saw him in our yard once. He was playing with our cat one afternoon. Aunt Mabel’s kind of old, but he still likes to play.”

Rick had expected at least a weak smile from Vic after he said this, but he was as poker-faced as ever.

Vic lifted the blade as if to inspect it, turning it different angles.

“This is a man’s friend in the fields,” he said. “This baby can cut deep.”

Rick nodded, weary of Vic’s overwrought enthusiasm.

“It’s the symbol of harvest,” Vic continued,” and Lord knows this world needs its weeds removed to reap a good harvest.”

Now Rick was lost; the man had progressed from sounding like a boy admiring his first baseball bat to some ancient prophet who’d stepped out of the pages of the Old Testament.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Vic continued, looking at Rick with eyes of such dark intensity he nearly winced.

“Zeke is seven. Try to ... you know ... respect that. And cover if you can ...”

Rick blinked back at him, confounded. “Cover what?”

Vic grimaced and motioned toward Rick’s skimpy trunks. “This is a nice neighborhood. We’re not like the condo owners or the downtown folks. Nothing personal, but you know the saying: ‘children are watching.’ And, uh ... so are their parents.”

“Oh?” Rick replied. “We don’t mind that. We have nothing to hide. Do you?”

Vic glared at Rick with an expression of undisguised loathing.

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DANNY'S DAD by Drew Hunt

DANNY'S DAD by Drew Hunt

Gary Levinson is in love with his best friend’s dad. It’s as simple as that.

Danny doesn’t think it’s simple. He’s okay with his best friend being gay. He can cope with the idea -- in theory -- that his dad is gay. But Gary and his dad being gay together ...?

Neil “Raw” Rawlings doesn’t think it’s simple at all. He’s a well-known rugby league player and Gary is too young, too immature, and too star-struck. Besides, he could do better than an aging sportsman close to retirement.

Finally giving in to Gary’s pleas, Raw agrees to sleep with Gary on his eighteenth birthday. But what happens next? Is this a once-only birthday present, or a gift that keeps on giving?

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

He jogged round the table, through the living room and into the hall. As he took the stairs two at a time he could hardly believe what was about to happen. Finally, after years of suggesting, cajoling, and downright begging, Danny’s dad was going to make love to him.

It was the morning of Gary’s eighteenth birthday and the only gift he wanted was behind the closed door at the end of the landing. Reaching the top step he paused, suddenly nervous. He tried to calm his racing heart and slow his breathing. His stomach also felt funny, like a flock of doves -- or were they lovebirds -- flying around in there. Gary didn’t want Raw to see him like this, so he stepped into the bathroom. After washing his face and drying it on Raw’s towel -- taking a big sniff of the man’s unique scent -- Gary tried to do something with his unruly tangle of red hair. Frowning at the blackhead that was starting to sprout on his freckled, too-big-for-his-face nose, Gary thought about squeezing the zit, but that’d only make it look worse. He knew he was too thin, too gangly and uncoordinated, nothing like the strong, powerfully-muscled god who was waiting for him.

“Fuck!” he said under his breath, his hands nervously picking at the pockets of his jeans. He’d agonised that morning about what to wear. What did you put on when you were going to be made love to by the man of your dreams?

He’d quickly rejected one of the Leopards’ rugby shirts. Gary had narrow, rounded shoulders; the shirts just looked stupid on him, although that didn’t stop him from getting the replica kits -- both home and away -- each season. And of course they had Rawlings as well as 13 on the backs.

Eventually Gary had decided on his best -- and tightest -- pair of Wranglers and the white T-shirt with the broad blue horizontal stripe across the chest that Raw had gotten him the previous Christmas.

Realising he was wasting time, time he should be spending with Raw, Gary looked at the unopened box of Tums in the medicine chest, decided he could do without, and turned for the landing.

“For what I’m about to receive,” Gary mumbled, “may the Lord know I’m truly thankful.”

Crossing the landing, wincing at the creek of every floorboard, Gary knocked on the door to Raw’s bedroom, a room he’d only glimpsed the interior of once before.

“Come in.”

This is it, Gary thought, turning the handle. Taking a deep breath he pushed the door open. “Sorry I’m earlier than I said I’d ...” His mouth fell open at the vision standing in the centre of the room. “Oh, God.” He felt his knees weakening. Goddamn it, he’d wanted to prove to Raw he wasn’t the infatuated fanboy he suspected Raw saw him as. And what did he do the second he laid eyes on the man? “Fuck!” he added under his breath.

“You just gonna stand there?” Raw’s question was delivered in his usual deep -- and to Gary -- sexy timbre, but the man was smiling, the dimple in his chin in full ... dimple. This did nothing for the floppy feeling in Gary’s belly, but judging by the painful tightness a little further down, his dick was far from floppy. “Come in, if you’re staying.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” Gary stepped inside and closed the door.

Raw’s room was awesome. All glass and chrome with dark wood flooring. In the far corner was the Nautilus machine Gary had advised Raw to buy a couple of seasons earlier to help the man stay in peak shape. A huge bed was against another wall, the sheets were black and to Gary’s untrained eye, satin. Gary swallowed, his mouth had gone dry. But what dominated the room, kept drawing his gaze, was Raw himself. Raw was decked out in the Littleborough Leopard’s 2008 black away strip with its classic two V’s -- one above the other -- in thin white piping across the chest. Although Raw looked awesome in whatever strip the team chose ... the black and white was Gary’s absolute favourite. He’d wanked off in his own copy several times, but that was a secret only known to him and the washing machine. It was around 2008 that he’d insisted to his mother he do his own laundry.

“God,” Gary said again. He remained rooted to the spot, just inside the room.

Raw smiled and held out his arms. “Not exactly, but I knew you liked this kit. I’m surprised I managed to fit into it.”

Gary shook his head. “You’re still the same size you were three years ago.”

Raw had remained a steady one hundred and ten kilograms for the past three seasons, and probably before that, too. Gary knew this because he’d built and still maintained Raw’s website which contained every possible statistic about Littleborough’s loose forward and goal kicker. Gary could quote every one of those statistics when asked, and tried hard not to when he wasn’t.

Raw tilted his head to one side and regarded Gary quizzically. “You’re quiet.”

Swallowing yet again -- maybe he should have had one of those Tums after all -- Gary said, “You’re ... you’re ...” He wanted to say ‘You’re a god, but for once he was shy. So he shut his mouth.

“Gar?” Raw approached the newly-minted eighteen-year-old and put a huge hand on his shoulder. “You okay? We don’t have to do this if you don’t --”

“Kiss me!” Now and again Gary had sneaked a kiss to Raw’s cheek, but Raw would never reciprocate, not even on birthdays or at Christmas, saying it wasn’t appropriate.

Raw smiled, showing off his dimple again. As soon as he cupped Gary’s face, Gary stopped breathing. When their faces grew to within centimetres of each other Gary found himself closing his eyes, even though he wanted to keep a visual record of every second of the encounter.

A waft of warm minty breath was almost immediately followed by soft but firm lips touching his. The kiss only lasted a second, but it was the most wonderful second of Gary’s short life.

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GRAFFITI by Terry O'Reilly

GRAFFITI by Terry O'Reilly

Before the advent of the Internet, men looking to make sexual contact with other men would cruise rest stops, shopping malls, and parks. There they often left messages on the walls of restrooms hoping to meet someone of like interest.

Alan Daniels, a young Vietnam veteran, has recently been questioning his sexuality. He takes a chance and writes a note in the john of his local municipal park.

Handsome, sensual Tom Clarkson, a college student going to school mainly to avoid the draft, is intrigued by a new message he finds in the park bathroom.

Is Tom destined to spend another night indulging in meaningless sex, or could the note lead to something more? Only one way to find out ...

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



He was just about to leave the restroom when another message next to the mirror caught his attention.

Hey guy from the overlook yesterday. Can you meet me here tonight? 7:30?

Tom stared at the note and then read it again.

“Shit!”

* * * *

Sitting atop his usual table in the park, Tom was frustrated. Ten to eight, he fumed in his mind. Fuck, I rearrange my whole fuckin’ day for this guy and he doesn’t show.

Tom had met John that morning. The man had been horny and hot to trot. They had gone back to the motel. Even though John had sucked Tom’s pecs, usually a big turn on, Tom had been totally distracted by the prospect of seeing the overlook guy again. He knew he hadn’t showed John the best time but hadn’t given a shit. He’d perfunctorily took care of business, giving John a quick fuck and getting him off with a half-hearted blow job. Tom knew John was pissed at him, but Tom knew he wouldn’t see him again anyway so it didn’t matter. Once was Tom’s usual M.O., twice was pretty damn rare and a third round was unheard of.

Tom had called his boss at the bakery and told him he had a cold. That was a sure-fire way to get out of work. The old guy was really paranoid about getting germs on his precious buns and loaves of bread. He told Tom to take good care of himself and not to come back to work until it was completely cleared up. Tom couldn’t afford to miss too much work so he’d tell the old man he had allergies and it had turned out not to be a cold after all.

Tom had probably failed his political science test. What the hell was it about this guy? he’d asked himself, that he could upset Tom Clarkson’s plans. When sexy Professor Barry had said time was up, Tom hadn’t even finished the last question as he found himself staring out the window thinking about the overlook guy’s sweet smile and tight, sensual ass.

Tom checked his watch again. I even pass up two hot tricks here tonight for the bastard. Two very handsome hunks had approached Tom and suggested they’d really be up for including him in a three-way. God damn! Why did I pass that up?

“Screw this,” Tom said, getting up. Maybe I can find those two guys and get in on that action so the day won’t be a total bust.

As he turned to head for the path into the woods, Tom saw a red Mustang pull slowly into the parking lot. He waited. If this was overlook guy he’d let him know that you didn’t fool around with Tom Clarkson if you want to get it on with him. The car door opened and the man he’d been waiting for tentatively emerged. Tom stood with his hands on his hips getting ready to give the guy a piece of his mind.

The man approached. “Hi. I’m really sorry I’m late. I had to work overtime and ...”

Tom opened his mouth to let him have it, but what came out surprised him. “That’s okay. You’re here now and that’s all that matters.”

Who the fuck said that? Tom thought as he looked into the soft warm brown eyes staring into his. He felt his dick twitch and some other sensation that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time stole over him.

“I’m Alan Daniels,” the man said and offered his hand.

“My name’s Tom,” Tom said and then realized he had, for the first time in a long while, given his name to someone with whom he planned to have sex. But somehow that didn’t seem to matter. He took Alan’s hand and enjoyed the feelings the first physical contact engendered.

“Let’s go,” he said, still holding onto Alan’s hand and turning to head for the path into the woods.

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NECROMANCER & CO. by David Stroup

NECROMANCER & CO. by David Stroup

In the city of Sylian Tul, licensed necromancer Ander Waeryn has his hands full.

His wife's family -- one of the most powerful of the ancient Armiger clans -- just want their wayward daughter to come to her senses and return to the family estate. As an Aelf, Ander isn’t even supposed to have been allowed to study magic, much less a dodgy specialty like necromancy. And it’s harder every day to make a living in the slums of the soot-stained, steam-powered capital of the human-run empire.

Then his latest paying commission goes horribly wrong, and suddenly the Metropolitan Investigation Office’s only Consulting Necromancer is in the middle of a case that has the city ready to boil over. As mobs take to the streets and the city’s press -- led by Ander's ex-lover -- fan the flames, Ander is torn between an investigation the police won’t allow to proceed ... and a horror from the past that shouldn’t exist.

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EXCERPT:



A strange, low rattling had been added to the constant dripping of the water from above; I looked around but couldn’t identify the source. The smoke of the incense, I saw, wasn’t dispersing the way it should ... now it was pooling on the rough wood floor like a ground-fog out on the riverbanks.

“Where is the key, Geb?” Hurst asked. “The key to the north cabinet?”

The corpse on the gurney took in a great wracking breath and began to talk.

“You ... Kylen ... not ...”

“Geb, damn it, where’s the key to the north cabinet in the warehouse?”

“Kylen ... can’t ... get away, Kylen, get ...”

Something was wrong. V’Marnion was non-responsive to the questioning -- the shade shouldn’t be able to do anything but answer direct queries, and I didn’t like the sound of what he was saying. I heard a choking sound behind me, and turned to see Llan vomiting against the wall ... VourJalledionne looked terrified. Whindle had pulled a wicked-looking smallsword from under his coat -- some ugly eastern design with a blue-black blade -- and Hurst was edging over the circle of chalk.

“Llan? Llan, are you all right?”

“I -- huk -- gimme a min’ --”

The air was bad, but it was far more than that. Was it something I had done? Over the next few days I would ask myself that question many times ... and be asked it by others. But I couldn’t think of any error I could have made that could have produced an effect like this ...

“Mister Hurst -- stay back --”

The rattling sound was mounting... there was so much else going on in the room I couldn’t pin it down. The air had dropped another ten degrees in the last few seconds. I made a decision.

“VourJalledionne -- get out!” I yelled. Whindle, dimly seen across the foggy room, was stabbing at phantoms with his short sword ... Hurst, one foot over the line of my thaumatic circle, was having second thoughts.

The circle was broken; with the perfect integrity of the magik sigil violated, the thaumatic field should have been dispersing. It wasn’t. I tried to release the reins of power mentally, and nothing happened.

I glanced at the door again -- VourJalledionne was leaning against it, pale, unmoving.

“Get everyone out of here, Llan,” I said. “And I mean fast ... see if there’s anyone else in the building as well.”

I had located the source of the rattling ... every corpse in the room was twitching convulsively, shaking on their wooden gurneys.

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MAINTENANCE! by J.M. Snyder

MAINTENANCE! by J.M. Snyder

Though maintenance man Elliot has a list of work orders a mile long, he decides to knock out one of the easier jobs right before lunch -- an upper floor apartment has a leak in the A/C's condensation line. It'll take five minutes to blow through, then Elliott can take a break.

When he arrives at the apartment, he finds the female tenant in the shower. He debates coming back later, but he's already there and wants to get the job over with as soon as possible. He's halfway finished, too, when the bathroom door opens and there stands Donnie -- very wet, very naked, and definitely very male.

Suddenly Elliott wants to blow something other than an A/C line.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



I noticed the bathroom door was shut. Light seeped under the crack along the floor. I closed the apartment door behind me -- didn’t want that supersonic cat making a break for it -- and crossed the short hall to the bathroom. I heard the rush of a shower running inside, and was the fan running, as well? A man’s voice sang out, some rap song I didn’t recognize. She probably had the radio on, too. No wonder she couldn’t hear me.

I debated waiting. I didn’t want to knock on the bathroom door and startle her -- what if the music playing came from an iPhone within reach on the corner of the sink, and she decided to call the police? What I should do, I reasoned, was knock off early for lunch and come back after I had something to eat. Give her time to get out of the shower and get dressed.

But I was already there, I’d dragged the shop vac upstairs, and it would take literally two minutes to clear the a/c line and vacuum up any condensation she’d heard dripping behind the panel. I could be done with it in no time. She’d never even know I’d been inside the apartment until she found the work order I left signed on her counter.

I’d work fast, I assured myself. And if I heard the shower cut off, I’d holler out again so she wouldn’t be surprised to find me in her apartment.

Sounded like a plan to me.

The air conditioning unit was in a maintenance closet inside the apartment’s utility room. I went inside, stepping around a pile of dirty laundry and the cat box on the floor, pulled the shop vac in after me, and shut the door for more room. When I opened the closet, though, I realized too late she used it for additional storage -- a broom, an old mop, and a snow shovel leaped out at me like some poorly constructed booby trap. I dodged them aside, catching the mop and broom handles, but the shovel was shorter and I winced as it clattered to the floor. Shit! Was she seriously not hearing this?

I strained to hear through the closed door and yep, the shower was still flowing in full force. All right, fine. I planned to be quick, didn’t I? And already I’d wasted a minute fiddling with broomsticks. I leaned the broom and mop against the side of the washing machine and got to work unscrewing the a/c unit vent. As I was on the last screw, I heard the a/c kick on and I could’ve groaned in frustration. Why hadn’t I cut that off?

It didn’t matter now. Plugging the shop vac into the outlet behind the washer, I leaned into the unit and blew out the line, then vacuumed up the condensation that had pooled on the floor. It was an awkward reach -- one of the cooling lines blocked my path, and my arms weren’t long enough to reach all the way inside the unit. The closet was too small to hold my bulk. Easier to go around the front of the unit and unscrew the vent in the hallway.

Which was just across from the bathroom door, now that I thought of it.

But I’d be done in a heartbeat. I’d get all the dripping water out of the a/c and the unit would be as good as new, until the line decided to block up again as they tended to.

So I turned off the vac, pausing a moment to listen for the sound of the shower. Yes, it was still running. Good. I pulled myself out of the cramped closet, unplugged the vac, screwed back on the vent cover, shoved everything that had fallen out of the closet back into it, and shut the door quickly before the broom and its friends could jump at me again. Then I opened the door to the utility room, took a step out into the hall, and came face to face with an incredibly sexy -- and incredibly naked -- wet man.

He rubbed a towel over the top of his head, letting his slim, toned body air dry. Shower spray beaded in the scant tufts of hair on his chest, glistened on his arms and legs. Water ran down chiseled muscles to the V of his crotch, where a fistful of black curls coiled above his heavy dick. I caught a glimpse of his face, nothing more, then couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from that thick, ruddy, semi-erect cock.

Sweet Jesus. My day just got a whole hell of a lot better.

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