Cover art: Yuramei

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Sometimes the best kept secret is the one you keep from yourself…

“I’m an ordinary man with an ordinary life in every way. Except for Jun. That’s what I think to myself every night when I watch Jun getting ready for his work as a bar host in Kabukicho. He’s everything I’m not. He’s the beautiful, graceful, sociable and ambitious counterpart to me—a hulking, reclusive, completely unambitious guy who’d rather fix car and motorcycle engines all day than interact with people… I’d be happy if Jun just stayed here with me the rest of our lives, in this little apartment we’d once shared with Dad. But Jun has other plans.”

Or so Jun thinks. One night he gets ready and goes to work. But a tragic occurrence derails his career and all his plans for the future.

Through the eyes of his best friend, Tomo, the man who loves him above all others, Jun will be forced to confront himself, his deepest fears, hates, desires. And his deepest love.

Excerpt:

At the open door he pauses. “Okay, thanks.” His eyes lock with mine, the way they did in his mirror’s reflection. For a moment, other words seem to hover on his lips, and then he decides not to say them. He’s been doing this lately, leaving me to wonder what he would possibly want to say to me. Perhaps some day he will tell me, although if it’s something I’d rather not hear, then better he stays silent.

“Get there safely,” I say to his lingering form. I have my own ritual of unsaid things, one of which is, “Please stay home, Jun. You don’t have to go to that place. I’ll take care of you.” But I don’t speak out loud. When I’ve said it in the past, he’s resented it, insisting he needs to do this. He wants to be somebody and make something of his life, according to his own words. Yet, if he saw himself at all through my eyes, even for a moment, he’d understand how much of a somebody he already is. I cherish him and love him. Worship him really—just by virtue of who he is. He wouldn’t be so driven to make something of his life because he’d know he’s already accomplished his ultimate goal.

If he saw that, then he’d also understand what his working in Kabukicho does to me, how it makes me worry so much. How protective I feel of him. Though Jun is a grown man of twenty-seven, to me there’s something so little and vulnerable about him, I can’t help the eerie feeling that snakes through me each night he leaves for work. Tonight it’s especially strong.

“I will, Tomo. See you later.”

“Definitely.”

One more flash of his silver-and-black clad figure and the door clicks shut behind him.
I sigh, listening to his boot steps on the cement walkway until the sound fades.
Alone in the apartment, I go and kneel in front of my parents’ photographs. Smoke from the incense curls delicately into the air in front of their faces and emits a trace of sandalwood, a scent that echoes how wistful I feel. I look at my mother’s face. I was only five when she died. I don’t remember much about her except seeing her smile while she made sure I ate and was clean. She never knew Jun as my father did.

I turn to Dad’s picture, a portrait of him in the uniform he wore before he was promoted to detective and started wearing a suit to work. In fact, this is how I remember him dressed around the time he added Jun to our family register as a son, the act which I’m sure saved Jun’s life. After Jun was abandoned by both his parents, knowing that someone cared so much about him as to make him a son was very healing to his heart. I knew that for sure when Jun stopped calling my father “Nakadai-san” and started calling him Dad.

So why does Jun still want to go off and get a place of his own? Why can’t he let himself understand how much he means to me so he’ll be happy? Since we met, we’ve been best friends. In spite of our different interests—I loved motorcycles and Jun was into fashion—for the longest time he seemed happy just to hang out with me and Dad. Until Dad was killed. That’s when things changed.

I ask my father the questions silently to his equally silent image. When Dad was alive he used to say that Jun’s demons still haunted him even though being a part of our family had helped to make him happier. Dad said everyone has deep, driving forces inside them that remained a mystery unless they took the time to understand them. But, he would add, it doesn’t mean that you can’t always care about Jun. Dad had learned so much about human nature in his line of work. If anyone was aware of the dark side of human beings, it was my father.

Back in my room, getting ready to shower, I also stare at the one photograph I keep on my chest of drawers. To me the image encapsulates the great happiness of my life—me and Jun and my dad during hanami. We’re sitting on our plastic sheet in the park not far from our apartment, under an enchanting canopy of cherry blossom trees. In front of us are scattered the empty bento boxes that had held our meals of rice and barbecued skewers of pork. Dad had been taking a picture of me and Jun when a passing couple had offered to take the picture for him so that he could be in it with his sons. That night after we got home, Dad told me and Jun of his decision to put Jun on the family register.
I owe the fact that Jun hasn’t gotten into serious trouble to that one act of love from my father. However, Jun is still hosting, and nothing I’ve ever said to him makes him realize he can stop. I just hate thinking of him over there in Kabukicho. I know too much about that area of Tokyo from having a father who was a police officer. I wish Jun had gone to work in a fancy hotel, which is what he’d originally planned to do, but he’s so determined to make something of his life that my pleas sink, unnoticed like stones in a murky pond.

I stare a few more moments at the photograph before heading into the shower. From there, my evening unfolds as it always does. Supper—tonight, it’s nikujaga, a simple stew of meat and vegetables from last night—followed by a walk around the neighborhood, watching the kids tumble about on the complex’s monkey bars and swings. After checking on my motorcycle parked in its space, I change for bed and watch some TV before I fall asleep on the sofa. I want to wait up for Jun, even though tonight is Friday and any other regular guy would probably be out on a date or something social instead of passing the time until his friend gets home from work. I’ve often thought of getting some kind of work that would put us on the same schedule, but the job I have pays well and it’s our security should Jun ever come to his senses and give up hosting.

Then he’ll know he really doesn’t have to worry about money. Perhaps it’s all a fantasy in my head, but it keeps me going day after day.

Tonight, I’m in a twilight kind of sleep, the TV droning softly in the background, when the ring of my cell phone cuts through the haze. At first disoriented, I hold the phone up and see Jun’s name lighting up on the ID. The darkness outside tells me it’s the middle of the night, not a time when Jun would normally call.

Icy fingers rake through my chest. My sleepiness dispels as I press the button. “Jun, are you all right?” I don’t even bother to say a greeting I’m so alarmed.

“Is this Nakadai Tomohito?” The voice is female. Not Jun’s. My alarm escalates to terror.

“Yes. Where is Jun?”

She pauses. “My name is Michiko. I’m the mama-san of the bar where Jun works.” Her voice wavers. It’s a smoky-sounding voice that without the stress would sound confident.

“Something…has happened. Jun was…attacked. He’s being brought to the emergency room at Meiji Memorial. I found your name on his phone as the emergency contact.”

Oh my God. “I’m on my way.” I throw on my jeans jacket over the undershirt I’m already wearing. My pajama pants will have to do. I grab my wallet, keys and helmet, shove my feet into my loafers and fly out the door.

Cover art: Les Byerley

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Seth Burgess is a werecat and a thief, always up for a challenge. Like many of his Felia brethren he ignores the rich heritage of his kind and embraces the fast, progressive world of humans. When approached with the task of stealing a priceless treasure from his own kind, he thinks nothing of the repercussions. Stealing into a cavern with notions of wealth and excitement on his mind, the last thing Seth expects to encounter is Crnswar, the Lord of the Basti, a race of feral werecats who embrace the old ways. Captured and nearly killed, Seth’s punishment is to leave the fast-paced world behind and to serve his rural brethren and their lord.

However, during his servitude, he has dreams unlike any other—vivid, erotic encounters with the Basti Lord that leave his heart breathless and his body sated with an ecstasy he’s never known. Bound to the regal werecat Crnswar by a connection that ravages his very soul, Seth realizes that there’s more to his destiny than just wealth, prestige and power and he sets his sight on stealing what he’s never supposed to have: the heart of the Basti lord. However, when Seth’s past comes back in the form of a power-maddened werecat, Seth will be used to trap and kill Crnswar. Seth must fight not only to win over the man he loves, but for their very lives!

Publisher’s note: This book contains male/male sexual acts.

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Embraced by the Sun
How hot could Micah get? How cold could Peter make him? When fire and ice collide, two sorcerers cannot resist the pull of destiny…More
~~~~~

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Bank robbers, bordellos and a whole lot of bed-hopping, as British black comedy meets Yaoi in a head on collision.

Fergus Campbell is straight out of prison with only one thought in his mind, to pay back his former friend and partner in crime, Judas MacGregor for stitching him up and sending him there in the first place. What he least expects on his return to his old haunts, is to fall head over heels in love with Mikhail, the stunningly beautiful owner of the best little whorehouse in town.

After one night of bliss with Mikhail, Fergus resolves to make the blond bombshell his own. But there is one thing that stands in the way between him and a relationship with the man of his dreams. He is already married the psychotic young alcoholic, Hugo. Although their marriage has been falling apart for years, the spoiled Hugo won’t let go of his meal ticket so easily. What follows can only be a wild ride of lust, mayhem and revenge!

Excerpt:

Chapter One

The music that emanated from the CD player on the table did little to heighten the mood for the activities on the large, rumpled bed. The blinds were drawn and the semi-darkness made the atmosphere seem all the more seedy. The warmth of the late summer evening added to the cloying nature of the musky odours already permeating the air.

It was a Spartan room, to say the least. Just a few items of furniture and not even a picture to grace the walls or any other surface. What was there however, bore the appearance of quality and smacked of luxury if not taste.

The brass nameplate on the door read J. MacGregor, under which someone had gouged the words fuck you into the wood.

J for Judas.

Judas was his real name, but people usually assumed that he was called that by his associates as some sort of nickname that alluded to a betraying nature. His mother told him that he was named after his father. A father that he had never known. She would practically spit this information at him, usually in a drunken slur when she had attempted yet again to drown her sorrows in a few bottles of cheap wine.

“I named you for that bastard who knocked me up. I took one look at you and saw that Judas.”

It was a statement that had always puzzled the younger Judas. Unlike the classic portrayal of the much maligned apostle as a hook-nosed dark-haired man with what Mrs MacGregor would have described as a sleekit expression, this Judas, who usually preferred to be called Jude, had fair hair and blue eyes. Lately he’d noticed that the fair was turning prematurely grey, but this didn’t seem to age him at all. The highlights through the collar-length loose waves, coupled with the piercing eyes, actually made him quite attractive, in an unconventional sort of way. He had a wide full mouth that could slip easily into a smile, usually in lust or in wicked humour.

Judas slid a second finger next to his first, which was already nestled inside the invitingly tight ass of some sweet twenty-year-old. He parted the digits slightly then looked up into his cheap date’s face. The young man’s expression changed to one of lust as the fingers moved to make him more ready, a task rendered easier by the fact that his hole was already primed with so much lube. The guy was obviously no virgin. Not judging from the way he had so eagerly spread his legs, at least. But after Judas had to listen to him whine about being ruined when he’d first attempted to enter him using spit alone, out came the trusty Vaseline. Judas had then slathered him copiously with it.

“Chill out, baby. I won’t hurt you, unless you want me to…”

“Just do it, please!” His name was Moshe, but Judas didn’t give a shit about that. Everyone was baby to him anyway. Calling everyone by the same pet name had saved him from many an awkward moment, as in the heat of passion it was considered bad manners to cry out the wrong one. If everyone was baby no one was any the wiser.

“Okay,” he grinned, “you’re the boss.”

Judas slowly slid his fingers from the promising grip then moved to lie between the young man’s thighs. He wiped his hand on the sheet then rubbed the sheathed tip of his cock against Moshe’s now slick entrance, and he pushed the head inside the small opening with relative ease.

“Mmmm…” He watched the guy’s face again. Moshe’s lips parted wider, and Judas glanced from the pretty mouth to the rigid cock he had spent the last hour or so teasing mercilessly, first with his fingers and then with his tongue so it strained in readiness to burst at any moment. The head glistened with a sweet pearl of Moshe’s fluid which then leaked slowly and somewhat hypnotically down the swollen shaft. This was such a delicious cruelty, and as Judas ran his finger through the drip and traced it back up over the hot skin, he laughed and forced his cock into Moshe’s ass just a fraction of an inch more, still intent on playing his little teasing game until the young man ruined it by boldly grasping Judas’s hips and practically engulfing the lot of him.

“God you’re a keen little fucker, aren’t you?” Judas growled. He pushed Moshe further onto his back and ran his hands over his smooth thighs to raise them up and part them against the guy’s thin chest, so allowing Judas to move still deeper inside him. If he wanted it all he was going to get it but on Judas’s terms.

He lied. Judas was the boss really.

Cover art: Les Byerley

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How hot could Micah get? How cold could Peter make him? When fire and ice collide, two sorcerers cannot resist the pull of destiny…

Peter Fitzgerald has always depended on others to keep him in check. Engaged to be married, he and his friends go to St. Maarten for one last week of bachelor fun. Except…when Peter meets Micah Deus, a fire sorcerer who ignites his desire and awakens his latent powers, Peter loses what restraint he thought he had. An inner force Peter thought he could tame refuses to remain begins to manifest as power over ice.

As Peter struggles to come to grips with his overwhelming passion for Micah, curious friends and an expectant fiancée, his dominant side grows focused and dangerous. His desire to unleash his will upon everything and everyone around him threatens to explode and only one man can tame him! Will Peter surrender to the fire sorcerer who rules his heart and body? Or will he allow his temper to freeze them both? Or…is there another force—read dark mage—that could threaten Peter and Micah’s lives as well as the entire world?

Excerpt:

As the intense Caribbean sun hit his nude body, Peter stood defiant. The searing hot water of the pool did little to faze him either as he plunged down into it with an artfully clean dive into the turquoise depth. It took only seconds for him to adjust to the temperature, and in that time he swam to the surface right beside Micah.
Micah bobbed in the water, his black dreadlocks sparkling with droplets. “Let me guess, you don’t know the first thing about sex with a man?”

And you don’t know the first thing about me. Peter made his way over to Micah, seizing his hot body by the waist.
He didn’t want to hear another taunting word. Dragging Micah down beneath the water’s surface, Peter smothered Micah’s mocking mouth with a kiss. The freedom he had been previously denied was forgotten in the weightless environment.

His hands roamed as they pleased over solid limbs, rounded curves and tight muscle. It meant nothing that Micah had masculine parts. Peter wasn’t touching Micah so much as savoring the feel of warm flesh.

It was if Micah’s body were his possession, his toy to play with. Even underwater, he could feel the heat, the tremors and the excitement that he caused.

Micah’s hands explored his body as well, in far more intimate ways than he had ever experienced. Peter had never quite had his ass handled in the way that Micah did it—gripped and squeezed—but that was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

It was the sensation of rubbing his cock against Micah’s that really sent shudders down his spine, caused him to lose his battle against the greater element. Not fire, but water. When he brought Micah to the surface, he was a phoenix surrounded by fire.

Micah floated back and ducked beneath the water’s surface, but it did little to quash the flames around him.

Surrounding Peter’s shoulders, keeping him locked in a vertical position, was a small prison of ice. It melted swiftly as Micah came near looking like a fiery predator.

Peter would not be prey, not even to the depths of the pool. Swimming backwards, he found the shallow edge, just as the pursuant blaze engulfed him, crashed into him.

He waited, bracing himself against the wall for Micah’s onslaught. He accepted Micah’s branding kisses, welcomed the blaze of heat that would have maimed and killed any normal being. The licks of searing flame did not bother him, just as the bright white patches of frost did not bother Micah along his back and shoulders, his neck.

The hand that moved between them and took hold of Peter’s cock was another thing entirely. A hot, firm hold upon his cock drew tremors from his body. “Yeah…Do that…” Peter commanded.

Micah murmured into Peter’s throat. He squeezed his hand around the girth of Peter’s shaft, drawing his palm down to the bulbous head and back up again. “What? Stroke your cock?”

“Yes. Do that. Stroke my fucking cock.” God, he had never said such a thing to Alison, yet for Micah, the demand was easily given and just as easily obeyed. He braced himself against the rim of the pool, leaned his head back and played at being spoiled. He urged Micah on, “Tighter…ummm…faster…”

Despite the fact that Micah obeyed, Peter held no delusions of who was in control of the situation. Micah’s hands were like a precious gift, the heat of them, the softness added with the strength were nothing that he could thrust against. He tried to set some sort of pace, but the rhythm belonged solely to his dark lover.

He wanted to think he could hold out, that the rippling, brutish jolts shaking his frame, causing him to gasp and choke, were things he could tamp down. Yet Micah’s experience easily mastered him. Micah brought him to the cusp of orgasm, stilled his breath within his throat. Even after Micah released his cock, Peter was unable to control his breathing.

Micah found fascination with Peter’s balls. Micah’s hands reached beneath Peter’s turgid cock to fondle his balls.

Peter was lost. Micah’s touch wasn’t ginger or hesitant, it was the touch of a man who owned a pair and knew just how harshly they could be handled, where to press and how to roll them. The caress itself was definitely supernatural and definitely more than he could take.

Finding Micah’s shoulders, Peter braced himself. The sweet convulsions coming upon him were too much to bear without support. He came in forceful jets beneath the blue water, panting like a bull against Micah’s chest.

Micah relaxed his hold, soothing Peter’s sensitive genitals with caresses. Despite the evidence of his own desire, he buried his face and sighed in the hollow of Peter’s shoulder.
It took more than a few minutes before Peter could speak again, before he could even focus his vision. “Hmm…that was good.”

Micah leaned in and kissed him. “Yeah? You calmer now?”

He was definitely satiated, although how long it would last remained to be seen. Yielding to Micah’s softer more leisurely kisses, he was still recovering from his first orgasm but already thoughts of his next one were dancing at the corners of his mind. “For the moment, I am.”

“Glad to have been a help, then, straight boy…”

Cover art: Les Byerley

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Leda MacGregor has harbored a secret love for the handsome laird Duncan since she was sixteen. When he blames her for his wife’s death, she turns to his brother Ian for comfort and finds her heart capable of loving two men.

Ian MacGregor finds his heart captured by Leda, his childhood friend. He desires her more powerfully than any other woman he has ever known. However, he is torn between the desire of his heart and the course his life must take. When he is finally free to love Leda, she is torn from him by a cruel deception.

Duncan MacGregor learns the powerful force of forgiveness from Leda and over time, grows to love her and desire her in a way he never thought possible. When his brother breaks her heart, he takes her for his own. When fate brings Ian back, he still loves Leda…

One woman. Two ruggedly handsome highlanders. She loves them both. Fortunately, they are willing to share her…

Publisher’s note: This book is previously published.

~~~~~~~~~~

Excerpt

Leda sighed deeply, snuggling against him, her hands splayed across Ian’s back. Suddenly, her contentment was replaced by the acute awareness of hard muscles underneath her touch. A flush spread on her cheeks and throat, and her breathing grew slightly husky. His touch weakened her. Sudden spirals of heat coursed through her, whispering into her breasts and down below, into her sex. She stilled, her hands resting on his back, which now rose and fell more heavily, too.

To her disappointment, Ian slowly disengaged from the embrace. The golden hue of his irises had darkened and his lids were heavy. He moved away slightly and cleared his throat. His customary mischievous grin came to his lips, although it seemed forced, and his eyes looked troubled. “Does Fanny still have her stash?”

It took her a moment for his question to register through her haze. She pulled her wrap more tightly around her, wondering if she’d imagined the tension of the previous moment. A fleeting memory of the time she and Ian had found the whiskey bottle years ago while playing hide and seek in the kitchen made her smile. “I don’t know.”

Mischief glinted in his eyes. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the butler’s pantry where Leda heard him opening cupboard doors. He reappeared in a moment, holding up the bottle of golden liquid in a triumphant gesture. “Same place as always.”

His handsome grin spread across his face, causing Leda’s heart to flutter. She watched him go to a cupboard and pull out two glasses, which he set down on the table next to her.

“This’ll warm you right up, Leda.” He opened the bottle and poured a shot into each glass. “Fanny won’t miss a few drops.” He handed her a glass and held his up. “Here’s to better days in the future.”

Leda saw a shadow of sadness darken his face and eyes, but only for a moment.

He grinned and clinked his glass lightly against hers. “Cheers.” He tipped his head back and drained his glass in one swallow.

Gingerly, she took a sip of hers. She had never liked the acrid sting of whiskey and only ever took it medicinally. In spite of her distaste for it, the drink slid through her veins like liquid heat, leaving her body in a slightly languid state.

Ian put his glass down and refilled it. “Come on, Leda. You’re falling behind.” Humor touched his voice.

She smiled and took another tiny sip. Ian downed his second glass and set it back down on the table.

Leda waited to see if he poured another one for himself. Instead, he leaned one hand on the table, standing so close to her that part of her thigh pressed against his hip. Immediately, she began to tremble and took another sip of her whiskey, a larger one this time.

Ian’s face was level with hers and he gazed at her. His hazel eyes had darkened again as he studied her. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down like that, not since we were bairns,” he said softly. His gaze traveled the length of her braid where it hung down, sloping over her right breast.

Her heart began to gallop and she felt naked, in spite of the wrap over her nightgown. “No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.”

Ian levered his weight off the table and pressed in a bit closer. He brought with him the scent of the whiskey he’d drunk, mingled with shaving soap. “May I ask you something?”

Her heart quickened. “Of course.”

“Has anyone come to keep company with you? Any suitors, I mean.”

His question made her heart lurch. Never before had he shown any interest in her social state. “For me? No.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “You’re kidding. I thought surely there would be several lads creeping ’round.”

Heat ignited in her belly and flushed straight up her neck and into her cheeks. The pulsing between her thighs resurged. “You’re the one who’s kidding, Ian. Me? Suitors? Come now. No one wants a lass who runs around in trousers and Wellies.”

Understanding flicked across his features. “Ah, that’s right.” The way he looked at her made her heart thump loudly. Since she had grown to womanhood, Ian was the first man ever to look at her with that soft shine that she’d seen in Duncan’s eyes whenever he looked at Cait, even in the presence of others. The room began to tilt and her head swam.

He reached up and brushed his fingertips along her jaw line. His touch made her shiver pleasantly. “Those articles do hide your beauty, Leda.”

His gaze moved over her face and hair, as if he had never seen her before.

“Beauty?”

He nodded. “Aye. You’re features are very soft. Very feminine.” The gold in his eyes darkened. “You even had me fooled.”

She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “Wha– what do you mean?”

Ian moved his hand to her hair, smoothing his palm over it, and fingering the top portion of her braid. “I mean, you’re very lovely.” His hand came to rest on her hair, cradling her head gently. His eyelids hooded his eyes, which had grown dusky.

“Thank you, Ian.” Her voice escaped in a whisper. She was barely able to speak, the way her heart thrashed about in her chest.

He continued to gaze at her. “You’re twenty-one now. Why haven’t you had a coming out?” You deserve one as much as any other lass.”

“Cait wanted me to have one. I always refused.”

Ian looked puzzled. “Why? You could have new dresses. You’d be stunning. I guarantee that in the same day you’d have at least four or five lads after you.”

The thought was so ridiculous to her, she giggled.

He frowned. “I mean it, Leda. Don’t you want someone?”

The question stunned her into silence, and she wondered fleetingly if Ian had seen inside her and knew of her secret love for Duncan. She looked at Ian, whose hand rested on her hair. The tenderness in his gaze so contrasted with the baleful glare Duncan had given her the other day it sent flutters through her stomach and heart. Ian was now the first man who’d ever held her in his arms and told her she was lovely. He awakened the hunger that had slumbered inside her since she’d realized her love for Duncan would always be unrequited.

Yes, I do want someone , she wanted to say. Someone who’s kind, compassionate, handsome, who finds me lovely and tells me so. I want you. She suppressed a gasp. How could she feel this way when she’d pined after Duncan for the last five years? The answer was simple. Ian was being kind to her. He was her best friend.

The words teetered on her lips. She did not dare speak them, even though they were true. Ian was as unattainable for her as Duncan had always been. Like his brother, Ian was a gentleman. He studied at Oxford and played cricket. He traveled to foreign lands. Although she, too, was a MacGregor, Leda knew her place. She was no higher in status than a crofter. Her privileges came from Duncan’s good graces, as repayment to her mother for nursing Malcolm.

She caught her breath. “Only … if he’s … like you.”

Ian looked momentarily startled. Something strange flashed in his eyes, something that appeared to be sadness. He chuckled. “You can do far better than me.” He removed his hand from her hair and leaned against the table, his palm resting on the surface, not far from her thigh.

“Why would you say such a thing, Ian?”

He chuckled again and looked down at the floor. “I say it because you deserve more than I could ever give you.”

Leda heard the criticism in his tone and her heart ached. Immediately she thought he meant his status as the non-holding brother, the man who had to carve his way in the world and prove himself because he did not inherit the estate.

Emboldened, she reached out and placed her palm against his cheek, which was smooth but for the hint of growth that he would shave off in the morning. With gentle pressure, she bid him to look up at her. “Now it’s my turn to tell you you’re speaking nonsense.”

She gazed into the greenish gold of his eyes. To her chagrin, he looked very sad. He put his hand over hers, gently pulling it away from his face and shook his head. “It’s not nonsense, Leda. I know it to be true.”

His hand was warm on hers and sent a flush of pleasant heat tingling in her arm. She loved his touch, which made her feel as heady as the whiskey.

“You’re sweet and good-hearted,” he said. “As well as bonny.” His eyes studied her. “You deserve a prince.”

“I don’t want a prince. You’re every bit as wonderful as a prince.” Her voice escaped in a whisper. She was melting under his gaze. She realized, with a lurch of her heart, that they were discussing … being together.

“You’ve always believed in me, haven’t you, Leda? That’s why I’ve always felt so safe with you.” He moved in closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body. His breathing had gone ragged. “I’ve been so blind, little swan. So blind.” He reached up and touched her cheek. “How could I have not seen you?”

Leda caught her breath softly. Her heart pumped madly and she could hear her blood rush in her ears. Her vision blurred and she felt drunk.

Ian leaned his face to hers and pressed his lips into her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed at the sweet, sensual warmth that radiated into her skin. With his fingertips, he caressed her other cheek.

He rested his lips on her skin for several heartbeats before lifting his face away and gazing into her eyes.

The sound of a man clearing his throat resounded through the kitchen. Leda’s heart thumped and her gaze whipped in the direction of the doorway.

Cover art: Yuramei

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In eighteenth century Japan, during the golden age of samurai and of the Kabuki theater, young actors known as “flying fish” traveled the countryside, performing for audiences by day and giving their bodies to their samurai patrons at night.

Genji Sakura is one such flying fish, yet he dreams of the day he’ll find the man he can give his heart to and leave the loneliness of his itinerant life behind. Though he loves theater, he doesn’t love every part of his profession, especially some of the patrons. So when a handsome ronin, or masterless samurai, comes upon him stealing some solitude for a bath in a hot spring and their encounter turns passionate and profoundly erotic, Genji’s surprised and delighted.

Daisuke Minamoto’s past fills his life with a bitterness that grips his soul and makes him dangerous. Yet his passion takes him when he spies on a graceful young man bathing naked in a hot spring. He has always loved women but he can’t deny the call of his heart or his baser interests.

After an afternoon of sexual bliss, his heart and soul are tormented and torn. Keeping this miraculous lover will require giving up the one thing that has kept him alive for years: his hatred for the lord who murdered his wife. If he loves another, how will he go on and who will he become?

Publisher’s Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, male/male sexual practices. This book was previously published and re-released with Ai Press.

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Excerpt

Chapter One
Kai Province, Edo Period, Japan
During the Tokugawa Shogunate

Ah, finally, the hot spring! A sunny summer afternoon to himself to enjoy a soak and not another soul in sight with whom he’d be forced to share. Who’d have thought such an oasis of luxury awaited a lowly travelling Kabuki actor, a flying fish who jumped from town to town with his troupe, entertaining merchants, peasants, and samurai? Unimaginable. Except that it had happened. And might not last long.
Genji stared a moment into the placid water of the small pond. Steam rose invitingly from its surface. Even the twittering birds in the trees surrounding the small enclave of rocks around the pool seemed to be ordering him in quickly. A hot spring like this would probably not remain undiscovered for long. Once he went back to the troupe’s quarters, only the Buddha might know when he’d have this chance again at solitude.

That was all the encouragement he needed. Genji pulled open the sash of his kimono and let the article slip right to the rock below his feet. On top of that, he dropped the small knife he carried, which when sheathed appeared to be a woman’s fan. A mistake probably, leaving it there, considering there were bandits in the countryside who could assail a lone person. But the essence of time made him throw caution aside.
He stepped out of his wooden sandals, not bothering to make a neatly folded pile of his clothes. The tie in his hair also landed on the pile, as he fully intended to wash his hair in this hot water. Another luxury he couldn’t have dreamed of before this moment. Now he was naked, having already daringly left off the loincloth before parting from his quarters in the village. Who wanted to spare the valuable time to unwrap it in the instance that he found the legendary hot spring spoken of by the innkeeper?

He covered his knife with the folds of the kimono, left within his reach, then stepped into the water. And immediately smiled. Delicious already and the water had only submerged him just past the ankle.

Anchoring his weight on one rock, he lowered himself in to his upper chest. Mmm, more luxurious heat penetrated his skin. The perfect relaxation. Bending forward, he soaked his long hair, then yanked his head back and scrubbed his scalp with eager fingertips. It wasn’t the same as having someone else do it for him, but it made his eyes close with pleasure all the same. Dipping down again, he rinsed his hair until he felt certain all the dust of the road had washed away, leaving the long, ebony strands gleaming.

He squeezed the excess water from the length of his hair then found a spot to sit and recline, where a rock jutted out into a natural ledge underneath the water. The sun warmed his face, and the water warmed his body. Warmth filled him. Made his soul as warm as his body. In moments like these, he could forget for a little while. Forget his childhood memories of the anguished cries of women and children as they all were forced from their homes in the aftermath of their lord’s defeat and herded onto the platforms to be sold. The sun made a reddish glow of the darkness behind his closed eyelids, a starburst of light that blocked out even the worst of his childhood visions.

A breeze passed over, blowing cool on his damp skin, rustling the leaves of the bushes and trees surrounding the tiny pool. However, when the breeze died down, the rustling of the leaves continued. Heavier, with the crunch of tiny twigs under the weight of something on top of them.

Genji’s eyes shot open. Sunlight flooded them, blinding him for a moment. All the nerve endings along his skin crackled to life. He strained to hear, and his body tensed, ready to spring from the water for his knife an arm’s length away.
Another crackle of twigs.

He sat bolt upright. “Who’s there?” he growled.

Silence.

Genji might have thought it was an animal in the brush, but his inner voice told him otherwise. It whispered to him that he shared this tiny oasis with another human being. Someone who’d been spying on him, watching him wash his hair.

Genji leaned over, slipped his hand within the folds of his kimono and wrapped a hand around the hilt of his tanto, a gift from a high-ranking samurai, one who had patronized Genji’s talents in the past, both on and off the stage. “Answer me,” Genji said, his voice tight. Years of acting had taught him how to infuse his tone with whatever emotion was needed for effect. In this instance, he sought for threatening. “I’m armed. I know how to use this knife.” Indeed, he could follow his threat with action. That same samurai had taught him some basic swordsmanship, in between sessions of intense lovemaking.
Silence still answered him, yet the sense of another human presence remained.
Genji slid the tanto from its scabbard.

“If you don’t show yourself on the count of three,” Genji went on, gaze trained on the rocks that hid part of the brush, “I will climb from this pool, seek you out, and gut you. Don’t think I won’t do it.” Though slim and narrow in build, with finely etched muscle and not the brawn of a highly-trained samurai or laborer, Genji had speed and agility. As a dancer, he’d found the principles of movement were the same.

“Relax, peasant,” a voice said suddenly from behind the brush. “I’m obeying your order.”

Genji’s insides jumped. The voice, deep and male, held a hint of mockery tinged with admiration. Though the owner of the voice hadn’t threatened his safety, Genji continued to hold his knife at the ready, should the stranger indeed mean him harm.
The leaves and branches of the brush rustled and snapped, and within seconds, a figure emerged. He came to a stop at the edge of the rocks.

Genji stared, blinking, not so much because the glare of the sun made a halo of blinding light around the stranger’s broad figure, but because when the man moved so as to block the sun from Genji’s eyes, the vision before Genji was that of a wild warrior.
Darkness. The word rose in Genji’s mind as the stranger moved a few steps closer. Dark eyes, swarthy skin, jaw and cheeks covered with more than a few days’ growth. And though his abundant black hair was pulled back, much of it had escaped its tie and rioted about his rugged face.

The man, obviously a samurai of some sort, would have been handsomely imposing had his clothing not been ragged and desperately in need of washing, even his rope sandals, though Genji felt certain that the blades of his weaponry, long sword, short, and knife, were polished to perfection within their woven scabbards. The hands that handled those weapons were large, fingers thick, and his legs in their gaiters below the hem of his kimono, also thick, muscled limbs of coiled strength.

Genji’s tanto and his limited ability to use it were a mere joke in the face of this obviously skilled warrior, however ragged and dirty his state. His fear must have shown, for the stranger gave him a sudden lopsided grin and began to untie his belt, lowering his weapons to the rocks.

“I apologize for coming upon you the way I did, like a sneak thief,” the samurai said. His hands went to the tie of his kimono and worked it open. “I thought you were a woman when I saw you from a distance, washing that hair.”

Genji exhaled a tiny bit. But only a bit. He set his tanto onto the rock behind him, an excuse to avert his gaze from the thickly muscled torso being revealed. For some reason, the man’s growing nakedness made Genji feel testy. “So you would have continued to spy on me, taking advantage of my undress had you not seen I’m a man?”

The samurai didn’t answer though his dark gaze shifted away from Genji in a way that appeared guilty. He removed his gaiters, unwrapped his loincloth, dropping everything on top of his other ragged clothing, and Genji got an eyeful of the samurai’s musuko. Even in its softened state, the member hinted at delicious thickness when erect. The sac beneath it was equally abundant-looking, heavy and full.

The samurai leaned down, turning halfway as he began to lower himself into the water. His meaty leg and ass muscles flexed as he climbed down into the pool and settled on the other side. Genji didn’t know if there was a rock ledge to sit on over there, but he didn’t offer the space beside him in spite of this warrior’s handsome appearance. He entertained enough samurai already, nearly every evening after the day’s performances. His life was not his own, and it was a blessing for him that he loved the theater, otherwise he would have gone mad and committed hara-kiri long ago with his own knife.

Without meaning to, Genji caught a glance of the way the waterline lapped at the samurai’s chest and gleamed on the golden hue of his skin, just beneath the large dark rounds of his nipples.

“To answer your question,” the samurai said finally, “yes, I would have continued to spy on you, as crude as that may be.”
Genji blinked again, struck at the man’s honesty. That, at least, was refreshing. Not all samurai were as noble as their warrior’s code demanded they be.

“Even after you first spoke,” the samurai went on, “I wasn’t sure of your sex. Your voice is soft and gentle even though you tried to sound fierce. It took many moments of debating whether to show myself. Only when you turned around and I saw your male chest, I knew I could come out without making you scream.”
Genji continued studying him as he spoke. The samurai’s voice was deep, each word saturated with emotions. The explanation made some of Genji’s apprehension ebb, and he nodded. “I see.”

The samurai cupped some water and splashed his face. Shiny droplets clung to the heavy dark stubble on his cheeks and jaw. “You must be a boy, then, by your smooth appearance.”

“No.” Genji lifted his chin. “I’m in my twenty-fifth year.” Truthfully, he’d not been a boy since his family’s expulsion from the castle into dire poverty, a violence that had ripped him from childhood and thrown him into the constant struggle for survival.

His bathing companion looked doubtful for a moment but then nodded and continued to wash himself. He came away from the edge to the center of the small pool and dipped underneath the surface, scrubbing at his skin when he rose. His large hands slid over his arms and chest, making the water stream off his skin.

Genji tried not to watch him while that testy feeling intensified. He shifted in his seat. “I’m not a peasant either,” he said to the man’s back. Water soaked the man’s thick hair, making it shine in the sun and those thick back muscles flexed and bunched as he washed himself. Genji had nothing against peasants, of course. His parents had been peasants who’d served the lord of their province within the grounds of the castle keep before the shogun dissolved the lord’s estate and turned them all out. But Genji hadn’t had the chance to grow up as a peasant once he’d been sold into service of Shizu, the theater troupe’s director. And so, his occupation, the very thing that had formed his identity as a human being, was of utmost importance to him and would be known. Even to this bedraggled-looking warrior.

The samurai turned and regarded him. More water beaded off his broad chest and down his taut abdomen. “What are you then?”

Genji squared his shoulders a bit. “An actor.”

The samurai’s eyes widened with a look of amazement. “Ohhhh,” he said in a hushed whisper, as if a great honor were being conferred on him. Then he bowed, his face nearly touching the surface of the water.

Genji’s cheeks burned. Was the samurai mocking him?
But when the other man straightened, his expression seemed sincere. “You must be famous,” he said.

“You don’t need to make fun of me just because I am part of a traveling troupe.”
The samurai’s brow furrowed. “I make fun of no one.” He bowed again. “I have never met an actor before.”

Genji studied him as his indignation faded. Judging from the wild look of the man, it was certainly possible he didn’t patronize the theater as so many of his class did. Then Genji understood his own agitation. “I apologize,” he said softly. “I see you weren’t mocking me. I’m not accustomed to a…response such as yours.”

“Oh.” The samurai bowed again, and Genji felt his cheeks tingle a bit. In spite of their strange introduction, the warrior seemed to possess the sense of honor exhorted by the samurai code, a quality Genji found attractive.

“My name is Genji,” he said, feeling his heart open a bit toward the samurai. Politeness went quite far with him since so many patrons saw his occupation as an excuse to make him an immediate object of their carnal appetites without regard for his feelings. “Sakura Genji.” Sakura was a surname he’d given himself, not only because he found cherry blossoms beautiful, but as a stage name, it had a touch of romance to it. He also felt it would honor his parents. They’d have been proud to know their son had earned the honor of a surname, even if he had to confer the honor upon himself as he grew older and earned his promotion from stagehand to understudy to first performer.

The samurai bowed yet again. “Minamoto,” he said, “Minamoto Daisuke.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Genji paused before speaking again. “Which lord do you serve?” he asked and immediately regretted his question.

Minamoto’s face darkened, and the wildness Genji had first seen came forth in his look.
“I serve no lord,” he said quietly. “I’m a ronin.”

A masterless samurai. There were many of those in the world. For various reasons, these warriors roamed the countryside, using their skills for their own purposes, never swearing fealty to one lord. Indeed, the status explained Minamoto’s unkempt state. The occupation of ronin never held the promise of steady employment, especially in a time as relatively peaceful as this one, when a swordsman’s skill was not so much in demand.
Genji sought to lighten the sudden mood. There was something underneath the ronin’s demeanor that made Genji uneasy in spite of the man’s apparent honorability. “Well, then, we have something in common,” he said.

“What is that?” Minamoto looked genuinely curious.

“Neither of us stays long in one place. You’re a ronin, and I’m a tobiko.”

Minamoto broke into a grin. He laughed then, a deep, rich laugh that did, indeed, release the darkness of the previous moment.

Genji found the laughter infectious and joined him. Their combined voices echoed into the air, Minamoto’s deep sound and Genji’s higher, melodious one, blending into the sweet summer air and the birdsong in the surrounding trees. Life held some truly pleasant moments for Genji at times, and this was one of them.
When their mirth had passed, Minamoto regarded him with a thoughtful expression. “I wouldn’t have thought of such a comparison, but you’re right, after all. The world holds great uncertainties for both of us.”

Genji nodded then saw the samurai’s look shift, as if his own words had made him think of something he’d left behind while laughing. Feeling suddenly shy, Genji shifted his gaze to the water. “This is certainly a beautiful spot,” he said. The mood had darkened again, and Genji understood. Minamoto carried this darkness with him. It was part of him, like a precious treasure to which he clung for survival. Being an actor had sensitized Genji to the inner workings of human beings. After all, he needed to access the depths of human existence in order to portray it effectively onstage through song and dance.

“It is beautiful,” Minamoto agreed. “I’ve soaked here many times.”

“Oh, so you’ve been in the province before.”

The darkness seemed to close in like a shadow over Minamoto’s handsome face. “I lived here for some time, years ago.”

“I see.” Genji remained quiet. It wasn’t his way to pry into others’ lives. He’d learned long ago to mind his own affairs. Yet, it often didn’t matter. For whatever reason, he had a way about him that made people feel able to bare their souls to him and so had often learned more than he wanted to know of others’ depravities and secrets.

A tormented look tightened Minamoto’s features. “It’s no secret why I lived here and why I left. No doubt you’ll hear the gossip once people see I’ve returned.”

Genji’s insides jumped. Apparently, the ronin sensed this thing in Genji as well. It was inescapable. “I never pay heed to gossip,” he said. “It’s belittling. Unworthy of even the lowliest peasant.”

A moment of silence passed, and Genji thought his response had ended their conversation, but Minamoto spoke again.

“Five years ago, the lord of this province murdered my wife,” he said quietly. “Shot her with an arrow while he was out hunting. She was collecting flowers. They were still in her hand when she was brought to me.”

Genji stared at him. It occurred to him perhaps the lord had been hunting and mistook the woman’s movement for a game creature, but deep inside, he knew it wasn’t true. The act had been committed in cold blood. The truth was in Minamoto’s eyes.

“I was a threat to him,” Minamoto continued. “The aid I gave to certain of his vassals made him distrust me. He did it to rid the province of me. He succeeded. I could not stay here after that…and be reminded of her. Everywhere I looked.”

“I’m truly sorry,” he said softly. Clearly the ronin still grieved. The woman’s death had obviously been a loss from which Minamoto felt he could never return. Perhaps that was the cause of the darkness Genji had sensed in the man.

Minamoto’s stricken eyes went to him. The sympathy he read on Genji’s face seemed to soothe him, for his look shifted to something softer. He nodded an acknowledgment of Genji’s kindness to him. “Since then, I’ve travelled every inch of Japan, been to every province, and studied with the greatest swordsmen of each fiefdom.”

The samurai’s voice took on an edge as he spoke. There was a hunger in his eyes Genji had seen before in the warriors of his class. So many of them possessed fighting skills beyond anyone’s imagination, and in this peaceful time, they had no outlet other than to challenge each other to duels or to protect villages from gangsters and bandits. From the way Minamoto spoke, and from what he’d just revealed about his past, Genji felt certain as to the destructive course this man actually followed. Minamoto was a man consumed, devoured from the inside by his own life. The understanding formed in Genji’s mind and heart as he watched the steam rise from the water’s surface around Minamoto’s damp torso. Minamoto was a living, breathing figure of tragedy.

The understanding softened Genji a bit more toward the man. As much as he ever wanted to remain aloof from anyone for his own protection, he was never able to do so, as if some sort of natural barrier that other people had was missing from him. “Perhaps it’s none of my business,” Genji began gently, “and please tell me if it is not, but what brought you back to this province?” Something gave him the feeling it wasn’t to revisit the place where he had lived with his wife.

That darkness settled over Minamoto again. “I have unfinished business here.”

The answer confirmed his suspicions. Yet, Minamoto’s intentions were none of Genji’s affair. Genji’s existence was devoted to playing the Samurai Princess, a role for which Shizu had meticulously trained him since buying Genji off the platform.

Genji nodded and remained respectfully quiet. The slant of the sun told him it was time to return to the village. His troupe had just arrived the previous day, and their stage would be near completion. Rehearsals would go on this evening, and then when the news of their arrival had spread, there would be the usual wandering in of samurai looking for an evening’s companion. Genji sighed. “I must return. I have a few moments to dry out on the bank, and then I will go back.”

The ronin started as if given a shock. He bowed to Genji. “I’ll accompany you,” he said. “It’s safer not to travel alone.”

Genji hovered on the verge of refusing the offer. After all, he had his tanto and wasn’t afraid to use it…he believed. However, he found Minamoto’s company oddly comforting, showing Genji how lonely he actually felt in spite of his busy life. His fellow tobiko could never really be true friends, even Aoki. Especially Aoki, who coveted Genji’s position in the troupe. Aoki would not want to remain an understudy indefinitely, and so there was always an undercurrent of tension among the troupe members. With a sigh, Genji climbed from the pool, retrieved the pile of his things from the rock, and went to the grass. Retrieving the small bottle of sesame oil from his things, he poured some into his hand and smoothed it into his wet hair. The long strands would comb out much more easily when dry if he worked any tangles out beforehand.

Peripherally, Genji saw Minamoto recline on the grass roughly an arm’s length away. He kept his back turned so as not to steal glances at the samurai’s magnificent, naked physique stretched out on the grass in the sun. Working his fingers down the fall of his hair, Genji turned slightly and caught a glance of Minamoto’s lower body. The man’s musuko was no longer soft between his muscular thighs but stretched halfway erect, blooming with reddish color.

A jolt went through Genji’s body, sending in its wake a series of tingles that concentrated in his own member. He’d thought himself jaded after serving so many samurai with his body, but for some reason, life now infused his male parts, even his nipples, which began to tighten into small, hard peaks. He looked back down, pretending to concentrate on his hair with all his will.

“Your hair is so beautiful.”

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Delicious Love Triangle
Author: Sedonia Guillone
Genre: Menage a trois; Contemporary
eISBN: 978-0-9833747-6-3
Length: Novel (46,134 words)
MSRP: 7.99 | Price: 4.99
You Pay: 2.99
Cover art: Les Byerley

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No sex with friends! This is the personal rule that Hana lives by to keep things simple with her two best friends, Hiko and Shinji even though they’re two of the hottest guys she’s ever met. She’s afraid of risking their friendships that way, and besides, she could never choose between them, they’re both so wonderful. Little does she know!

When Hana loses her job as a clothing designer, Hiko and Shinji, afraid to let her get depressed over it offer to pose in erotic positions for her while she sketches what she hopes to be the manlove graphic novel that will launch her career as a manga artist. Hana sees no harm in this. It’s the fantasy of a lifetime and very kind of them to offer. The perfect arrangement until…

Seeing Hiko and Shinji together arouses Hana to no end. How will she be able to control herself watching their naked bodies entwined, watching them engage in acts that are the stuff of her wildest fantasies? And then, she makes a shocking discovery while passing by Hiko’s room in the middle of the night. Are things getting out of hand? Or rather, ahem, in hand?

Hiko and Shinji have both been in love with Hana for a long time and out of their love for her, they’ve never pushed her about getting romantic even though they know she’s in love with them too. But when the opportunity arises to pose for her, they see their perfect chance to do away with sexual deprivation and get the woman they love into a position of their own.

Content warning: Contains male/male sexual acts, voyeurism, exhibitionism and multiple partner sex.

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Three Times the Scandal
Author: Madelynne Ellis
Series: Georgian Rakehells
Genre: Menage; historical; M/F/M/M
Length: Super novel (96751 words)
eISBN: 9780983374718
MSRP: 8.99 | Price: 5.99
You pay: 3.99

Cover art: Les Byerley

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When you’re a dutiful, dependable and desperate woman… sometimes falling into the arms of a gorgeously sinful rakehell really is the only way out. Better yet, make that three gorgeously sinful rakehells…

Fortuna Allenthorpe is so repulsed by the man to whom her parents have engaged her that she takes the only available way out, and flees into the night with notorious rakehell, Giles Dovecote. Giles is a vocal advocate of free love, and he and his debauched friends the Darleston twins, are soon vying for Fortuna’s attention while introducing her to all manner of sexual delights.

Convinced that her tattered reputation will prompt her fiancé to call off the engagement, Fortuna is troubled to learn that Sir Hector is still set upon their marriage. It seems he’s more interested in her impressive inheritance, a ruby necklace known as the Star of Fortune, than he is in her errant virtue. What’s more, he’s prepared to destroy her family to ensure he gets exactly what he wants.

Suddenly, Fortuna’s only means of escape is to make a more agreeable match. How difficult can that be, when she’s head over heels for Giles, and he’s already sworn to help her? There’s just one problem—Giles’s deep-rooted belief that marriage is nothing more than social slavery. Past mistakes weight heavily on his conscience, but can he really sit back and condemn the woman he loves to a hellish match?

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Cover art: Les Byerley

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Across time, two hot immortals find each other. But is mutual passion enough?

Chris Molina is a MAP, a molecularly advanced person. Rejected by his family in the 18th century and sent out into the world alone at the age of twenty-five, he wanders through time, craving love and companionship. He finally settles down and establishes a homestead in Virginia where he meets the first of his own kind, Abigail DuMonte. Together they start a life, one where they can live openly and honestly. However, in spite of the love and friendship they share, something else important is missing: Soul-searing passion. Until…

When Chris meets Zachary Bishop, he’s found everything he’s ever wanted. Zach is handsome, intelligent, sweet, and craves the same things he does. However, Chris soon realizes that his dreams may come true at a cost. Although Abby is not his lover, they have a long and close history together that Chris doesn’t want to jeopardize. Is there room in his life for both Abby and Zach? What if he can never really find the family he’s longed for? Will Zach become simply a memory of erotic passion and unfulfilled longing? Three immortals on the brink of change…

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Excerpt

Chris nodded, impressed with the thoroughness of the report. He flipped through the next few pages, having gained most of the information he needed from the cover sheet. On the page listing treatment history, his attention was drawn to another yellow Post-It note. In neat handwriting was written, Dr. Molina. I request a consult for my patient Ms. Manning. I have spent the past year trying to stabilize her but have been unsuccessful. Your reputation as a diagnostician precedes you. I’m hoping you may find something I have missed. Dr. Bishop.

Chris looked at the latest note entered on the chart. Three days ago. June 15. Pulling the staff directory from his desk, he looked up Dr. Bishop’s extension and called the operator. “Could you please connect me with Dr. Bishop’s office, extension 7143?”

“Certainly. Right away.”

The phone rang only once before a bubbly female voice greeted him. “Dr. Bishop’s office. How may I help you?”

“This is Dr. Molina calling. I have surgical consult request from Dr. Bishop and would like to speak with him.”

“Was he expecting your call?” The voice remained high-spirited.
Chris paused for a moment, wondering if he hadn’t been clear enough. “I’m guessing yes, since he left a note asking for me to contact him.” The sarcasm in his voice seemed obvious. He hoped Ms. Chipper wasn’t as insightful.

“I’m sorry. He’s busy right now, but I can take a message and let him know…” The sound over the phone became muffled and Chris heard two voices talking, although he couldn’t make out the words. When the woman’s voice returned, some of the cheeriness had disappeared. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Molina. Dr. Bishop will take your call right away. Please hold.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Chris leaned back in his chair. I bet she got her ass chewed out.

“Just a moment. I’ll put you through to his office.”

The line went silent for a moment and then a voice, deep and resonating, sounded on the other end of the line. “Hello, Zachary Bishop here. Is this Chief Molina?”
The sound of Zachary’s voice entered him, washing through his body, leaving waves of heated pleasure in its wake. Hairs stood on end along his arms and at the back of his neck, only moderately drowned out by the tingling which crept up his spine. Jesus Christ.

All of this just from a voice?

Every cell in his body went into high alert, a reaction he only experienced through touch.

Breath shallow, heart pounding, he closed his eyes. Fear melded with excitement as an entirely new sensation took hold within him. Gripping the phone to the point where his knuckles pressed at his skin, tendrils extended from him. What’s happening to me? There’s nothing to touch. Why would my body react this way?

As if in answer to his question, a sharp intake of breath brought Chris’s attention back to the conversation and the man on the other end of the line. A dry, cracked voice sounded once again, almost a squeak, like speaking had somehow become difficult. “Hello? Are you there?”

Chris shook his head, quelling his body’s electric reaction to a faceless voice. With great effort, he managed to speak. “Yes. This is Chris Molina.”

“Thank you for calling, Chief Molina. I could really use your help.” Zachary’s voice had regained its mellow timbre and cadence, but Chris’s body continued to respond physically, his tendrils wrapping around the receiver, binding his hand to the phone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my body was trying to reach through the phone.

Mouth running dry, Chris reached for his coffee mug. He took a large gulp. Every action within his body triggered sensations normally experienced when he touched someone. Never before had he reacted to the mere sound of a voice. It was as if his entire body knew something his head hadn’t had time to figure out. Something about Zachary Bishop was different than the other men he had connected with over the past two centuries.

Cover art: Les Byerley

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Zach Wilder has to content himself with lusting after Mark Davis from a distance. His sexy co-worker is already involved and Zach is no home-wrecker. Mark spends most of his time in whispered cell phone conversations with his boyfriend. Zach is nothing more than an eavesdropper until Mark’s relationship ends abruptly, leaving Mark heartbroken and available. Zach steps in willingly and gives Mark the comfort he needs…

One taste of Mark and Zach is hooked. However, Zach quickly learns his new lover has interesting…tastes…of his own, a side that pushes boundaries Zach has never before breached. Is Mark worth overcoming his limits or will Zach just take the memory of that hot encounter and go on his way?

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Excerpt

Some kid came out the complex door, carrying a box. He struggled to load it into the back of the truck. The guy behind the wheel didn’t make a move to help him. I suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that the kid had to be Mark’s ex. I thought, Really? This dumb kid actually left Mark for a complete asshole?

The kid went back inside. I was like, Damn, now what? Mark hadn’t told me when to come. So what was I supposed to do? I guess I was crazy. I got out of the car and headed for the building.

I didn’t have to be buzzed in, which was good. I walked up to the fourth floor and as soon as I stepped out of the stairwell, I heard the voices.

“Why the hell are you drawing this out? Just leave, all right?”

 Mark’s apartment was 4B. I could see the door was open as I walked down the hall. I got a good view of what was going on. They were both in the living room, standing and facing each other.

“I’ll go when I’m damn good and ready. You’re going to hear what I had to say.”

“Why would I want to hear anything you have to say?” Mark demanded.

“Because you need to hear it.” His ex shot back. “You need to know how hard this is for me.”

“For you, you son of a bitch?”

“I’m letting you down easy, aren’t I? I’m the one who’ll look like the bad guy. You shouldn’t be such a bitch about this.”

I couldn’t listen to this bullshit any longer. I knocked on the doorframe.

Both of them turned to me. Mark looked surprised, then embarrassed, and the ex looked pissed.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Normally I would have backed off. I don’t like confrontation as a rule, but looking at Mark, seeing the tears in his eyes and the flush on his face, just pissed me off to hell. “I’m the fag who’s going to smash your face into a wall if you don’t get the fuck out, you little asshole.”

I’d never seen a guy turn three different colors in such a short time, first green, then pale, then red. A sight to behold.

He turned and strode past me, taking care not to get too close. Guess he thought I was going to do something to him.

“Zach?” Mark’s lower lip trembled.

“Hey.” I went to him and put my arms around him. “Are you all right?”

He blew out a breath. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I kissed him. It wasn’t anything kinky, just a quick peck on the lips. I just felt like he needed it. I led him over to the couch and sat him down. “Is all his stuff out? He’s gone for good?”

Mark nodded. He blinked, and the tears ran down he cheeks. He didn’t look as though he realized he was crying. I hated to see him that way. Then I thought again, What the hell?

I didn’t know what he wanted but I thought I knew what he needed, and right then I didn’t give a shit that he was on the rebound. I knelt and reached for his belt buckle. He didn’t look at me at first. The tears had dried on his face and he was in his own world, staring at the far wall. I figured at this point I didn’t have anything to lose.