Thursday, October 11, 2018

Random Paranormal Tales of 2018 Part 5

The Werewolf of Grey Lake Inn by Megan Derr
Astor is tired—tired of his family and the way they never listen to his advice, and tired of being in love with his agent, Tennyson, who after a one night stand made it clear he preferred to keep things professional. The only thing Astor's not tired of is his job researching haunted inns and hotels to prove just how haunted they're not.

His latest book is about a notorious inn in the middle of nowhere, and a haunting he suspects has more to do with real werewolves than fake ghosts. It will provide fodder for an excellent non-fiction book, the novel he's secretly writing, and be so distracting he'll finally be able to get over Tennyson.

Except when he arrives it's to find that Tennyson is already there, with every intention of keeping Astor company through the holidays.

This is only the second book of Megan Derr's that I've read but it has cemented my decision to further check out her backlist in the future.  Astor is a snarky vampire who investigates and writes books on disproving haunted places, not exactly a character you read every day.  Tennyson is his agent who decides to follow along with him on his latest debunking journey into Grey Lake Inn and the surrounding area.  I loved the blend of paranormal, lusty romance, and a little history in the form of the story behind the ghost "sightings".  The Werewolf of Grey Lake Inn may be short on words and pages but long on delightfully fun entertainment.


Souls for Sale by Asta Idonea
When demon Saul persuades comic book artist Tom to sign over his soul in exchange for a night of passion, little does he know what lies in store. Demons can’t fall in love—or so he’s been told—but he finds himself smitten and attempts to destroy the contract, desperate to save Tom from an eternity of torture.

With Saul and Tom forced to run, a showdown between Heaven and Hell ensues as the angels and demons argue over who owns Tom’s soul. But does either party have a stronger claim than Saul?

Omega for Rent by Liam Kingsley
It’s better to fake a relationship than be forced into one… But what happens when the fake relationship starts feeling like everything you never knew you wanted? 

Chase Cartwright has a problem—his dad needs him to date the omega son of an important businessman in order to close a deal. But omegas often form intense emotional attachments with alphas and Chase, commitment-phobe, isn’t willing to take that risk. He just needs to figure a way out of it… 

Riley Lewis is an omega for hire, and he offers a specialist service—he can take an alpha knot without any of the emotional baggage. And now he’s got a client, a rich alpha who needs him to be a fake boyfriend. But Chase is adamant it’s just business. A fake relationship for show, to keep his father off his back. No sex. Definitely no knotting. 

But what’s Chase supposed to do when the immediate connection he feels for the omega turns into a soul-deep craving to be close, too overwhelming to ignore? It’s all-consuming and beyond any kind of human bond, and the alpha will tear apart the world to keep it safe—both Riley, and the new life they’ve created within him. 

Because there’s a new danger lurking on the edges of their happiness, another alpha who’s obsessed with Riley, and he forces Chase into an impossible decision: How much is Chase willing to sacrifice to protect the man he loves and the baby he carries? 

Bad Moon Arising by CL Mustafic
Outcasts #1
In a sleepy trailer park in the backwoods of Minnesota lake country, there lies a secret—threatened by a Grindr hookup gone bad.

Clay Anderson gets more than he bargained for when, in a moment of passion, he bites his Grindr hookup hard enough to draw blood. The man’s reaction isn’t as reassuring as Clay hoped, but of all the consequences Clay considered, lycanthropy wasn’t among them.

Damian Maccon leads a simple life as part of the Outcast pack. Not realizing at first that Clay swallowed his blood during their wild romp, he feels responsible when it’s evident that Clay has become infected. Worse, he now has a new werewolf on his hands until Clay learns the rules, and he has to oversee Clay’s decision to choose a mate within the pack.

Damian thinks his biggest problem is that Clay hates him, but when Clay chooses Damian’s abusive ex-boyfriend, Blaine, he goes on full alert. Can he save Clay from the same fate that befell him at Blaine’s hands?

Ante Up by Kim Fielding
Dreamspun Beyond #8  
Love is a high-stakes game.

A century and a half ago, Ante Novak died on a Croatian battlefield—and rose three days later as a vampire. Now he haunts Las Vegas, stealing blood and money from drunken gamblers and staying on the fringe of the powerful vampire organization known as the Shadows. His existence feels empty and meaningless until he meets beautiful Peter Gehrardi, who can influence others with his thoughts.

An attraction flares instantly, bringing a semblance of life to Ante’s dead heart. But the Shadows want Peter too, and they’re willing to kill to get him. As Ante and Peter flee, they learn more about themselves and each other, and they discover that the world is a stranger place than either of them imagined. With enemies at their heels and old mistakes coming back to exact a price, how can Ante and Peter find sanctuary?

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Random Paranormal Tales of 2018

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The Werewolf of Grey Lake Inn by Megan Derr
“I don’t care what he does for a living,” Astor snapped, taking a right turn a little harder than intended, his driving suffering for his temper. At least he wasn’t on a highway where he’d be surrounded by even more idiots to further fray his temper. He corrected himself, took a deep breath, and resumed yelling at his stupid cousin. Talking or shouting sense into Amanda was an exercise in futility, but still he had to try. “That man is a trial by jury waiting to happen, and you are only proving yourself to be a nitwit—”

He jerked as she slammed her phone down, hanging up on him. Who even used phones that slammed anymore? Switching his to silent, he threw it on the passenger seat in disgust. May whatever deities existed spare him further family aggravation while he was on this trip. He gave it a month before Amanda went running home in tears because her new perfect, wonderful, wealthy lawyer boyfriend turned out to be scum precisely as Astor had tried to tell her. He could spot bad news at a hundred yards, but did anyone listen to him? No.

Disgusted, fed up, and in sore need of a beer, Astor hit the gas and sped up the mountain, moderately soothed by the growl and purr and smooth motion of his bright blue corvette. He could not wait to reach the inn where he would be spending the next month doing research for his new book. He was going to enjoy every second of not having to manage the rampant stupidity afflicting the rest of his family.

Instead he’d be focusing on ghosts and his own rampant stupidity; it would almost be a nice change.

The parking lot was mostly empty when he reached the inn, and Astor felt more than justified in stealing two parking spaces for his car. If there was so much as a scratch on his corvette when he left there, he’d give the inn some real ghosts to worry about. He put the top up on his car and gathered up his jacket, duffle bag, laptop bag, and phone from the passenger seat. He stalked toward the inn—

—And stopped in his tracks as his eyes landed on a familiar car. He would know that dark blue BMW anywhere, even pretending for a moment that he didn’t have the license plate memorized. What the hell was Tennyson doing there? He was supposed to be fourteen hours away, at home. Astor had picked the Grey Lake Inn precisely because the ‘prime ghost viewing period’ was during Christmas and so no one would bother to visit him or check up on him. He had planned to bury himself in the mountains for a month to work on two things: his new book, and to stop being in love with his agent.

He should have known that the day would be a wash when he woke up to find that Casper had run away. Stupid, useless, ungrateful feline. Who needed the mouthy, troublemaking ball of fluff anyway? Stifling a sigh because sighing would accomplish nothing, Astor slung his duffle over one shoulder, the laptop bag across the other, and trudged toward the inn.

To give it credit, the inn had a horror movie setting that did not seem overly contrived. If he were not all too aware that ghosts did not exist, Astor would be creeped out by the place. It was, however, damned hard to terrify a man with fangs who drank blood to live and debunked ghost stories for a living. But the place made a good showing, he would concede that. Dark stone and old wood, check. Creeping ivy, check. Wrought iron, check. Nothing else around for miles, check.

He was further impressed there were no tacky signs proclaiming the ghosts, no boards spelling out the long, tedious story. Only a single sign on the far side of the parking lot that marked the beginning of the ‘historic’ trail that led to where the infamous cabin had once been located, close to the lake that gave the inn its name—which itself had been named for the woman who had died there, the woman whose ghost seemed to do a hell of a lot of haunting across the damn mountain.

But trekking around the mountain was the next day’s task. Right then, he was interested only in unpacking and finding a beer. He grimaced as he recalled that for reasons unknown, Tennyson was there. His head throbbed, and Astor sighed before he could catch himself.

Pushing open one of the double doors, he stepped into the lobby and was immediately assaulted by an over-enthusiastic use of potpourri. The entire place smelled like the bastard child of a florist and a perfume shop. The inn’s interior continued the outside theme of ‘vaguely creepy’ and he would definitely acknowledge the atmosphere in his book. Dark wood, dark oriental carpets, lamps and electric candles meant to look like more old-fashioned gas and wax candles.

Hell, as he reached the desk, he saw the place came complete with a sour-faced crone. He only barely avoided wrinkling his nose at the dry-as-dust smell of her blood. He fervently hoped there would be better pickings when he needed to drink.

His thoughts slipped dangerously to Tennyson then, and a night he could never forget no matter how hard he tried.

Biting down, arms dragging Tennyson closer, fisting a hand in Tennyson’s hair as he drank, as Tennyson pounded into him, both of them wanting more and more, never sated—

He cut the memory off, hating himself even as his hand curled around the coin in his pocket. He forced a polite smile as he slid his ID and credit card across the desk. “Good evening. I have a reservation under the name Astor Wheaton.”

Souls for Sale by Asta Idonea
It’s tough being a demon in this day and age. Times are hard and souls just aren’t what they used to be. I should know; it’s my job to collect them. Or try to, anyway. What I wouldn’t give to go back to the good ol’ days when you could buy a soul as easily as an apple at the marketplace. And I mean a proper apple, plucked straight from the tree that morning. None of this modified, refrigerated crap that passes as fresh fruit nowadays.

I know what you’re thinking. Trust me; I’ve heard it all before. You’re wondering how it could be so hard to get someone to sign away their soul in an age when everything can be obtained for a price, when everything is for sale. Actors, bankers, politicians. You’d think rich pickings; am I right? Well, you’d be wrong.

Problem is that no one believes anymore. Picture this: I walk up to someone and offer to grant them anything their heart desires in exchange for their soul. Now, in times past they’d either tremble in fear and drop to their knees, praying to the guy upstairs (my cue to leave), or they’d tremble in fear for a moment and then sign on the dotted line. Simple. Everyone knew where they stood. But if I were to try that today, most people would laugh in my face and walk off, or else they’d look uneasy and slink away from the ‘deranged lunatic’ as soon as possible. Hell, I miss the fear.

The faith is gone, you see, supplanted with technology, gizmos, and gadgets. An age of information. Everything you want, obtainable at the press of a button. What is there to long for anymore? What is there worth selling your soul for that you couldn’t get another way? Sure, you still have the old standards, the favourites—riches, power, and sex—but as I said, the belief is sadly lacking.

Every passing year it gets harder and harder to fill my quota. I have the boss breathing fire down my neck—both metaphorically and literally—and damned if I know how to get around the problem. It’s not just me. My colleagues are equally exasperated. It won’t be too much longer until it’s impossible to sign up even one new soul to burn in everlasting Hell. Then what’s a conscientious, hard-working demon to do?

Anyhow, I guess it’s about time I introduced myself. The name’s Saul. Yeah, I know, but it’s not like I picked it. We get what the boss dishes out, and I drew the short straw that day. Guess he was in one of his funny moods. I’m here today following a mark. I’m actually pretty stoked I found this guy, as he’s shaping up to be the most promising potential soul-seller I’ve seen in several months. Hey, try saying that three times fast! The trick now is not to rush things, not to push him too hard or too fast.

Oh, here he comes. See if you can pick him from the crowd. No? Hard, isn’t it? Everyone looks the same these days. It used to be so much easier to tell a sinner from a saint. Now the line is so blurred it barely exists at all.

But I digress. Just wait a moment… There! See the guy heading into the pub? The one in the Marvel T-shirt? With the blond curls? That’s our man. Bit of a stereotype of a comic-book nerd, isn’t he? Unlikely to sell his soul, you think? Well, we’ll soon see.

Chapter One
I enter the pub, saunter to the bar, and settle on one of the stools. This isn’t the most salubrious joint on the block and the stool wobbles precariously on uneven legs under my weight. I grip the counter for a moment, until equilibrium returns, and then assess the situation. So long as I don’t make any sudden moves, I should be safe. The last thing I want is to fall on my arse. Not the kind of first impression I’m hoping to make on my mark.

The barman waddles over and raises an expectant eyebrow. He scans my attire. From the twist of his lips, I deduce that he agrees with my own belief: I look wildly out of place here. Nonetheless, I don’t suppose he’s going to toss me out. Money is money whether it comes from a lint-lined pocket in a pair of faded, torn jeans or from a genuine leather wallet, produced from the inner pocket of a bespoke suit jacket.

I had planned to plump for a reliable half-pint of Old Peculiar, but then the guest ales catch my eye. “A pint of the Green Daemon, thanks,” I say as I place a tenner on the sticky bar top.

What can I say? I have a sense of humour—sue me. Besides, I love the little devil figure grinning out at me from the label. And, hey, I am wearing a green shirt and beautifully coordinated tie today. It must be serendipity.

The barman sets the beer in front of me and drops a handful of change beside it. I scoop up the coins and thrust them into my pocket. Then I lift the glass to take my first sip. It’s not bad; there’s a fruity aroma. I’d probably pair it with an Asian fusion dish, if that sort of thing interests you. But I’m not here to entertain or offer culinary advice. I have work to do.

The mirror behind the bar gives me an excellent, if somewhat smeary, view of the room, and it doesn’t take me long to spot my mark again. He’s in the corner seat—the darkest spot in the pub—and is nursing a half-pint of something that looks suspiciously like a girly cider. Geez, the guy is staring into the glass like it’s a fricking crystal ball. What is it he expects to see in there—a masterpiece by Dalí?

Hey, I’m not mocking the guy. He’s actually pretty cute in all his dorkish glory. If you’re into that sort of vibe. One look at him, sitting there like a dejected puppy, is enough to convince me I’m on the right track. I can even guess his wish. Oh yes. Numero tres for this dude. Sex, sex, sex. The poor sap looks like he hasn’t been laid in a lifetime, if ever, and as a fellow man—or close enough—it’s my duty to help him out. If he happens to sign a little contract in the process, all the better…for me, anyway.

I’ve decided on my play, but I watch the guy for a few more minutes, choosing the best approach. The trick to a successful signing is to make the initial contact count. I should probably have an honorary psychology degree since the most important part of this job is reading your mark. You have to know what they want, but more than that, you have to know how they want it. You’ve got to understand how people tick. Know what I’m saying?

Take this guy. We can see he desires sex, but what does he like? Is he into blondes or brunettes, curves or willows? These are all vital questions because I need to know how to alter my appearance before I go over to him. Yeah, you heard me right. The things I do for this job! Believe me, temporary loss of my favourite anatomical parts is the least of it.

Once again, it makes one long for the good times past. Back then it was a simple matter of two choices. First, male or female, depending upon my target, and second, handsome or deformed. Most wanted the devil to be handsome. I guess it was easier to sin if you looked upon a pretty face while you were about it. However, there were always a few who wanted to be truly horrified by what they were doing, to feel the weight of it. In those cases, the traditional horns, cloven hooves, and tail were my attributes of choice.

Nowadays, people are so picky. So many choices, so many new and convoluted kinks to work into the equation. This guy doesn’t seem to be the kinky type on the surface, but you never can tell. Does he want the sweet girl next door? Does he want a dominatrix, all whips and leather? Does he want…a man?

I temporarily lose my train of thought, and my jaw drops quite of its own accord.

Even as I jabber away, I have been keeping half an eye on my mark. He completely ignores the young waitress attending the couple two tables down from him, but his gaze is captured by a waiter who’s just exited the kitchen. The man is lean but toned, and he flicks his head to shift choppy brown locks out of his eyes as he adjusts his grip on the plates he carries hurriedly across the room.

I confess I didn’t see that coming. Not on this occasion.

My guy’s practically salivating as he follows the man with his gaze. Given the flush in his cheeks, I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he had a hard-on; although, it’s impossible to verify that with the table in the way.

One thing is clear: this wasn’t a chance encounter. No, he’s been waiting to catch a glimpse of this guy. Suddenly, I understand his reason for choosing this completely hideous pub. No. Scratch that. They do have a pretty good list of guest ales. Let’s call it a semi-hideous pub, in the interest of fairness.

The waiter-god, his work completed, strolls back into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging to and fro in his wake. My guy watches it like a hawk long after it ceases to move, no doubt hoping for a repeat performance. When the door stays resolutely closed, he shifts his attention back to his untouched drink.


I confess that the revelation threw me for a moment. Even a seasoned professional such as myself can occasionally be caught off guard. No one’s perfect, after all. But I’m nothing if not adaptable, and it doesn’t take me long to bounce back and rethink my plan of attack.

I’ll be able to keep my man-parts for this one—always a blessing—but one thing still needs to be decided: how should I appear to him? The obvious option is to turn myself into the waiter. I’m guaranteed a good reception that way, and yet I’m tempted to try something different and approach him in my own form.

Now, I don’t like to brag, but I consider myself to be quite the looker. Well, you’re looking at me now. Wouldn’t you agree? And I’m actually not too dissimilar from the object of our guy’s affections. Sure, my hair’s darker, closer to black, but I have a toned, compact figure like him and commensurate sharply defined cheekbones. Why not give it a try? I can always make a second approach as the waiter if this one goes pear-shaped.

My mind made up, I hop down from the bar stool and amble towards the gents. I move nice and slow, with a good sway of the hips that stays on the right side of being camp. I want to make sure he gets a good look at me as I pass, and judging by the weight of the gaze I feel upon me, I’ve succeeded. Time for step two.

Bad Moon Arising by CL Mustafic
Chapter One
Sitting in the back booth of the Blue Moon Bar and Grill—the only openly gay-friendly spot in the small city I worked in—I ran my finger over the screen of my phone, trying to gather up enough courage to tap the picture I’d been staring at for the past ten minutes. Touching the pic brought up his profile, which I’d already memorized. The green light told me he was online and only a few miles away from my current location. I liked his pic. It wasn’t very often Grindr users in my rural area posted pictures of their faces. Previous experience had taught me most of the app’s users were closeted and/or straight guys who liked to suck the occasional cock and worried their dude bros would download the app as a joke and see them there. But this guy had no such issue, and boy, was I glad.

Of course, on the heels of that thought came another: it probably wasn’t a real pic of the guy. As I stared into the mismatched eyes—one a light green, the other a pale blue—I had a feeling he was catfishing, but there was only one way to find out for sure. Tapping the picture of the shaggy, sandy-blond-haired, scruffy-faced man brought up the chat, but I hesitated a moment. His user name was MoonGazer, which made me think of a nerdy guy with a telescope. Suddenly I had a vision of the guy sitting in his room spying on the hot guy next door, which gave me the boost of confidence I needed to send a message.


I sent the one word and immediately wanted to take it back. I should have said something like Hey, sexy, want to hook up? but that wasn’t me, and I couldn’t change the person I was, even on Grindr. Half a beer later, he responded.

[hey urself]

My palms were sweaty as I stared at the words and tried to formulate a response, but he beat me to it.

[r u l%kin 2 h%k up]

All the moisture left my mouth, so I picked up my beer and chugged the rest before I sent another one-word message.


[whr u at]

Shit, he moved fast, but this is what I wanted, and he must have liked my pic enough to give it a go. My profile pic was only my chest. Yeah, I know it’s a cliché, but I had a great body, whereas my face? Well, my face wasn’t my best feature.

[you know where the blue moon is]

[b thr in 10]

I almost dropped my phone, but instead, I juggled it and managed to avoid it hitting the table.

[I’m in the back booth, black hair, red shirt]

What the hell was I doing? Oh, fuck it. I needed to get laid, and even if the guy wasn’t remotely as hot as his picture, I could turn him around and do it without having to look at him.


Well, he wasn’t going to be much for conversation; that was for sure. After ordering a shot of vodka and another beer for courage, I sat back in my booth, eyes glued to the front door as I sipped my beer to soothe the burn from the stronger alcohol. The minutes ticked by slowly, and then the door opened and all the air in the room was sucked out when he stepped into the bar.

He waved to the burly bartender before turning his head and surveying the room. It was like a god had appeared, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Every set of eyes followed the tall, muscular man as he sauntered across the room. I wanted to shrink down into the booth. His picture hadn’t done him justice, and I knew I was about to be rebuked in a horrible fashion when he saw what he’d come to meet.

The moment he spotted me will be forever etched into my mind. His mismatched eyes settled on my face, and a predatory grin spread across his lips. Droplets of sweat rolled down my back and pooled in the crack of my ass, making me shift at the uncomfortable sensation. His gaze never left me as he made his way to my booth before dropping down on the bench across from me.

“Hey there, black hair, red shirt,” he said, in a slow, sexy, Southern-tinged drawl. His voice was low and gravely, and it stirred all sorts of feelings in me—well, in my pants at least.

“Hey.” God, I sounded like the nerd I’d been hoping he’d turn out to be. He chuckled, and the hairs on my arms stood up.

“Want to get out of here?”

Straight to the point, like his messages; at least he wasn’t at all about false advertising. Nodding, I grabbed my wallet and pulled out a twenty to leave on the table to cover my tab and tip. We stood at the same time, and he waited for me to put my jacket on before he headed for the door. We didn’t say anything more as we left the bar. I followed him out into the parking lot, but then stopped when I realized I had no clue where we were going since my car was parked in the opposite direction from the one he was heading.

“Do you have someplace we can go?” I asked. I could take him back to my place, but that meant a twenty-minute drive, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know where I lived. He could be a serial killer for all I knew.

“I got a camper on the back of my truck. That work for you?” His grin widened into a smile when he looked back over his shoulder at me and pointed to the brand-new four-door extended-box pickup that did indeed have one of those tacky campers attached to it. His wasn’t too bad, since it was a newer model, but it was still something of an atrocity. I wondered briefly if he lived in there, but then decided I didn’t care. It wasn’t as if I was looking to marry the guy.

“I guess that will do.” I shrugged and went to the small door at the back, but he’d gone to the driver’s side door of the truck.

“I think we should at least drive out of the city a bit. Wouldn’t want to scare the good folks when you start screaming my name,” he said, with a wink, before opening his door and climbing in without even waiting to see if I’d follow.

I hesitated. Did I really want to get in the truck with this guy? My brain said it wasn’t the best idea, but my cock didn’t agree. I guess the small head won out because next thing I knew, I was sitting in the big leather seat next to him, and he was driving out of the city. There was no conversation. I didn’t expect there to be an in-depth discussion on environmental politics or anything, but a bit of chitchat would have been nice while we drove for over ten minutes looking for a place to pull off that provided us some tree cover to hide the truck from the traffic on the highway.

He put the truck into park and shut off the engine before he turned to me. “You ready to do this?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” I opened my door and jumped down. The sound of his door opening made the situation feel real to me in a way it hadn’t before. Something about the guy seemed off, and I wondered, if I were to start running, would he give chase or simply laugh at me? I made my feet move and met him at the back of the truck.

He unlocked and pulled the door of the camper open and then waited for me. There was no step on the outside of the camper, so I stood there trying to think of a way to climb up and into it without looking like a fool. The guy harrumphed as he let go of the door, grabbed my waist, and, lifting me like I was a ten-pound bag of potatoes, dumped me into the darkness of the camper.

“Geez, impatient, are we?” I grumbled when he followed me in, shut the door, and clicked on a light. I’d never been in a pickup camper before, so I was surprised when the light revealed a space that looked relatively comfortable even for a man the size of the guy who’d just shoved me through the door. It also looked lived-in.

“I ain’t got all night, and you looked like you needed a little boost.” His grin was back as he moved to the seating area and started converting it into a bed. I was having a hard time getting over that accent and the way he talked. He sounded every bit the redneck hick who resided in a camper, and I wasn’t sure if that was a massive turn-on or not.

“Isn’t there a bed in this thing?” I asked because I’m an idiot and I had nothing else to say.

“There is, but it’s up in the loft and last time I tried fuckin’ up there, I got a knob on the back of my head for my troubles. This works better.” He went to a cabinet and pulled out a sheet that he threw haphazardly over the bed. He then kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his jacket, pulled his shirt over his head, and started on his belt buckle. “You gonna get naked, or do you have some sorta magic that lets you fuck in your clothes?” he asked when I sat there staring at his tattooed torso.

“I…uh…no.” I began to unbutton my shirt as he laughed at me.

Soon we were both standing there naked, his eyes sweeping over my body, and I swear he growled before he tackled me back onto the bed. He pinned me down, and just when I thought he was going to kiss me, he veered left and sniffed my neck—no, sniffed is not the word for what he did. He snuffled at my neck and I laughed because it tickled, and of course, the laugh made me snort, which is not the sexiest sound a guy can make.

“You smell like fear. Are you afraid of me?” he asked when he was done sampling my aroma.

“What? No. How can you smell fear? Are you part bloodhound?”

He chuckled, and then he did kiss me, hard. He was all tongue and teeth. I tried to keep up with him, but in the end, I let his mouth have its way with mine. It was fucking hot! I’d never had a guy who was so energetic about something like a kiss, and my cock was rigid against his hairy thigh. I rocked my hips, and he got the idea and shifted so that our groins matched up. He started humping me, and I knew if he wasn’t careful, I’d come just from that and ruin any plans he’d had of doing something more.

I turned my head to free up my mouth to tell him so, but once my lips were no longer there for him to maul, he started in on my neck and all I could do was moan. I was on the brink when he nipped at my earlobe and said something I hadn’t expected to hear.

“Want you to fuck me.”

Paralyzed by the thought of this man wanting me to fuck him, I lay there like a moron. I had been expecting either mutual blowjobs or maybe for him to ask to fuck me, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought I’d be the one fucking him.

“Did you hear me?” he asked, pulling back to look down at me with those strange but alluring eyes. I nodded. “Is that not something you want to do?” His brow creased as he frowned, and I finally found my voice.

“No, I mean, no it’s not something I don’t want to do. I want to. Christ, I really want to!” Okay, that might have been a bit too enthusiastic, but it wiped the frown clean off his face.

“Good, I’ll get the stuff.” Getting up on his knees, he rummaged through one of the kitchen drawers that happened to be right next to the makeshift bed. He pulled out a handful of condoms and a huge tube of lube and dropped them on the bed next to me. “Hurry up and get one of ’em on.”

Not needing to be told twice, I ripped into one of the condoms and rolled it down my hard shaft while he climbed over me to the center of the bed. Just looking at him there on all fours made my dick throb, and getting the lube applied without coming was a true test of my willpower. I did manage to hold back the groin geyser long enough to get in position behind him. Pressing my hands to his muscular cheeks, I spread him. I thought to tease his hole with my finger, maybe even get some lube up in there, but he jerked away.

“Just do it,” he said. His head hung low between his shoulders as he pressed back, offering his ass up to me.

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck, man. Just fuck me already!”

I grabbed his hip with one hand and my cock in the other and did what he wanted. Sliding the head of my cock into the tight, hot heat of another man’s ass was probably the hottest three seconds of any sexual encounter and I liked to savor the moment, since it was a rare occurrence for me, but the guy didn’t let me enjoy it. He pushed back, and I watched, fascinated, as his ass quickly swallowed my full length.

“Fuck, give a guy some warning,” I groaned, and that fucker chuckled at me again. I slapped his ass, and that got his attention. “You want me to fuck you, or are you the one in charge here?” I smacked his other cheek and had to admit the sound it made was very satisfying.

“What are you waiting for? Do it, hard.”

Gripping his hips, I pulled out and slammed back in, making him grunt with the force of it.

“Fuck, finally.”

His groaned words equal parts pissed me off and turned my crank, and that’s all I needed to give it to him good. I lost all my earlier worries and let go, fucking him with an abandon I never would have tried with any other guy, but this guy had asked for it. His body shifted when he reached under himself to jerk his cock, and I had to readjust my stance, which must have been a good thing, because upon my next thrust, he howled. I looked around since the sound was such an uncanny imitation of a wolf I wondered if maybe one had wandered out of the woods and had somehow gotten into the camper.

My one moment of inattention earned me a growl because I’d stopped moving my hips. He pushed up off the bed so he ended up on his knees and sitting in my lap, burying my cock even farther up his ass. Using his thigh muscles, he bounced on my cock. I wrapped my arms around his chest and held on for the ride. Staring at the back of his sweaty neck put ideas in my head, and I bent forward to get a taste, but his shudder egged me into doing more than kissing the moist, overheated skin. I nibbled, and that produced a moan as he tilted his head to expose more of his neck for me. I took it as an invitation and bit down, making him howl again.

His ass clenched down on my cock as he came, shooting his come out over the sheet he’d laid down earlier. He only missed about two beats before moving again, and I was done. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but as I came, sheathed inside his quivering hole, I bit down harder on his neck and the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth.

“Ugh, fuck.” He reached back and grabbed my hair, holding my head in place over the wound when I tried to pull away.

I couldn’t stop the automatic reflex to swallow and cringed as his blood made its way down my throat, before he let me go and slumped forward. Remembering to hold the condom while my cock slid out of his ass, I sat there staring at him, wondering if I’d just swallowed a death sentence. What if he had some kind of disease or something, and now I had it too?

“Is there a bathroom in this thing?” I asked but was sure there couldn’t possibly be one.

“Yeah, that door there. But don’t flush the toilet unless you gotta shit,” he mumbled without moving to indicate which door was “that door there.”

I half expected him to be joking, having meant the outside door, but when I got off the bed, I saw what he was talking about, and once opened, found there to be a tiny sink and toilet. I dropped the condom in the small wastebasket and then turned on the water. Knowing it wasn’t going to do me any good, I washed my mouth out with water. I looked at the door before sticking my finger in my mouth to try to gag myself. Maybe if I vomited up the blood, it would keep me from catching anything he had. I was desperate, but nothing doing. I couldn’t make myself puke; damn blowjobs had done fuck-all to my gag reflex.

Banging on the door scared the crap out of me. “You okay in there? You didn’t fall in, did ya?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m only washing my hands,” I called back. I turned the sink off and looked for something to dry my hands on, but there was nothing but toilet paper. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door with one of my dripping hands and stepped out, ready to apologize for biting him so hard.

“I thought maybe you got lost in there.” His grin was back and so were his underwear and T-shirt, which was a little bit disappointing.

“Yeah, it’s pretty huge. I almost asked for breadcrumbs.” My joke fell flat because I got another of those frowns from him. “I’m kidding.” I went to the pile of clothes and started dressing, wanting to get out of there before I could make myself look like a bigger idiot.

He managed to get dressed faster than me and stood there waiting once again for a reverse of the earlier scene. I kept my head down because I was afraid if I made eye contact, I might have to talk to him. Once I was fully dressed and had zipped my jacket, he opened the door. I hustled to get out right away so he wouldn’t feel the need to help me again.

He shut the door after dropping down and winked at me before turning to go to the front of the truck. I trudged to the passenger’s side and got in. I still wanted to tell him I was sorry for the bite, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. He wasn’t much of a talker, so I couldn’t casually mention it in the course of the conversation. I sat there, hands folded in my lap, and watched the nothingness of the dark night pass us by until we hit the city limits.

“My car is over there.” I pointed to my beat-up blue Honda Civic, which had seen better days, as he pulled into the parking lot of the Blue Moon. He stopped right next to my car and turned to look at me, and once again I noticed how unsettling his bicolored eyes were. Even in the dim light from the dashboard and the parking lot lights, it was eerie. Like two different people were sharing the same head, and both were looking out at me in judgment.

“So, that was fun, thanks,” he said.

“Ah, yeah, but before I go, I want to tell you something.” I shifted in my seat, ready to say I was sorry, but he held up a hand to stop me.

“No names, I’m not looking for anything more than a quick hookup.”

My mouth dropped open but then snapped closed. Of course, a guy who looked like him probably had guys wanting to do it again all the time, so I could respect that he was only looking to get off and nothing more. I nodded to indicate I got it, but I was still going to apologize whether he wanted to hear it or not. It was how my mom had raised me, and there was no going against that ingrained bullshit.

“It’s not that. I wasn’t going to tell you my name or ask if we could do it again.” My statement didn’t have as big an effect on him as his did on me, but he did quirk a brow as if he was surprised and maybe interested in what I had to say. “I just wanted to say I was sorry for biting you so hard. I didn’t mean to break the skin and, yeah, I’m sorry.”

“You broke the skin?” The cocky way he’d been holding himself all night—like he knew he was the shit—fell away, and a worried look turned to horrified when I nodded to confirm what he’d heard was true. “Shit, did you get blood in your mouth?”

Fuck! I knew it! He had something, and now I was going to die! “I did and I think I swallowed a little bit too. Please tell me you don’t have anything that’s going to kill me,” I pleaded.

He shook his head. “Fuck, goddamn it.” Slamming his hand down on the steering wheel, he made us both jump when he accidentally hit the horn.

I didn’t take his reaction as a sign that I didn’t have anything to worry about, and I was ready to go full-out panic mode when he reached over and grabbed my arm. I jerked away as if his touch could do more harm than swallowing his fucking blood already had.

“Hey, it’s not that. I’m not sick. I don’t have anything that’s going to kill you. It’s just not a good thing to be drinking other people’s blood,” he said. The words did nothing to calm my fears after his earlier reaction. “I swear to you that I don’t have a disease that will kill you.”

Well, that was reassuring, but what about the ones that wouldn’t kill me? After taking a few deep breaths, I nodded. Freaking out would do me no good. The damage was already done, but that wasn’t going to stop me from going to the clinic and asking the doctor if there was a way I could cut the risk of catching anything that could have possibly been in his blood. “Okay, I believe you. I have to go.” I clutched the door handle, but once again he grabbed me.

“My name’s Damian Maccon,” he said. I turned to look at him, wondering why he was suddenly having a change of heart about the no-name-exchanging thing. It only made me suspicious about his claim of not having any diseases. “If I gave you a deadly disease, do you think I’d tell you my name?”

“I have no idea, and I guess I don’t care. What’s done is done. It was my fault anyway. I really have to go now. Thanks for the…sex.” Not letting him stop me again, I got out and was locked in my car in record time. He didn’t leave, which made me nervous enough to not head home right away when I pulled out of the parking lot, instead driving to the all-night grocery store. Only after I parked, looked around, and found no sign of his truck did I put the car back into gear and drive home.

Ante Up by Kim Fielding
IT WAS past two in the morning when he found the beautiful man again, and was instantly fascinated. The man wore the same suit, but this time with a blackberry-colored shirt. And instead of card games, he seemed interested in the slots. He wasn’t playing, however—he just strolled slowly back and forth, eyeing the players the way a hungry person might examine a pastry case. Or the way Ante might consider the players if he hadn’t already fed.

He had covertly observed other hunters on a few previous occasions, when the Shadows had sent him after their own errant members. But Ante would have wagered that this particular man was not a vampire, which called into question the reason for the man’s hunt. What was he after, if not blood? Was he a thief?

Ante sat at a slot machine and pretended to play. After a while the man stopped behind a young woman in an American flag–themed tank top. He leaned in close behind her, watching her play, apparently saying something into her ear. When she won what seemed to be a decent-sized jackpot, she jumped up to give him a sloppy hug. Then she handed him the ticket verifying her winnings—and wandered off.

The man glanced at the ticket before slipping it into his inside jacket pocket. With a tiny grin tugging the corner of his mouth, he resumed his hunt.

Over the next hour, Ante watched as two other women and a man handed over their winning tickets. All of them willingly, even happily, although as far as Ante could tell, none of them knew the beautiful man. And then, just as Ante was about to confront him directly, something even more interesting happened. Casino security showed up.

The thing about casinos is that very little goes unobserved; cameras and watchful eyes are everywhere. Ante was lucky in that respect. As long as he moved carefully, he was unobtrusive even to security. But the beautiful man apparently was not, and now two serious-faced middle-aged men in matching suits began asking him questions.

The man in the blackberry shirt smiled. He waved his hands a great deal as he spoke, his expression charming even from afar, and the guards’ shoulders gradually relaxed. After a few minutes, one of them gave him a friendly pat on the arm before both guards strode purposefully away.

The beautiful man’s smile slipped. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. Then he began to walk away.

Moving quickly, Ante intercepted him and blocked the way.

“Excuse me,” the man said, trying to step around him.

Ante stepped in front of him. “What are you up to?”

“Pardon me?”

“You are very interesting. I cannot figure out what you are doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

Ante crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t easy to affect such dispassion when Ante yearned to know all of this man’s secrets.

The man sighed. And then that charming smile settled on him like a mask and he tilted his head a bit and—Ante would have sworn to this—actually batted his eyelashes. “I’m just a tourist, here to see the sights. I’ll be on my way now.” There was something oddly singsong about his tone.

“That is two lies and an inaccuracy,” said Ante, and when the man frowned and attempted to walk away, Ante grabbed his arm. “Let us have a private conversation, shall we?”

“Are you Chalet security? You don’t look like security. And you’re wrinkling my suit.”

Grinning wickedly, Ante released his arm and quickly took his hand instead. “Come.”

Although Ante’s prisoner looked peeved, his eyes appeared lit with curiosity. He didn’t protest as Ante towed him away from the slots, down a corridor, and to the casino’s twenty-four-hour coffee shop, where a poorly executed mural of the Matterhorn still graced one wall. Most of the tables were unoccupied, and a tired-looking hostess took them to a corner booth.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked as soon as the hostess left.

“Ante Novak.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me? ’Cause it doesn’t.” Somehow he managed to look even more adorable when he was petulant, with that plump lower lip sticking out and his fine dark eyebrows drawn into a V.

“Who are you?” Ante asked.

“Nobody. I told you, I’m just a tourist.” He wilted a bit when confronted by Ante’s expression. “My name is Peter Gehrardi, okay? I’m from a little town you’ve never heard of in Buttfuck, Arizona. You want my Social Security number and three references too?”

Before Ante could answer, the waiter appeared. He had long gray hair tied back in a ponytail, and although a human nose might not have noticed, Ante scented marijuana. “What can I get you?” asked the waiter in the most bored voice Ante had ever heard.

“Just coffee,” said Ante.

Peter hadn’t even glanced at the menu, but he smiled at the waiter. “Pretzel bites. Beef noodle soup. Cheeseburger, medium-rare. French fries. And I’m going to have a piece of chocolate cake, so if you want to bring that all at once, that’s fine. Oh, and a Coke.” Even before the waiter was gone, Peter pointed at Ante. “You’re paying. If you’re going to… manhandle me and drag me around, you buy me dinner.”

Ante shrugged. Satisfying his curiosity about this man was more than worth the price of a meal.

“So do you work for the casino?” asked Peter.


“Who do you work for?”


“So you’re what? Independently wealthy?”

That made Ante laugh. “Hardly. I currently possess slightly under seven hundred dollars, the clothes I’m wearing, and a mediocre spy novel which I have already read.”

“Then who the hell are you and what do you want from me?”

Simple questions, perhaps, but with complicated answers. Ante opted for some of the truth. “I seduce drunken men and take their money. Sometimes we fuck. What I want from you is an explanation of what you are doing. I believe that you and I have some similarities as well as some significant differences.”

Peter spent a few moments glaring at him, and when that had little effect, he squinted instead, as if he were concentrating very hard. He seemed puzzled when Ante simply sat there.

The waiter brought their drinks. Ante wrapped his palms around the mug and inhaled, remembering his mother brewing coffee in a copper pot. It was one of the small luxuries his family enjoyed in good years. If the weather was nice and the day’s work complete, everyone would sit outside under the fig tree and sip the strong brew. Then perhaps Ante’s father would pour everyone some plum brandy, and the younger people might dance and sing a bit before dinner.

“You’re spacing out,” Peter said, then slurped at his straw. “Are you high?”


“Psychotic? ’Cause there’s something weird….”

“I do not take drugs, and I am sane.” Ante wasn’t sure whether vampires were subject to the same mental illnesses as humans, given that their body chemistry differed greatly.

“Then what do you want from me? Are you… a pimp? ’Cause I’m not turning tricks.”

Something about the way Peter said that made Ante suspect he had turned tricks at some point. With his beauty, he’d make a popular rent boy. But that was immaterial because it wasn’t what he’d been up to in the Lucky Chalet.

“Do you work for someone?” Ante asked.

“Nope. I’m like you. Self-employed. Um, but are you really a hustler?”

“More or less.”

Peter chewed his lip. “You’re kinda old for it. Um, no offense or anything.”

Ante was laughing. “Yes, a bit old.”

“I mean, you’re hot. But you’re… what? Thirty? Most johns like ’em younger.”

Ante shrugged. In fact he’d been twenty-eight when he died, but farming and war had aged him, so Peter’s guess was a good one.

They stared at each other over their drinks until the waiter brought the food. It was probably good that Ante hadn’t ordered anything to eat, because Peter’s plates took up most of the table. He dug in with enthusiasm. Ante usually didn’t like to watch people eat, but there was something fascinating about the ferocity with which Peter attacked his meal. His manners weren’t bad, but he acted like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. And he also polished off three big glasses of Coke.

“You want some?” he asked, waving his fork toward his nearly demolished cake.

“No. You go ahead.”

Peter did, then pushed the empty plates slightly away. “You haven’t even drunk your coffee.”

“You have ingested enough for both of us.”

“I have a really high metabolism. My mama used to say I was like a hummingbird.” Peter snapped his mouth shut as if the last bit had escaped without his intention.

“And I have a specialized diet.”

“Low carb? Gluten-free? Vegetarian?”

“Something like that.” Although definitely not vegetarian.

It looked as if Peter was going to ask something else, but then the only two other customers—a man and woman in their thirties—began arguing loudly in Russian about somebody named Yelena. Ante could follow the gist of the confrontation, if not the details. The man thought the woman had been spending far too much time with this Yelena person when she should be with him; the woman countered that at least Yelena listened to her and treated her decently—unlike the man.

After a few minutes, the fight dwindled into mutual glares.

“In less than an hour, those two are going to be having really wild makeup sex,” Peter said.

“Oh? What makes you think so?” They still seemed angry to him.

“Look at their body language. They’re making eye contact, right? And they’re leaning in toward each other across the table, just a little. And look. Their hands are almost touching.”

Peter was right. And even as Ante watched, the couple’s stiff shoulders loosened and their mouths quirked into little grins. They began speaking again, this time quietly, but Ante could hear. The man was promising to take her to a nice dinner and a Cirque show the following night, and the woman was admitting that his plans sounded like more fun than shopping with Yelena. Soon they paid the check and left the restaurant hand in hand.

“Told you so,” Peter said smugly after slurping down his fourth Coke.

Ante remembered how well Peter had played cards. “You are talented at reading people.”

“Usually, yeah.”

“And what were you doing near the slot machines tonight?”

“Nothing. Just… being charming. Sort of convincing people that handing over their winnings to me would make them happy.”

“And casino security?”

“I just explained to them that I’m harmless.”

“Hmm.” Ante regarded Peter, who stared back. Among other things, Ante wondered why Peter didn’t bolt now that he was fed. The waiter cleared the plates and dropped off the check. Peter leaned back against the upholstered bench and tapped his fingers on the table. Long, delicate fingers with the nails raggedly bitten. What would they feel like, slipped between Ante’s lips?

“Look,” Peter finally said with a sigh. “You and I seem to have slightly different gigs, so I’m not poaching on your territory. You say you’re not working for anyone else, so you don’t have a boss who cares what I’m doing. And it’s not like I’m hurting anyone, not really. I’m not stealing.”

“You take people’s winnings.”

“They give them to me—there’s a difference. Plus it’s just small-time jackpots, and it’s only pure luck that those people won them to begin with. It’s not like I’m snatching away their paychecks. They’d probably just lose that money in the slots later. This way they at least go home with a good feeling. Like they’ve donated to charity, right?”

Ante snorted. “How long did it take you to develop that extensive rationalization?”

“Says the guy who admits he steals from his tricks.”

Unflustered by the gibe, Ante shrugged. “My prey also end up with fuzzy but pleasant memories. But I do not attempt to fool myself—I intend my behavior to benefit me, and me alone.”

“Which brings us back to the question du jour. Why the hell do you care what I do?”


Peter blinked at him. Then a soft smile played across his lips, and for the first time, he seemed genuinely happy instead of calculating. “Where are you from, Ante?”

“I reside in Las Vegas.”


“Far away.”

Peter nodded as if that were a satisfactory response. “Yeah. Okay. Do you want to come up to my room?”

Quite urgently, Ante did. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so yearned to strip away a man’s clothes and bathe in the heat of his bare skin. If Ante had possessed a heartbeat, it would have raced. “Perhaps,” he answered as evenly as he could. “But I have told you what I do. You trust me?”

“Not really. But it’s only money. If you steal it—not that I want you to—I can find more.”

Ante didn’t mention that he was capable of stealing a great deal more than that. He could purloin a life just as easily, leaving Peter gasping in ecstasy even as his blood flooded the hotel carpet. But Ante hadn’t taken a human life for many decades and had no desire to do so now. “Yet still I am a risk,” he said. “And you are beautiful. Surely you would have no trouble finding a temporary companion who is safer. Why me?”

Peter’s answering smile was blinding. “Curiosity.”

Megan Derr
Megan is a long time resident of m/m fiction, and keeps herself busy reading, writing, and publishing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she's not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her cats, or watch movies (especially all things James Bond). She loves to hear from readers, and can be found all around the internet.

Asta Idonea
Asta Idonea is an alternate pen name of author Nicki J Markus.

Nicki was born in England in 1982, but now lives in Adelaide, South Australia with her husband. She has loved both reading and writing from a young age and is also a keen linguist, having studied several foreign languages.

Nicki launched her writing career in 2011 when she released several short stories with Wicked Nights Publishing. She then had two novellas published with Silver Publishing, prior to the company’s closure.

At present, she has several new projects on the go. As well as branching out into the exciting world of M/M under the pen name Asta Idonea, Nicki is working on the first book in a fantasy-mythology trilogy and hopes to find a publisher for it in 2015.

Nicki currently works as a freelance editor and proofreader, and in her spare time she enjoys completing MOOCs and pursuing other interests, including: reading; music; theatre; cinema; photography; sketching; and cross stitch. She also loves history, folklore and mythology, pen-palling and travel.

Liam Kingsley
Born in the northwest, Liam Kingsley has been writing fiction for over a decade. A lover of shifters, male pregnancy and sizzling hot romance, Liam is the author of many books including Bad Boy Babysitter and Loves True Shape.

In his free time, Liam hikes forest rails with his rescued mutt. Together, they're on a mission to sniff every corner of the world.

After a series of intense relationships, Liam is taking time to focus on his career. Liam still believes in true love and one day, he wants a family--a dream woven into every book he's written.

CL Mustafic
CL Mustafic is a born and bred American mid-westerner who mysteriously ended up living in one of those countries nobody can ever find on the map of Europe. Left with too much time on her hands – let’s be honest here it was the lack of television channels in her native language – and too many voices in her head trying to fill the silence, she decided to give her life-long dream of writing a novel a shot. So now between shuttling kids back and forth from various activities, risking her life on the insanely narrow, busy streets of her new home town, she loses herself in her own made up world where love always wins.

Kim Fielding
I have lived in Illinois, Oregon, Nebraska, and Croatia, but for a long time now I've called the boring part of California home. I have a husband, two daughters, a day job as a university professor, and a passion for travel. I write in many genres--contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, historical--but no matter when and where my stories are set, I love complex worlds and complicated characters. I think that often it's a person's flaws that make him stronger and more beautiful.

Megan Derr

Asta Idonea

Liam Kingsley

CL Mustafic

Kim Fielding

The Werewolf of Grey Lake Inn by Megan Derr

Souls for Sale by Asta Idonea
Omega for Rent by Liam Kingsley

Bad Moon Arising by CL Mustafic

Ante Up by Kim Fielding

Release Blitz: Take it All by Quin & Perin

Title: Take It All - Steamy Encounters Collection
Author: Quin Perin
Genre: M/M Erotica
Release Date: October 11, 2018
Cover Design: X-Potion Design

From the bestselling authors’ of Meik&Sebastian - Obsessed come three steamy encounters of twisted, forbidden lust...

What do lust-driven men do when they think no one is watching? Find out now. Be a fly on the wall in a seedy motel room, a gym shower and the heart of suburbia, where three torrid pairings nurture the beasts inside of them.

Carter&Dave - The one with Daddy
Gordon&Jett - The one with the Politician
Josh&Graham - The one with the Jock

They can hardly handle it, can you?

Blue eyes narrowed, and when Graham was about to push him again, Josh’s hands darted out, fingers wrapping around his wrists. When he shoved, Graham stumbled back, landing against the hard wall of the shower. “Lemme go.” He huffed, twisting under Josh’s grasp.

“Only if you stop being an ass,” Josh shot back. His fingers flexed, tightening as he took a step closer. Eyes fixed on Graham.

“Pot meet fucking kettle,” Graham ground out dryly.

“God, you’re so frustrating.”

Mere inches apart now, Josh’s breath warm as blue and grey eyes connected. Tense silence crackled, electrifying the air between them. Josh’s eyes dropped to trembling lips. Graham took a breath but before he could tell Josh to not even think about it, Josh did it. He slammed forward, clashing their lips together. Graham’s wrists were still grasped in Josh’s strong fingers; hips forced back against the wall by the jock’s.

Graham bucked forward, trying to throw Josh off of him. He jerked his head back from the kiss. “Don’t.” He hated how breathy his voice sounded. Hated the way his cock started to stiffen. Hated how much he wanted Josh.

Soft lips brushed over his throat, warm breath tickling across his Adam’s apple. The kiss was far better than the last—and the first—time they’d kissed. Though he supposed they both had more experience now than when they were sixteen. “You want this.” Josh’s voice vibrated against his heated skin.

“N-No.” God, he did want it.

Josh chuckled low, husky. “Liar,” he murmured, dropping Graham’s wrists. He pulled back, a smug smirk spreading across his cheeks, exposing those too perfect dimples that made Josh want to punch him.

Graham didn’t move. Water soaked the back of his shirt, weighing down his pants. Blood rushed through his ears, heart pounding like a bird’s wings against his ribs, desperate to escape. The air between them was too thick to inhale, too loaded with testosterone that Graham held his breath, gaze skipping lower. A faint flush spread over the center of Josh’s chest, and a bulge, large and obvious, rose beneath his damp towel. “You are the biggest fucking asshole.”

Words barely managed to form before Graham launched towards Josh and reunited their lips in a smoldering kiss. Colliding desperately and with burning fervor, Graham’s hands scrambled to yank the towel down so he could grab both of the jock’s tight ass cheeks. Josh’s palm slapped against the wall next to Graham’s head, deepening the kiss. Reckless and oh, so fucking stupid.

Author Bio:
This is Quin&Perin. We are a team of Sultry Gay Romance writers who focus on detailed, toe-curling, and realistic smut scenes with a fair share of dirty talking (Oh, boy). Unlike other authors in the genre, we write without the goal of publishing anything. Publishing is just the cherry on top of a cream-covered bubble butt.


Brought to you by:  GAY BOOK PROMOS