Archive for 2010
Heat Things Up with P.A. Brown
October 11, 2010 | Cooking
Along with writing mysteries that keep you on the edge of your seat, P.A. Brown is a terrific cook. Here’s a hot recipe to ward off the coming cold weather. P.A.’s notes are italicized.
Pat’s Beanless Crockpot Chili
½ lb bacon, cooked crisp
2 lbs ground meat – can be lean beef, chicken, turkey or pork, or a mixture. Exotic meats can be used as well – venison, buffalo, etc.
2 28 oz cans of whole tomatoes
1 can tomato paste
Chopped hot peppers to taste – for no heat, use green bell peppers
Carrots, shredded fine
Chili powder to taste
2 tbsp cocoa powder – should be at least 70% cocoa
salt and pepper to taste
Bottle of dark beer – stout, porter or brown
Optional Additions to include before deglazing
Roasted kernel corn
Mushrooms, chopped
Grilled tomatoes, chopped
Grilled peppers, chopped
Toppings
1 cup of sour cream – Plain yogurt can be substituted for the sour cream
1 cup of shredded cheddar cheese – I like sharp, 2-3 year old cheddar, but any cheese will do
Chopped cilantro if you like
Directions
Cook bacon till crisp. Drain on paper towel.
Use bacon grease to cook ground meat until it begins to brown, remove from pan and put in crock pot. If there’s a lot of fat, drain most of it. Add all other ingredients, including any of the optional additions you like, to crock pot.
Use beer to deglaze the meat pan, then pour into crock pot, scrapping the bottom of the pan.
Stir cock pot well with a wooden spoon. Cook on high for half an hour, then turn to low and let it simmer all day if you want.
Serve with corn bread, garlic bread, or crusty rolls. Top with grated cheese, sour cream, cilantro if used.
This chili is wonderful with fries and cheese for chili fries. Or topping a hamburger.
Freezes very well. Could be kept for up to 6 months. This one only gets better with age.
While this superb chili is simmering, enjoy a few chapters of P.A. Brown’s Between Darkness and Light available at MLR Press.
Here’s a small clue about the book:
Detective Russell Hunter emerges from darkness to meet fine artist Stephen Fischer, darling of the Los Angeles art world. Can these two unravel the mystery surrounding the death of two of L.A’s art critics before Stephen becomes the next victim.
The downtown Los Angeles financial center is the heart of this thrilling murder mystery and the unwanted love that grows between a cop with a dark secret in his troubled past and an up and coming world class artist.
Learn more about P.A. Brown and the vacation from hell on her website
I’ll be back Wednesday with KC Kendriks. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
We Are Over the Moon!
October 8, 2010 | New Releases
Robert Appleton and I are toasting each other across the Pond. We just received the awesome cover for our about-to-be released mystery sci-fi CLAIRE DE LUNE and wanted to share it with you. Trace Edward Zaber designed it and captured the book’s theme to perfection.
BLURB:
You’re invited to the galaxy’s most prestigious beauty pageant. Clothing optional. Romance and danger…fully provided.
Cocky young detectives Gerry Rappeneau and Sebastian Thorpe-Campbell arrive at the premier lunar resort expecting a week of eye candy and long massages. With a half-billion-credit purse up for grabs, this year’s pageant is the focus of a hundred worlds. And beauty isn’t the only thing in the eye of the beholder.
One contestant, Evelyn Lyons, is attacked and her assailant killed. Surely a simple case of a stalker gone mad, as nothing bad ever happens at the Selene contest. So the brochure says.
The closer Gerry gets to Evelyn, the more he is convinced she’s hiding something. His meticulous character sparks with her wild, sassy nature, and they embark on a torrid affair. Their forbidden romance isn’t the only thing set to ignite in Pont de Reves.
Sebastian’s infatuation with demure Claire Villiers, another contestant, threatens to put all four of them in harm’s way.
A deadly trail of corporate conspiracy, monstrous assassins and hot bikini wax is more than anyone bargained for in this incendiary erotic mystery. Get ready for some serious heat on the dark side of the moon.
Rob was the mastermind of this book and I am forever grateful he included me. Check out his website and blog Mercurial Times to learn more about this talented genius.
I’ll be back next week with another surprise from P.A. Brown. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
EXPOSED and ALONE
October 6, 2010 | Friends
is exactly where talented and prolific author Ginger Simpson placed herself with her no holds barred novel EMBEZZLED LOVE. This story faces one of society’s shunned problems head-on. It’s a terrific book you definitely need to read.
EMBEZZLED LOVE
Ginger Simpson
ISBN 1-897370-34-2 E-book
ISBN 1-897370-33-4 Print
LBF Books
BLURB:
They advertise on television—“find your true love; we’ll match you with the person of your dreams.” Their irritating spam clogs your computer inbox—”free tonight? Let’s chat.” You can turn the channel or hit the ‘trash’ button, but the promises still linger in your mind. Is it any wonder divorced and lonely, Cassie Fremont, signed up for an on-line dating service? What later shocked her was the cost of the ticket for a ride on the roller coaster from hell.
You aren’t the first woman he’s lied to.
When Cassie Fremont’s brother and sister present her with evidence they believe proves her new love is a con-man, her happy world is turned upside down. Either she chooses to believe them or Evan. How could she possibly believe that this wonderful man who gave up his thriving business in Texas and moved to California to begin a life with her could be the man to whom they allude? Surely it’s a mistake. The love she sees in his eyes can’t be a lie. Will Evan be the man Cassie believes him to be or are the words that invade her thoughts really true.
There have been others who have lost everything because of him.
EXCERPT:
The cold white paper covering the examining table crackled each time Cassie shifted her weight. Nervously, she reached around to pull the flimsy plastic material of the examination gown around her bare behind. Why did Dr. Owens insist on a complete physical? She only made the appointment to talk to him about getting something for this overwhelming depression.
What was taking him so long, and why did they have the air-conditioning so high? Her nipples pebbled from the cold air and became embarrassingly visible through the layer of vinyl she wore. The stiffly starched modesty sheet, draped across her legs, was no help at all against the cold air rushing through the vents. She rubbed her dangling feet together, trying to thaw toes that had turned to icicles. A rueful glance at the panty hose draped over the chair with her other clothing made her wish she’d worn socks instead.
Finally, the doorknob turned and Dr. Owens entered. He’d been her physician for as long as she could remember, and was the one to do her first pap smear. She recalled the embarrassment she’d felt, revealing her most private parts to a handsome, young man. Now he sported thinning grey hair, and deep wrinkles creased his once smooth brow. Had she aged as much as he?
“Well, Cassie,” he said, peering at her chart and then looking over his spectacles. “It’s about time you came in. You haven’t had a checkup for two years. You’re well past time for your mammogram, pelvic and blood work. You used to be much better about scheduling these visits.”
“I know. I’m sorry, but things have been very hectic at work. I’m tired all the time, I can’t sleep, I feel like I want to cry for no reason at all, and I have this horrible empty feeling that just won’t go away. Please say you can help me. Is there something you can prescribe?”
He sat on his stool and jotted notes inside a metal clipboard. Finishing, he looked up and smiled. “I’m sure we can find something to help you, but let’s get the nurse in here and get the unpleasant part of the exam over with.”
While the doctor pulled on his gloves, Cassie lay back on the table, trying to relax but well aware it wasn’t humanly possible, knowing what was coming.
The nurse adjusted the metal stirrups and guided Cassie’s feet into them, then kept motioning until Cassie had inched her bottom all the way to the edge of the table.
Dr. Owen rolled his stool into place and adjusted Cassie’s covering. He spoke those all-too-familiar words. “Relax and just let your knees fall apart.”
She tried not to jump when the cold speculum first touched her and stifled a groan when the doctor palpated her ovaries. This ordeal was still horribly embarrassing. To occupy her mind, Cassie counted the little holes in the acoustical ceiling tiles until they all blurred together.
“Well, that does it.” Dr. Owen said, appearing from beneath the sheet. He stood and stripped off his gloves and threw them in the trash. “Everything looks fine.” He offered his hand to pull her into a sitting position.
His eyes filled with genuine concern. “So, tell me again what’s bothering you, Cassie.”
She ran her hands through her long dark hair. “I just think I’m seriously depressed. Everything is a chore. I hate my job, I deplore being sad all the time, and I detest being alone. Sometimes I even wonder if life is worth living anymore.”
“Now, Cassie. Lot’s of women your age go through this, so you aren’t alone. How regular are your periods?”
“Pretty regular, they just aren’t as heavy as they used to be.”
“Well, my guess is you’ve begun menopause, and that in itself can cause a big change in your emotional status. It can magnify other problems and make them seem twice as bad. The good news is that there’s a pill recently approved by the FDA that I think will help make you feel better.”
Shivering, Cassie clutched the sheet around her. “Thank you, Dr. Owen. I really need something.” She sighed with relief.
He patted her hand. “Go ahead and get dressed. I’ll be right back with your lab slips and prescription. Just make sure to follow the directions. If the medication doesn’t seem to make a difference let me know and we can try something else.”
Cassie quickly changed into her clothes, then sat waiting for the doctor to return. The sooner she got the prescription filled, the better. This black cloud hanging over her head was more than she could bear. She heaved another sigh, trying to ignore the little voice in her head telling her if she took all the pills at once her problems would be over.
EMBEZZLED LOVE was a 2009 EPPIE finalist and is also available at Amazon. If you’d like an autographed copy, email Ginger at mizging@gmail.com.
Catch-up with Ginger on her website or on her entertaining blog Dishin’ It Out.
I’ll be back Monday with something to heat you up from P.A. Brown. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
P.A. Brown’s Goodies for All to Try
October 4, 2010 | Cooking
Not only does reknown author P.A. Brown create unforgettable stories, she also concocts mouth-watering goodies. Below are two of P.A.’s recipes to entice you. We tried them and Studs couldn’t get enough.
Berry Crunch Muffins
1/2 C Lowfat granola
1 C whole-wheat flour
1 C all-purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 large egg
3/4 C orange, grape juice or cranberry
1/4, C vegetable oil (canola, corn, peanut, etc)
2/3 C light brown sugar
3 tbsp Dutch cocoa (at least 70% cocoa)
1 tsp grated lemon zest (or if using orange juice use orange zest)
1 1/2 C fresh or frozen blueberries or cranberries
1/4 C flaxseed
1 tsp Vanilla
Pre-heat oven to 400 F. Coat muffin pans – 12-16, or mini pans – with cooking spray. Crush granola to eliminate larger chunks.
Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, flax and salt in a large bowl.
In medium bowl whisk juice, egg, oil, vanilla, zest and sugar and blend until sugar dissolved.
Add liquid to dry mixture. Fold in until just moist, do not over blend. Fold in blueberries. Fill muffin cups about 2/3 full, sprinkle with enough granola to cover top of muffin. Pat down so granola adheres.
Bake until tops are golden brown and center comes out clean, about 20-25 minutes. Let cool for 5 minutes. Remove from pan, cool and cover.
Added note from P.A.: These are great warm. they’re crunchier when fresh, but still taste great the next day. Word of warning, these are very crumbly. I don’t advise eating over a keyboard. 🙂
While these tasty muffins are baking, it’s a perfect time to read a few chapters from FOREST OF CORPSES. If you don’t have a copy yet, you can purchase one at MLR Press
Another great recipe for a fun Sunday night is P.A.’s Pizza.
Pat’s Pizza
SAUCE
1 28 oz can of whole tomatoes
3-4 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
½ small white onion, chopped fine
6-8 large basil leaves, chopped fine
Large bunch of fresh oregano, chopped fine or 2 tbsp dried oregano
You can even slip in things like finely grated carrots, or flaxseed into the sauce.
DOUGH
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup all purpose white
1 tsp salt
¼ cup virgin olive oil
1 cup warm water
1 pkg yeast
1tsp sugar
¼ cup corn meal
TOPPINGS (some possiblities)
Fresh mushrooms, chopped
Pepperoni, sliced thin
Peppers (green, yellow, red)
Ham
Fresh tomatoes
Sausage
Onions
Pineapple
Bacon
Anchovies
Chicken
Spinach
Olives
Garlic
Zucchini
Broccoli
Basil leaves
Roast peppers or tomatoes
Anything else you can think of
½ – ¾ cup Mozzarella cheese, grated
¼ cup Parmigiana cheese, grated fine
INSTRUCTIONS
For the best results, make the sauce the day before. Blend tomatoes, garlic, onion, basil and oregano. I use a food processor or blender. A hand held blender will work, too. Do not over blend. There should be some texture to the sauce. Cover and refrigerate at least overnight to blend flavors. DO NOT COOK.
For dough, add yeast and sugar to warm water. The best temperature is just warm to the touch. Let stand for 10 minutes in warm place. Add flour and salt to large bowl. Blend well. Add water and yeast. Add oil and mix well. Turn dough out onto a dry, floured surface, knead for at least 10 minutes. Add flour as needed until dough is no longer sticky. Form into a ball and place in a clean, oiled bowl. Cover with damp cloth and put in warm, draft free place. (I put it in the oven with the oven light on) Let rise for at least 2 hours or until dough has doubled in size.
Heat oven to 450 F. If you have a pizza stone, put it in the oven now.
Divide the dough into 3 even pieces. Roll into balls. On floured surface, knead dough into a disk. I use a rolling pin to roll the dough into a 14” circle. It can also be stretched by hand. (I’ve never mastered the art of throwing dough) On a 14” pizza pan, spray with non-stick cooking spray or oil. Dust with corn meal. Fold dough in half, place it on pizza pan and make sure it goes to the edges. Let sit for fifteen minutes. Using a fork poke holes in dough so it doesn’t puff up in oven.
Precook dough for 5 minutes (this helps ensure it doesn’t get soggy from the sauce). Remove from oven. Do this with each piece of dough. Three 14” pizzas can be made (thin crust) or two thick crust or several pie pan individual pizzas. Bake each one for 5 minutes.
Using small ladle or large spoon, spread at least half a cup of sauce on dough (you can use less if you want. I like a lot of sauce with my pizzas). Top with ½ cup of cheese. Layer ingredients over top of cheese. Add another ½ cup of cheese. Sprinkle a couple of teaspoons of parmigiana.
Either using a pizza paddle, or a pizza pan, slide the pizza on the stone. Let cook for 10 minutes, check and rotate. Cook until cheese bubbles and begins to brown. Remove from oven and put on pizza pan sprinkled with corn meal. Let sit for 5 minutes, slice as desired.
A few notes from P.A.:
*Whole canned tomatoes are freshest – they only undergo 1 cooking, whereas chopped, pureed or crushed are all cooked a second time.
**All whole wheat can be used though the texture will be slightly heavier. Non-bleached white, or all white flour can also be used.
***Sauce can be frozen and kept for up to four months. Sauce can also be used with panzarotti, lasagna, as a dip for mozzarella sticks, pizza rolls, or anything a good tomato sauce can be put on. English muffins, crusty rolls, pita bread, tortillas, and flat bread can be substituted for the home made crust.
****A variety of cheeses can be used – including, but not limited to goat, asiago, Monterey Jack, cheddar, feta, blue cheese. Several types of cheese can be blended.
**** Good quality fresh Parmigiana is worth the higher price. At all costs, avoid the canned Parmesan. It’s flavorless.
One pie feeds 2-4 people. Wrap leftovers with Saran Wrap. Will keep a day or two in the fridge, but frankly, it’s not as good the next day. This is one meal that tastes best fresh.
P.A. Also says: My favorite pizza pans are the ones with holes. Other equipment to have if you make pizza regularly include a pizza wheel, pizza stone and pizza paddle. The stone and paddle can also be used to bake bread as well.
With a pizza stone this could also be cooked on a barbecue.
Now’s a good time to read P.A.’s hit book GEOGRAPHY OF MURDER. Click HERE to learn more. You can also catch up with P.A. Brown on her website.
I’ll be back on Wednesday with the popular Ginger Simpson. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
The Curse of Beauty, Do You Have It?
October 1, 2010 | Friends
Linda Sole aka Anne Ireland is back to share another of her exciting books. THE CURSE OF BEAUTY is an excellent take on vampires and gives us a surprising twist to their myth. It’s a book well worth reading.
THE CURSE OF BEAUTY
Anne Ireland
ISBN 978-1-936279-31-9
Amira Press
Genre: Vampire Historical Romance
Heat Level: HOT
BLURB:
Angelina is haunted by a dream lover. Alone, with no one to care for her, when her father gives her in marriage, to a man she has never met, she can only obey. Is she doomed once more to bitter grief? What mystery haunts the castle, stalking the dark corners like a black fiend—and can she pass through terrible danger to find happiness at last?
EXCERPT:
“Oh, my love,” she whispered, her throat tight. “Why do you not claim me? Take me with you…please. Take me to wherever you are.” She dashed away her tears. “Who are you? Why do you come to me only in dreams, and why do you leave me? Please tell me…”
“My name is Raphael, and the time approaches when you must choose. Choose truly, and you will be mine completely.”
Feeling a warm breath at the nape of her neck, Angelina cried out, her body tingling as she felt the desire curl hotly through her body. It was as if he lay with her in her bed, his mouth sucking at her nub, making her arch and whimper with pleasure. Her limbs dissolved with dancing heat, her lips parting, and moist. She was on fire with sensual need, and her feminine juices dampened her inner thighs.
He was here. She could not see him, but she felt his presence, her body responding as it did in her dreams. Her lips parted as she felt a touch so soft that it was merely a whisper, her breath swift as she panted with pleasure.
“Where are you? I cannot see you. Stay with me. I love you. I need you.”
“I have loved you for six hundred years,” the voice seemed to whisper close to her ear, hoarse with passion and the torment of centuries. “I have searched for you, been driven to despair and haunted by the curse…and now I have found you. Only you can break the curse, my love…but you must choose.”
“Tell me what to do.” Angelina whirled round, looking for him, but the room was empty. She was alone, as always. Was she going mad? Had her mind cracked beneath the strain of her unhappiness…or had he really been here, her tormented lover?
“I shall choose you,” she vowed to the empty room. “Tell me what I must do, and I shall choose you.”
“Do your duty, but when the time comes, you must choose.”
To learn more about Linda Sole, Anne Herries and Anne Ireland, check out their website.
Have a beautiful weekend. I’ll be back Monday with tasty bits from P.A. Brown. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
What Makes a Good Book?
September 29, 2010 | Friends
Easy – superb writing. Especially if the book is written by award winning, multi-published author Linda Sole. Have you read her work? If not, perhaps you know her as Anne Herries. Or Anne Ireland. All three pseudonyms amount to over 100 exciting novels that create romance in all its spendid forms.
Here’s a little from her hot, paranormal erotic romance;
DARK ANCIENT QUEEN
Anne Ireland
ISBN 978-1-935348-46-7
Amira Press
BLURB:
Ally is a photographer and good at her job. She is in Paris when she hears that her sister has had an accident, and when she returns home Ally goes to her sister’s apartment. She mourns her death, but gradually she begins to realize that the car accident might not have been just an accident but something far more sinister. How long before she begins to understand that the beautiful Egyptian necklace sent to her sister may be the key to a larger mystery, and why does she feel as if her mind is being taken over by a dark ancient queen? Is what she is feeling for Jack Brendan, the new man in her life, real–or merely fantasy?
EXCERPT:
I woke feeling heavy-eyed and sluggish, and knew I had been dreaming again. I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened in my dream, except that, once again, it had been very sensual. I could almost feel the drugging effects of lovemaking in my body, and my mouth was swollen as if it had been kissed passionately. The dream had been vivid and erotic, because the man and woman in it had made love in ways I had never experienced. Just thinking about it as I dressed made my panties wet, and I was breathing hard. I shook my head as I looked in the mirror. My eyes were darker than usual and looked strange, as if they glowed with a black fire at the center. This wasn’t like me. I had a natural pleasure in making love with someone I liked a lot, but to be dreaming about sex this way wasn’t usual. I fought to put it out of my mind and think about the rest of the dream.
I was almost sure it had concerned a young Egyptian priest. The one I had seen before who had Simon’s face. He had been praying to his God for help because of some sin he had committed. I had no idea what he had done, what had happened to him, or whether his prayers were answered.
I shook myself out of my dreamy state and remembered that I had an appointment that morning. This business of the Egyptian necklace was more intriguing than I’d imagined.
“Mr. John Brendan is on his way up to your room, Miss Rowlinson,” the hotel receptionist’s voice came over the telephone. “He said that he has an appointment.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
I had hardly replaced the receiver when there was a knock at my door. Opening it, I found myself staring at one of the most attractive men I’d ever seen. A tall man, he had dark brown hair, which he wore a little longer than was usual, and his eyes were almost black with a silver fleck in the irises. As he smiled, the silver seemed to intensify, which was very intriguing.
“Ally? It is Ally, isn’t it?”
“Yes, please come in.” I blushed as I realized I had been staring. “I’m glad to have a chance to speak to you privately because I want you to look at the necklace and make sure it hasn’t been damaged in any way since it left you.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said, and smiled rather wolfishly. “I would trust you implicitly, Ally.” His smile was inviting, drawing me to him immediately.
“I noticed there was some slight damage on at least three of the links.”
“I think that has always been there.” He accepted the package I gave him without attempting to open it.
“Where is it usually kept?”
“It has been lost, or perhaps I should say hidden, for the last hundred years. Since it was found, I’ve kept it in my safe at Brendan Lodge, that’s my country house. I should like to explain about the necklace. It might be as well to do it here, then we can relax and talk about other things.”
“Please,” I said, gesturing toward one of the two armchairs. “Shall I order coffee?”
“No, thank you. I would rather just talk, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I’ve brought some of Elaine’s notes and some of the books she’s written on the early dynasties.”
“May I?” he asked, looking eager. “When I spoke to your sister, she was so interested and helpful. I had almost given up hope of ever finding out anything. Even if the necklace is a fake, I should like to know about the original. My ancestor certainly believed he had bought something rather special. And there are all the stories about it bringing bad luck.”
“That’s what interests me,” I said. “You mentioned some kind of a curse when we spoke last. You don’t really believe that, do you? It’s only a myth, though I know the ancient Egyptians were very much into magic. Elaine told me the people believed priests and magicians had all kinds of marvelous powers, like the ability to change themselves into animals and raise the dead.”
“I know a bit about that,” he agreed. “Since the necklace was found I’ve been going through family records and have read several references to magic. One of my ancestors had purchased a wonderful book on Egyptian magic. It was written in Eighteen Ninety-Nine by someone called E.A. Wallis Budge, and it deals almost entirely with the subject, telling stories of magicians who cut off the heads of animals and then brought them back to life.”
“Elaine refers to that particular book in one of hers. Some of the old knowledge has been updated or set aside in favor of modern research, but Elaine always said that the older books had a mysticism of their own. It is probably more fun to go along with the stories told in earlier books than to read the more accurate versions of today. Carbon dating often takes the magic out of myths.”
“Your sister sounds as if she was wonderful to know.” He looked upset. “I was hoping to meet her. I feel awful about what happened, almost guilty, as if the bad luck my family has encountered somehow rubbed off on her.”
“You shouldn’t feel anything of the kind. It was a drunken driver. I was angry at first, devastated. Now I just feel sad. I miss her terribly, but I’m trying to remember all the good things. Crying isn’t going to bring Elaine back, and she wouldn’t have wanted me to be miserable. She would have told me to pull myself together.”
“Yes.” He nodded in agreement. “There’s nothing we can do, is there?” For a moment, he looked into my eyes, and I almost swayed toward him. I wanted to feel his mouth on mine, his hands exploring my body, his smooth flesh joined with mine. I gave myself a mental shake. I had to stop this. Erotic dreams, and now I was practically panting to get laid by a man I had met only a few minutes earlier! I forced my mind back to the subject of my sister and the necklace.
“Except get on with our lives. Elaine would have wanted to do everything possible to help you research your necklace. She would have been disappointed if it was forgotten or abandoned because of what happened to her. I don’t have her knowledge or skills, but I have become very interested in Queen Amnut’s story. If I can be of any help at all . . .”
“Do you really mean that?” He looked at me eagerly. “I haven’t been able to raise much enthusiasm anywhere in this country. The only expert who seemed to have heard of the necklace was your sister. If we could go through her notes together . . .”
“I think we could do more than that,” I said, suddenly feeling a thrill of excitement. “Elaine had a lot of friends and contacts. I am sure if I telephoned around they would see what they could turn up in their files. I’ve already had several letters offering to help with any unfinished projects she might have left. I’ve turned over most of her things to experts from various museums, but yours appealed to me, and I should enjoy helping you.”
“I appreciate that, Ally,” he said with a look that set my spine tingling. “How long were you thinking of staying in England?”
“I’m not sure.” I hesitated. The way he looked at me set my libido on fire. “I’m probably going to talk to someone about an exhibition of my work, but then my time is my own.”
“Did you tell me you were a fashion photographer, or I did I hear that from someone else?”
“I may have mentioned it,” I said. “But you were going to tell me about this curse you feel has been hanging over your family.”
“It isn’t really a curse, though a letter I found among my great grandfather’s things did say . . .” He broke off and looked at me, a gleam in his eyes. “What are you doing this weekend? It probably sounds very forward of me, but it’s meant genuinely.”
“What?” I asked and laughed. “You are being very mysterious, Jack.”
“I was just wondering if you would like to visit Brendan Lodge, if you’re into old houses at all? It might interest you, and we could go over my stuff and yours and see if we can find any cross-references.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“But you need to think about it?” He quizzed me wickedly with his eyes. My mouth went dry, and I almost flung myself into his arms. What the hell was wrong with me? I could picture myself doing some of the things I’d seen the lovers do in my dream the previous night. “After all, I might be an axe murderer.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He was amazingly attractive when he had that wolfish gleam in his eyes, and I was enjoying myself. His hand brushed against my thigh and a hot flame ran through me. I saw the way his mouth loosened, and I licked my lips, imagining what it could do to different parts of my anatomy.
To learn more about Linda Sole and all her marvelous books click here.
I’ll be back Friday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Front and Center with P.A. Brown
September 27, 2010 | Friends
L.A. BYTES is the thrilling third novel in P.A. Brown’s L.A. series. This expertly written book and has an intricately woven plot that will keep you guessing until the last page.
Here’s what Romance Junkies has to say:
L.A. BYTES is a gripping and captivating mystery that kept me on the edge of my seat.
Reviewer: Christina
L.A. BYTES
P.A. Brown
ISBN 978-1-60820-040-5 (print)
ISBN 978-1-60820-041-2 (ebook)
MLR Press
EXCERPT:
David extended his card to the tiny woman with pumpkin-colored hair.
“Mrs. Crandall? Alice Crandall?”
She took the card and held it between her finger and thumb like it might be the devil’s calling card. She barely glanced at it.
Alice had been the victim’s neighbor for “nigh on five years, young man,” she told the two detectives. “That’s why I told that young pup that there was no way Nancy committed suicide. She’d have paraded naked down Glendale Boulevard sooner than she’d have killed herself.”
“We’re here to listen, Mrs. Crandall.” David tipped his head and kept his face neutral. He flipped open his notepad and wrote the day’s date. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, if we could. Nancy Scott was her name, is that correct?”
“Nancy Amelia Scott,” Alice said. “That was her full Christian name, rest her soul.”
“You knew her five years. Did she move in five years ago, or did you?”
“I’ve been on this same spot of earth since before my good husband Lloyd passed, nigh on eleven years ago it was, rest his soul. He was a good man. Salt of the earth.”
David scanned the room. From what he could see it looked like Alice had furnished the place during the height of the beige eighties and never recovered from it. If there was a spot of color anywhere, he couldn’t find it. “So Mrs. Scott moved in five years ago. Was she by herself?”
“That man was a saint, he was. Why, even Father Barnaby used to remark as how good he was, never drank a tipple in his life and worked until they forced him to retire at sixty-five. Not that he wanted to leave, mind you, the man loved to work, almost as much as he loved to talk—”
“Yes, Mrs. Crandall,” David said. “I’m sorry for your loss, but if you could just answer some questions about your neighbor.”
“Lloyd would have loved Nancy. She was a pious woman, never heard a curse word come out of her mouth. Even Lloyd wasn’t that good.”
“When was the last time you actually saw Mrs. Scott, ma’am?” David persisted. Patience was a virtue, his own, less than saintly, mother might have said, but there were times when patience could take a flying leap. “You mentioned her missing Mass on Sunday. So if she wasn’t there, when did you see her last?”
“Sunday Nancy always came with me,” Alice said. “She wasn’t born a Catholic; she told me that right after I first asked her to join me at Incarnation. Was born a Presbyterian but never found satisfaction in that faith.” Alice dug her short, unpolished nails through the tight mass of bright hair. “She strayed, she said, and when she found her way back, she decided the good Lord meant her to be part of the true faith, so she come and joined our church. She asked for my help then,” Alice said proudly. “She asked me to help her find her way back to God.”
“Yes, ma’am,” David said. Beside him Martinez harrumphed softly. “But I still need to know when you last saw Nancy alive.”
Alice eyed Martinez coldly, then smiled at David, revealing impossibly even, white teeth. “Are you Catholic, young man?”
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not.”
“Pity.”
“Yes, ma’am. Now ma’am—”
“I know,” Alice said. “When did I last see her?”
“Yes, ma’am—”
“I’ll tell you if you stop jabbering. Can’t stand a man who always interrupts. Her son was like that, you know. Always cutting in, interrupting his mother like everything he had to say was pure gospel and the rest of us should just shut up and listen.”
“Her son, ma’am?” David leaned closer, pen poised over his dog-eared notepad. “Mrs. Scott had a son? What about a Mr. Scott?”
“No Mr. Scott. He was her past, she used to say, she was her own future. She never spoke of him. If he was anything like her son, I can understand why.”
“Would you know where we might find this son?”
“He comes around, regular as church bells,” Alice said. “Every other Wednesday.”
“And the last Wednesday he was here?”
The woman shrugged her thin shoulders. “Week or so ago.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “Why, I guess that would be two weeks ago tomorrow.”
David and Martinez traded looks. “Yes, ma’am,” they both said.
“I guess you can ask him these questions.” Alice smiled slyly. “Oh, and the last time I saw Nancy was Saturday morning. We walked down to the market to buy groceries.”
“What did Mrs. Scott buy?” David asked, remembering the nearly empty refrigerator. And the chocolate wrapper.
Alice sniffed. “Orange juice, couple of cans of soup, bananas and a newspaper. I never saw such a one for not eating proper. I don’t know how she stayed healthy.” Her face suddenly screwed up. “I guess she didn’t though, did she?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You still think she killed herself?”
“That’s up to the medical examiner to determine,” David said.
“Will you be by to talk to that boy of hers tomorrow?”
“We just might do that, ma’am.”
Alice smiled again. “Well, I won’t tell him you’re coming.”
David almost smiled in return. “You have a good day now.”
“You find out what happened to Nancy, and I’ll have a good day.”
She shut the door of her apartment behind them, leaving them standing in the musty hallway looking at each other in bemusement.
“Guess we come by to talk to junior, then,” Martinez said. “Where do you think he was all this time?”
David pulled out the car keys and jangled them against his leg. “We’ll have to make sure to ask, now won’t we?”
To learn more about P. A. Brown and her terrific books, check out her website. You’ll enjoy the journey.
I’ll be back Wednesday with multi-published Linda Sole, who now has 100 books to her credit. Be sure to drop in. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
What would you do with 72 HOURS?
September 24, 2010 | Friends
Clare London’s signature line says it all; Writing… Man to Man, and no one does it better. Like so few female authors in this genre, Clare writes male emotions with an honesty and depth that weave you into her stories. Her latest release, 72 HOURS, proves it.
Here’s a glimpse of this compelling story.
72 HOURS
Clare London
Dreamspinner Press
BLURB:
Tanner Mackay and Niall Sutherland were once far more than just fellow intelligence agents. But then a mission went horribly wrong and everything fell apart, sending Tanner into hiding and splitting the team and their affair wide apart.
Now an unknown traitor is threatening the team, and their ex-boss is determined to reunite them before it’s too late. She finds Tanner in a run-down trailer park, bringing with her a most unwelcome refugee, in need of temporary sanctuary: Niall, the man he thought he’d never have to face again. The man he’s sure feels exactly the same in return.
Trapped in a situation that’s both claustrophobic and highly dangerous, Tanner and Niall will have to revisit their past and reconsider their perceptions, their loyalties—and their desires—in order to survive, let alone forge a future together.
EXCERPT:
Niall kissed like a demon, but a very sweet, very sincere demon. His tongue was hot and fast and fucking gorgeous. He tasted of the wine, the pasta sauce and the mints that came with the check. He pressed fiercely against me, like he’d been holding himself back for the last hour but was now released from whatever inhibitions he’d had, and his hands twisted sharply into my hair at the back of my neck. I could feel strands working loose from the tie and his fingertips pressing on the thin skin at the nape. His eyes were open, watching my reactions, and his hands never strayed past my shoulders. He was waiting, I think, to double check I was okay with it all.
I may have been an acting coach at work, but no one had ever accused me of being difficult to read when it came to sex, whether kissing or something far more intimate. I slid both my arms around his waist and pulled him closer, tight against my body. My lips pressed back hard against his and I gasped my willingness into his mouth. I felt his body tighten and the muscles slide against my own, all the way from torso to knee. The door eased open behind us and we half-fell into the hallway, laughing, groaning, still nipping at each other’s lips.
“Which floor?” he gasped.
“Fifth.” I’d never cursed the broken elevator as soundly as I did that night. We stumbled up all five flights, bumping our bones on the banister, scuffing our shoes against the wall. From the way we clung to each other, we were like a single, melded body with two sets of limbs. I nudged him around each landing, taking every chance to run my hands inside his jacket and down his sides, his ribs and torso tantalizing me from underneath the thin shirt material. As I groped for the keys to my apartment, he seemed to be the only thing holding me upright, clutching my shoulders and gasping into my neck, his fingertips tracing the pulse in my throat, caressing my skin with the damp heat of his palms.
We tumbled again through a doorway, panting from our exertions and from a barely contained passion. But this time when I kicked the door closed behind us, I knew it was just us now; just the two of us, blessed privacy, and a mounting excitement that had consumed any shred of sense left in my brain.
The music playing in my apartment? It was pure soul… a low, slow beat and a voice rich with sensuous humor in every syllable and tone. I barely registered, except to feel the familiar comfort of it around me. Kind of my favorite music, coincidence or not.
And all those worries I had about the state of my place? Thankfully, we never went anywhere near the kitchen to check up on my housekeeping abilities. We also bypassed the lounge where, in fact, there were several piles of laundry on the couch, some clean and some embarrassingly crumpled. As we staggered down my narrow hallway, he shrugged off his jacket and I dropped my keys someplace I didn’t see and, frankly, didn’t care. I toed off my boots and socks in a trail of laughter and hot breathy kisses. When I mumbled something about the coffee I’d promised him, he laughed directly into my face and kissed me again, so soundly that my eyes closed and I felt his taste seep into my very veins. I felt him kicking off his own shoes and fumbling at my buttons. I’d wanted to take some time, to savor the suspense of peeling his clothes off of him – to tease him, perhaps, with my own unwrapping. Then his hands came up underneath the cool fabric of my shirt, running fingertips across my exposed nipples, and suddenly instantaneous nakedness would have been way too slow for me.
The bedroom wasn’t hard to find, mainly because I pushed him bodily through the door, and we fell onto the bed, entwined again as that four-limbed beast. By now, my shirt was hanging from my body by nothing more than a single sleeve, but in return I’d managed to open his without ripping off any buttons in my impatience, and also tug down the zip of his pants. He palmed my groin, molding his hand around the swollen excitement under my jeans, but I had a hand inside the cloth of his underwear and I had a hold of flesh – damp, hot, amongst curls of hair already sticky with excitement – and I was making him groan aloud in a very satisfying way.
He felt exquisite. Precious. I couldn’t understand my reverence, but there was no mistaking it. I’d never felt like that before – nor since, for that matter.
I took the advantage then. I rolled myself around and scrambled up to kneel beside him, tugging at the fabric of his pants and pulling them down from his hips. His soft black jersey briefs were a fabulous contrast against his dark, flushed skin, and they peeled off just as easily under my determined touch. I wanted him naked, and I wanted it now!
He lay on his back underneath me, with none of that coyness that some guys have when you strip them. No, he lay there with his shirt wide open and his chest heaving, his long, bare legs stretched out along the length of my bed. He looked both confident and comfortable, like a wet dream come to reality. His eager eyes glittered like flints, and they were locked on me. His arms lay by his side, and his fists clenched gently. When I reached down to pull his shirt off properly, he shifted his upper body to help me. Then he reached up for my hand and drew it down to his mouth. I watched, fascinated, as his tongue slipped out and licked the valleys between my fingers.
“Tanner.” It was just a breath; just a murmur. No instruction, no demand.
I gazed at him, drinking in the sight of his body laid out on my bed, the sheet creased under his hip, shadows playing along the white cotton folds as he clenched the muscles of his slim ass. The front of his thighs curved sweetly. Soft hairs on his skin, dark curls around his groin. He sucked softly on my fingers and shifted a little more. The movement made his cock bob gently against his belly, the flesh thick and swollen. It made the skin of his balls crinkle and the globes inside roll against the base of his groin…
Learn more about Clare on her website and her blog. Of course you can catch up with her on facebook, too.
Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Dorien Grey – Man or Myth
September 22, 2010 | Friends
It is with great pleasure we feature Dorien Grey, an author who weaves a mystery with such cunning you become a major player in his stories.
Here’s a little about how Dorien arrived on the publishing scene:
If it is possible to have a split personality without being schizophrenic, Dorien Grey qualifies. When long-time book and magazine editor Roger Margason chose the pseudonym “Dorien Grey” for his first book, it set off a chain of circumstances which has led to the comfortable division of labor and responsibility. Roger has charge of day-to-day existence, freeing Dorien—with the help of Roger’s fingers—to write. It has reached the point where Roger merely sits back and reads the stories Dorien brings forth on the computer screen.
It’s not as though Roger has not had an uninteresting life of his own. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. Washing out after a year, he spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean at the height of the cold war. The journal he kept of his time in the military, in the form of letters home, honed his writing skills and provided him with a wealth of experiences to draw from in his future writing. These letters will be appearing in book form shortly.
Returning to Northern Illinois University after service, he graduated with a B.A. in English, and embarked on a series of jobs which worked him into the editing field. While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading L.A. based international gay men’s magazine.
Tiring of earthquakes, brush fires, mud slides, and riots, he returned to the Midwest, where Dorien emerged, full-blown, like Venus from the sea. They’ve been inseparable (and interchangeable) ever since.
He, and Dorien of course, moved back to Chicago in 2006, where they now devote full time to writing. After having published thirteen books in the popular Dick Hardesty Mystery series, the western/romance/adventure novel, Calico, and the imminent publication of the third book in his new Elliott Smith Mystery series, he is busily at work on yet another Dick Hardesty mystery.
For a greater insight into the “real person” behind Dorien Grey, the curious are invited to check out his website and his various blogs: Dorien Grey and Me and A Life in Photos among them. You can also catch up with Dorien at the Author’s Den.
Now, “The Butcher’s Son”, a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award:
THE BUTCHER’S SON
Book 1 of the Dick Hardesty Mystery Series
DORIEN GREY
ISBN 978-1-879194-86-1
GLB Publishing
Buy Link: Available, as are all of Dorien’s books, at any bookstore or on-line bookseller.
BLURB:
It’s not bad enough that Dick Hardesty has a job he hates and a boss from hell. He’s suddenly put in the untenable position of helping the wildly homophobic chief of police in a run for governor. Throw the chief’s twin sons–one of whom may or may not be dead–, a series of bar fires, and a crumbling 5-year relationship, and you have the ingredients for the tale of The Butcher’s Son.
EXCERPT:
It had turned rather cool by the time we reached the street. We made a circle around to the car to drop off the plastic grapes and then turned toward the Dog Collar. I didn’t much care for the place. It was a big, cavernous dump that boasted 4 pool tables and a downstairs “dungeon” for those into group sex. Like a lot of older buildings, it had very high ceilings, which the management had recently tried to make appear lower by stretching some sort of black mesh fabric from wall to wall.
The clientele, as the bar’s name might indicate, was supposedly ultra-butch. I’ve got nothing at all against being butch, mind you—if it’s authentic. But the Dog Collar crowd was plastic grapes butch. Still, it always drew a good crowd, and was obviously packed tonight.
We were about two doors from the entrance, when we heard a muffled “Whoomp”which sounded like it came from the alley behind the bar, and a moment or two later, the double front doors burst open and a tidal wave of men washed out into the street, running. Shouts of…“Fire!” could be heard from inside and from those in the river of men gushing through the door. Chris and I stood frozen in mid step, then moved away from the buildings with the crowd and into the street. A wide, flat ribbon of smoke unfurled slowly out the top of the door, over the heads of those scrambling to get out.
No dictionary could ever have described the word “chaos” more vividly. Men were running, pushing, tripping over one another as they emerged, turning around to shout for friends still inside. Two or three guys fought against the tide, trying to go back in, but they couldn’t buck the crowd coming out, and the smoke was getting heavy now.
The single fact of that outward-opening, double-door entrance was all that prevented a human logjam forming there, and blessedly anyone who made it as far as the door was able to escape.
In the far distance, the sound of sirens could already be heard. The street was a milling mass of men; leathermen, pseudo leathermen, male strippers in g-strings and loincloths, college types, hunks, average Joes, older, younger; a cross section of the male gay community. Ironically, music still blared from inside the bar.
Small clusters of guys gathered together, some holding each other, some holding others back. Others pushed their way back and forth through the crowd, trying to locate friends. There were obviously many people hurt—most were coughing uncontrollably as they ran out, and others collapsed just outside the door and were dragged away from the entrance and carried across the street to be laid out on the sidewalk, where others huddled over them, doing what they could to help. Some just stood staring wide-eyed at the door as a few snake-tongues of orange fire began to lick out over the top of the doorway, as if tasting the air. The cacophony of sounds, however, could not hide what were too obviously screams from inside. The music had stopped.
Chris and I were totally walled in by the crowd, many still coughing and smelling of smoke, on one side of the semi-circle of onlookers. We weren’t close enough to the front to be able to do anything, and we were sick with the feeling of helplessness. Still they kept coming out—guys at the front of the crowd, which was being driven back by the increasing heat and billowing smoke, would rush forward to grab anyone who made it through the doors and lead or drag them to safety, or run interference to prevent others from trying to reenter the building to save friends or lovers.
We stood there, pressed against those crowded around us, and looked around to see if there was anyone we knew. Chris stood on tip-toe, trying to see over the heads of those directly around us. Fewer were coming out, now. One guy—probably one of the strippers—stumbled through the doorway, totally naked, obviously badly burned, his hair smoldering. He appeared slowly, back-lit by an angry pulsating orange, and leaned against the door frame as though it were a part of his number. Then he pushed himself forward, made it just outside the door, and toppled like a fallen tree onto the sidewalk before those dashing in to help him could reach him. They picked him up and carried across the street, the crowd parting to allow them through. And an instant later, a form appeared, from the other side of the doorway, crawling on all fours, his shirt on fire. He was grabbed and pulled forward by several guys who slapped at his shirt with their hands to put out the fire. They got him to his feet, but he looked frantically around at the crowd, then broke away and ran back toward the door, from which no one else was emerging. Two of those who’d helped him ran after him and grabbed him just before he reached the door, which was by this time engulfed in flame. They dragged him backward as he fought to break free, straining forward and yelling something we could not make out over the incredible din. There were no more screams coming from inside the bar; just crashing sounds and the triumphant roar of the flames.
The first squad car came racing down the street, siren wailing, lights flashing, horn blasting, followed by no fewer than three fire trucks, with the lights of others closing in from both directions. The crowd scattered before them.
And over all the sirens, and the yells, and the dull thrum of the fire, which was now pouring out of the door and had broken through the roof, I heard a voice:
“Dick! Dick!” I looked around and Chris pointed to the guy whose shirt had been on fire, still being held by his rescuers. It was Bob Allen.
Ambulances were beginning to arrive as the firemen rolled out their hoses and the police…several squads of them by this time, began moving the crowd back to allow the arriving ambulances to get through.
We shouldered our way through the mass of guys to Bob. He had blood running down his left temple from a gash somewhere just above the hairline. But his face! I hope I never see another expression on anyone’s face like I saw on Bob’s. The two guys holding him, seeing that we knew him, reluctantly released him. He grabbed us both, one with each hand, and his knees started to buckle. We grabbed him and held him up between us.
He tightened his grip on our arms. “You’ve got to help me go back in!” he pleaded, and suddenly my head jerked up to meet Chris’s eyes, which mirrored my own shock in realizing why.
“Ramón!” Bob said, pointing to the inferno. “Ramón’s still in there!”
There is nothing Dorien loves more than hearing from a reader. Feel free to drop him a note.
I’ll be back Friday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
Forest of Corpses
September 20, 2010 | Friends
P.A. Brown is back with us today, showcasing her latest hot book FOREST OF CORPSES which is the sequel to THE GEOGRAPHY OF MURDER. Both books are gripping suspense with just the right amount of romance. You’re sure to enjoy them.
Check out more of P.A. Brown’s exciting work on her website.
FOREST OF CORPSES
P.A. Brown
ISBN 978-1-60820-163-1 Print
ISBN 978-1-60820-164-8 E-book
MLR Press
BLURB
Welcome to the Los Padres National Forest. A vacation from hell.
EXCERPT
Spider
Nobody died today.
That’s a good day in my books, but I knew it wouldn’t last.
Westside had a major hard on for Eastside. War was brewing. Fideo and his WS crew shot up the East Beach, then a week later, on Memorial Day, did the same at a market on Anacapa Street. That time their aim had improved. They dropped two Eastside bangers and a ten-year-old boy out buying milk for his grandmother. Both OGs made it. The kid didn’t. Chalk it up to collateral damage from the drug war.
We canvassed the market and caught a couple of witnesses who saw the whole thing. So we nailed Fideo along with two members of his posse, and tossed their cholo butts in jail. Fideo lawyered up with a good uptown legal beagle, but still sat in lockup, no bail. Then another drive-by took out witness one. Suddenly our only remaining witness “made a mistake.” The paperwork wasn’t dry before the scrotes were back in the hood and the witness was in hiding. Fideo rode with his ese through his hood, crowing how he beat 5-0. His street creds firmly embellished by his latest exploits, he was back, and he was stronger.
And took up his business of dealing drugs, death and taxes without losing a night’s sleep.
Miguel, my new partner, snapped his frustration. “How can we stop these people if no one will testify against them?”
I shrugged. “It bites, I agree. But look at it from their side. Hard to testify from a pine box.”
“God will take care of them.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes, making sure he couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m sure Mr. Gillespie’s family feel the same way.” Gillespie had been witness number one, a businessman leaving a wife and two young kids behind. He told me when I interviewed him the first time he had to talk. That it wasn’t right that these men could terrorize a neighborhood and get away with it. What kind of example did that set for his kids? Well, I guess his kids learned a valuable lesson there. But probably not the one their old man wanted to give. We had gone to Gillespie’s funeral yesterday, per department regulations. Not surprising, no one from Westside showed or sent their condolences. Not that there was much we could have done if they had. As usual, we had no proof that put any Westside banger anywhere near the vicinity of Gillespie’s untimely death. What we had were two bullets from a 9 mil that couldn’t be tied to any other crimes. A clean gun for a clean hit.
There was a time when my frustration level would have surpassed Miguel’s. Those days are long gone. First thing you learn on the job, leave it at the station. Taking it home with you is the surest way to give yourself high blood pressure and a date with your own duty weapon, or your cardiologist.
There was a time I used to share my world with dead people. The homicides I couldn’t solve would follow me home and make me hold them in my memory. The more brutal they were, the more they clung to me, needing closure I couldn’t give them.
Then Jason burst into my life, unasked and unlooked for. I hooked him up and tossed his ass in jail for the murder of a man it turned out he’d never met. A lot of people would have flipped me the bird for what I did, but Jason wasn’t like that. There wasn’t a vengeful bone in his perfect body. Instead, once he was released from jail, we’d gone out to dinner, ended up back at my place with my dick up his ass, and my heart in his hands. I realized then I never wanted to let this guy go. It took me months to be able to admit my feelings to myself, let alone to Jason. Then, I damn near fucked what we had up permanently when my petty jealousy turned me into a dangerous fool. It probably would have served me right if Jay had told me to fuck off when I got up the nerve to follow him to Los Angeles. He didn’t, and here we are, two months later, sharing a bed and a bath, and hopefully, a future.
Sometimes my dead people still come around to stalk my dreams, but now there’s an anchor to hold onto when I wake up in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding and my mouth dry with unspoken fear; there to whisper soothing words, not press me for explanations I was loathe to give anyone. Even for Jason I didn’t show weakness.
He gave me back my life. So why can’t I give him the one thing he wants? Because I’m a fucking coward who’s afraid of losing control again? Afraid? Fuck that. Alexander Spider isn’t afraid of anything. Or anyone.
The morning after Gillespie’s funeral I got up before Jason. Dressing after my shower, I stood over our bed, studying him while I buttoned my shirt. Sometime during the night he had kicked his covers off exposing his delicious butt, and all I had to do was reach out and stroke the peach soft skin. I knew my touch would instantly wake him up, and I had no trouble imagining those sleepy eyes falling on me and that slow, sexy smile he only gave to me. We’d both been too tired last night to do anything but fall into bed. There was nothing sleepy about my body now. My dick pressed painfully against my briefs and I shifted, trying to ease the sudden constriction.
I’ll be back Wednesday with more suspense by the uber talented Dorien Grey. Be sure to stop by. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
