Guest Blogger ~ A.J. Llewellyn: The Mediator—Wouldn’t it be Nice?

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I don’t know about other authors, but I find an incredible serendipity between my book characters and my real life. I’ll give you an example. It’s almost Christmas and I’m listening to the Andrews Sisters singing Silver Bells. Specifically, my mind is trying to wrap itself around the concept of the lyrics, “people laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile…”

Really? I have no idea in which realm these gals did their shopping, but from my point of view, it’s been a little traumatic dealing with the annual return of the dreaded Parking Space Thief.

Oh, yes. You know that special holiday person. The one who thinks he/she is so important they can steal the parking spot you’ve been patiently waiting for.

It happened to me today and I admit, I went bonkers. I really got into it with the thief, even as my thoughts kept whirling: Are you crazy? What if he’s got a gun?

The thief was unrepentant, even when I asked, “Can’t you at least say you’re sorry?”

He countered with, “How about we each say we’re sorry to each other?”

What the…

I frowned at him. It’s the kind of thing a mediator would say. Or some maddening therapist viewing this from afar. I wanted to kick the guy in the shins, then I wanted to rear-end his brand new Trans-Am.

I needed a mediator. I really did. A mediator to mediate with the maddening thief, who, I suspected was a mediator.

You see, I know all about them and can spot one a mile off. I didn’t owe the thief an apology, but he apparently thought if he needed to apologize, then so did I.

He didn’t get his apology, and neither did I.

As he took off for his fast-food lunch, and I circled the parking lot yet again, I wondered, what would Icarus Smith do?

He’s the mediator in my new book just released this week from Totally Bound. And it’s called, wait for it, The Mediator.

I should mention that The Mediator was my first solo title at Totally Bound some years ago, but I have revamped and added over 10,000 words to it. So it feels like new!

Icarus mediates more important things than parking spaces, but in creating him, I realize I have come up with the perfect man. Wouldn’t it be nice to be with a guy who can hold your hands, fight your battles, and win them? And love you unconditionally?

Sigh…

I hope somewhere in the real world that guys like Icarus exist, but at least, for me, he does, and for a few moments in a rotten encounter, I called him forth. He told me to calm down, another space would come and deep down, it’s still Christmas.

Here is a blurb and excerpt of The Mediator. Please leave a comment to qualify for the draw to win a free ebook copy!

Synopsis:

Icarus Smith has two problems, and they both want him…their Mediator.

Icarus Smith has just landed an unusual assignment. A licensed mediator used to handling squabbling spouses, he’s been hand-picked to negotiate a forty-million-dollar welterweight championship title fight. The problem is, these two world boxing champions hate each other. Worst of all, Icarus has discovered that one of them, Italian superstar Paolo de Luca, is the man with whom he had a passionate affair in Italy the previous summer. Paolo cruelly dumped him, and Icarus realizes he is still devastated. Can he overcome his personal feelings to work with Paolo and the boxer’s arch-nemesis, US champion Adam Wyler?

So far, the fight scheduled to take place at New York’s Madison Square Garden is a bust. Fans have bought tickets, and Pay-Per-View sales are through the roof. Just like Lady Di’s face once adorned dishcloths, these guys have their faces on buttons, badges, posters, TV and print ads. And they don’t care.

But Icarus has an even bigger problem. He’s just accepted promoter Thaddeus Halsey’s huge wad of cash to broker this deal and Icarus wants the money for a restoration project in his hometown in Las Vegas. Can Icarus go through with mediation? Can he persuade the man who broke his heart to face the guy who now apparently wants it?

Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of multiple male ménage.

Publisher's Note: This book was previously released by Totally Bound under the same title. It has been expanded, revised and re-edited for re-release.

Excerpt:

“You’re ordering that?” Jerome Curtin scoffed at me.

I looked up from the menu, trying to hide my embarrassment. Ten minutes I’d known the guy, and it was ten minutes too many. Before I could respond, a man in red silk pants and a lime green shirt rushed by me on stilts. Jugglers followed him, then came the singers. The diners around us began to applaud. To my astonishment, the statue of an old man sitting on the bench right opposite me came to life.

Ah, Venice.

The briny smell of St. Mark’s Square and the canal’s waters filled my senses with nostalgia. The singers in their brightly colored costumes gathered near the fountain, gaudy masks held to their faces, and started to sing. The Carnevale di Venezia came beautifully to life. The twilight ambience with its flickering wall sconces put me in a better mood, as did the old Italian folk melody. I recognized it, but didn’t remember how.

“Sir?”

I glanced back up at the waiter. Pity flashed in his eyes. I guessed he’d had his share of bad dates, too.

“Sorry.” In a flash of joy it came back to me. “Lu Me Sceccu,” I practically shouted.

My table companion looked startled then he rolled his eyes. “Number one on Billboard, was it?”

Well! No need to be rude. “I know that song!” I tried to place it and it hit me.

I couldn’t believe that almost eighteen months later, I’d buried the memory so deep that it hurt to recall it. It was like a scar on my soul. I spent my whole life counseling people, urging them to forget the past. Me, I’d just submerged the pain in work. I took a deep breath and grabbed my glass of iced water.

“Sir?” The waiter’s eyes were full of sympathy. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

Jerome Curtin suddenly leaned across the table and kissed me. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he slipped his tongue into my mouth. It was like being invaded by an electric eel.

I pushed him off me. “What are you doing?” I sputtered as iced water ran down my suit and tie. It figured that the one time I’d splurged on new clothes, they’d be ruined.

The waiter produced hand towels out of nowhere and gave them to me, still looking like he felt very bad for me.

“Thank you.” I pressed the towels against my soaking wet shirt.

“You looked like you wanted to be kissed,” Jerome said.

Not by you.

“You had this look in your eye.”

Yeah, I could just imagine. I’d thought I was over it—him, that is. The astonishing man I’d met that summer, when I’d found the love I’d thought would never die. Lu Me Sceccu. I smiled now, recalling that it was an elderly woman’s love song to her dearly departed forty-year-old donkey.

“Icarus, you’re keeping the man waiting!” Jerome blared the words at me over the top of the singers’ voices.

A busboy appeared and deftly replaced the tablecloth, gave me a new napkin, then refilled my water glass. I thanked him. I could feel water seeping into my underpants. Later, I might find this funny. Right now, I wished I’d gone home and caught up on case work, like I usually did.

“I’ll have a dozen oysters,” I said, changing my order. “And the tomato ricotta salad, please.”

The waiter nodded. “Excellent choice, sir.”

As he took Jerome’s order, I grasped for the fleeting moments of sheer happiness I recalled from that magnificent Sunday lunch when Pio had taken me to meet his family. I had never felt so accepted, so…embraced by a family. I’d wanted to be with them forever. And it wasn’t like me, not at all, to fall so quickly, so hard.

To love total strangers so deeply.

About the Author:

A.J. Llewellyn lives in California, but dreams of living in Hawaii. Frequent trips to all the islands, bags of Kona coffee in the fridge and a healthy collection of Hawaiian records keep this writer refueled.

A.J’s passion for the islands have led to writing a play about the last ruling monarch of Hawaii, Queen Lili’uokalani, plus a non-erotic novel about the overthrow of her kingdom written in diary form from her maid’s point of view.

AJ never lacks inspiration for male/male erotic romances and on the rare occasions this happens, pursue other passions such as collecting books on Hawaiiana, surfing and spending time with friends and animal companions.

A.J. Llewellyn believes that love is a song best sung out loud.

How to find/friend me:

email, website, Facebook,

Twitter, Newsletter sign-up,

I’m an app! Download my FREE A.J. Llewellyn App for Android HERE.

Guest Blogger ~ Clare Dargin: Merry "Chris" Mas

AVAILABLE: Wednesday, December 24th

This title is offered at a 10% discount. Offer ends midnight CST, December 31st

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Blurb:

Jilly Reimers wants love but can't find it. Chris Spinell is a veteran of the war in Afghanistan who suffers from PTSD and a haunting feeling that something is missing in his life. Chris Poole is also an Afghanistan war veteran is ready to break out of his shell but is unsure how.

With Christmas just around the corner, they decide not to spend it alone. Believing The Love Play Matchmaking Service to be just what they need for a night of fun and passion, they sign up. But when the guys show up and see that they've been set up on a menage, the only one happy about it is Jilly. 

Their consultant, called an Eros, assures Jilly that the service has a perfect track record but she's certain they'll be the first ones to get their money back. Will they have a very merry Christmas? Or will the three spend yet another one alone?

A Siren Erotic Romance

[Ménage Amour: Erotic Ménage a Trois Romance, M/F/M, HEA]

Excerpt:

Jilly idly twirled a lock of her hair as she gazed at the fire. The meal was good, a bit awkward, but all right. Now with Chris S. in the shower, she and Chris P., who’d freshened up after her, sat beside her. She hoped she’d get a chance to know him a little better, now that they were alone.

Unlike Chris S., Chris P. was quiet, more reserved. His warm smile could melt ice. They’d spoken a bit about his life in Australia and how he met the other Chris when they were on Diego Garcia, a tiny atoll in the Pacific. It was there he garnered a better perspective on life, friendships and love. She reasoned that war tended to do that to a person.

She looked at him again, admiring what she saw. He was gorgeous. If only she were a femme fatale like her friends. She pictured grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and planting a long seductive kiss on his pouty lips. Anything to ease the tension between her legs and the moisture dripping from her swollen pussy.

Golden and sun-kissed like a surfer, he had a look impossible to have around this time of year in Michigan, unless he spent countless hours in a tanning booth. But at the same time he didn’t look like the type who’d go to one. He seemed too rugged. She glanced at his short, flaxen hair, which he wore pulled back in a stubby tail. It accentuated his keen facial features. His physique, like that of a gladiator, made her want to whimper. Built like a brick wall without being too thick, he was three words—supple, etched, steel. And his Australian accent added to his raw sexiness.

Whereas Chris S. was the perfect picture type of the all-American, boy-next-door type, with light brown hair and sandy-colored tips and eyes so blue they looked like the color of tropical water. He reminded her of the high school captain of the football team who’d gone into the military and become a man, except he had a sensitive edge that permeated his being. While Chris P., who looked like he could take on a few guys at once, was more lighthearted and outgoing.

Either way, she knew she hit the jackpot because both guys were like something out of a magazine called Hot Guys “R” Us. They were a perfect ten. It was best Christmas gift anyone could have ever given her. She hoped a Chris Sandwich was definitely on the menu for the night. But how to get past the talking stage, she had no clue. She wondered if all of her Love Play’s match ups started like this.

Wearing some leggings and a cami, and he a T-shirt and shorts, she suddenly felt overdressed. The art of seduction was not something they taught in any of the schools she’d attended, and she sure as hell never picked up any pointers from her so-called “friends.” And her exes never gave her any encouragement in that department either.

This date should have come with instructions. I think I’m in trouble.

She let out a long sigh.

“Did you say something?” Chris P. asked, stirring from his long silence.

“I was just thinking how beautiful this place is,” she lied. What? How lame is that?

“It is. I’ve never been to a place quite like this.”

“Love Play has quite a reputation.”

“You’ve used it before?” He perked up, facing her.

Heat burned her cheeks. “No. It’s what I heard from some of their clients.”

“So have you been married?” he asked.

“No.”

“Neither have I. Never found anyone to get serious with,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe cupid’s arrow doesn’t work on me.”

“For me they’re defective. Or maybe his aim is bad,” she said, trying to suppress the memory of her ex-boyfriend.

“What do you mean?”

“My relationships, they never work out.” She shrugged her shoulders. “For whatever reason, they seem to choose my friends over me. Or it ends up that way once we get together.”

He shook his head. “Nah. They were bad blokes from the start. Believe me. I know. I’ve been around those types my entire life. The randier they are, the worse they will be. If a man wants you, he’ll stay.” His tone was soft, almost vulnerable.

“Maybe.”

“So tell me,” he said, turning to face her, “you ordered this hook up?”

Again, her face flushed. She imagined it turning its characteristic red when the blood rushed to her cheeks.

“Yes. But according to the guidelines, you would have either had to be open to it or requested it too. Right?”

He chuckled. “I see he also got the smart I asked for. Yes, I am open to a ménage.” His expression became serious. “Do you think me odd?”

“No. I’m glad we share that desire.” 

ADULT EXCERPT:

Chris S. slipped her undies over her round hips. They slid down her baby-like skin, exposing her shaved mound. More blood flowed to his dick, making whimper.

“God,” he said, fighting tears.

Through gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes, he forced himself to maintain control. It was getting to be damn near impossible. Everything about her was fucking outstanding. Lips, breasts, skin and pussy. He was ready to fill her pussy with his thick, hard dick.

He slid his finger into the folds of her wet interior. The thin crease surrounded by supple labia oozed moisture from her tight and tiny hole. He slid a finger inside her hole, and her taut muscles quivered at his touch.

“You want it?” he asked.

She moaned “yes” before being silenced by the other Chris’s mouth. He inched her legs apart. Moving in just right, he tasted her. Explosions went off in his brain. She was pure, simple, clean and honeyed. He wanted to mark her as his own. Delving his tongue in and out of her tight hole, he held her still, allowing her juices to saturate his mouth.

Lifting her legs, he opened her wider, curling her upward, burying his face in her mound. His breaths increased as his heart rate grew frantic. His hard dick, standing at full scale attention, threatened to bust a nut if he didn’t stop.

Pulling away, he set her down gently. “Got to go get a condom.”

The other Chris looked up, his eyes equally as dazed as he felt.

She swallowed, seeming breathless. “My bag, by the wall.”

The time for being cool had passed. Quicker than he’d wanted and less suave, he dashed toward it, finally seeing the stash. Grabbing the entire lot, along with a bottle of lubricating gel, he opened the box and pulled out two, handing one to Chris and keeping the other for himself. Setting it aside, he removed his shorts, exposing his aching dick to the room’s cool air. He grimaced as he slid the latex over his shaft. It hurt with a pain that would only be relieved by what Jilly had to offer. He squeezed the gel, which had the scent of strawberries, onto his palm. He fisted his hand and soaked his condom-wrapped rod with the smooth, thick liquid. The mere pressure of his hand gave him some relief, albeit short.

“Me first,” he said, climbing onto the bed.

Calming himself, he lay down beside her and turned her on her side. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. He spread her legs apart as she tilted her pelvis back. She melded her body to his. There was so much of her he wanted, not only her body, but her soul, mind, and yes, even her heart.

He took a hand and placed himself at her entrance. Slowly he pushed inside. He grunted and made himself hold back, lest he spill at that moment.

She was so tight. No doubt about it. This was going to be a short run. Inch by inch, he slid inside of her, stopping at the root. His balls drew in tight. He shifted her close and moved in and out slowly. Each movement became stronger as his control slipped. He needed the release, the kind that would give his aching balls sweet relief. Back and forth his hips moved inside her. She wriggled and moaned in response. Their mouths met briefly, tongues swirling, causing his stomach and heart to flutter. He increased his thrusts. Finding his target, she keened her delight.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Don’t stop.”

She pushed her ass toward him.

“Baby, I’m going to come.”

“Come, honey. Come.”

He grunted, harder and harder. Sliding his hand down to her hard clit, he rubbed it as his panting increased. Pressure built up behind his eyes, his mind went blank as everything in the world seemed to fall away. He couldn’t stop. Harder and harder he pushed, holding her firm and tight.

With light speed, he cried out, “God!” His hips bucked upward while cum poured out of him.

Slightly dizzy, he held onto her before letting her go. “Are you all right?”

Her kiss eased the butterflies threatening to kill the moment. Sliding out of her, he sighed, relieved. He gazed into her eyes. Instantly he felt the completed connection he’d sensed along. She was the one. And he saw that she felt it too.

* * * *

Jilly recovered her breath as Chris P. gathered her up into his arms. His musky scent was so spicy and inviting. She buried her face in the crook between his shoulder and neck. She was ready.

“On your back,” he said, holding her.

She nodded.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, whispering in her ear.

From her tall Adonis, she was ready to receive all he gave her. Trust welled up within her heart. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

Placing her on back like she weighed nothing but a feather, he positioned himself on top of her. A lock of his blond hair obscured his face. She opened her legs. She felt his solid, round tip prod her hole. Panting, he pushed inside of her, his raw strength causing her pussy to clench. Each muscle spasmed to accommodate his thick and meaty cock. She cried out along with him. He braced himself.

COLD WARRIORS

Left in cryogenic stasis for nearly a century, Caitlin Driskoll is awakened and drafted into a war she knows nothing about. Expected to defend a world where her kind is despised and expendable, she discovers love and respect from the one man who can’t be associated with her.

Lieutenant Colonel Medoro Keegan has spent a lifetime in the Marines. With no family to speak of, the Corps and his ship, the USS Blanchard, are all the loved ones he needs…until Caitlin sparks a fire within, that threatens to consume him if he doesn’t walk away.

Will he choose a life of certainty in the only world he knows or give it all to Caitlin and run the risk of losing someone, yet again?

About Clare:

Clare Dargin is an author of Science Fiction and Romance and has been writing stories all of her life before being published in 2007. She’s a great fan of the two genres and loves promoting them.

An educator by profession, she possesses a Bachelor’s Degree in English from a major mid-western university. She presently resides in the Midwest and she hopes to expand her writings to include non-fiction, historical romance, and contemporary novels.

Find Clare Here

The Haven, Blog 2: The Haven, Facebook

Twitter, Twitter #2, Amazon Author Page

Guest Blogger ~ S.A. Garcia: The Green Man's Bounty

Blurb:

Can a Druid accept Christmas by helping WW2 orphans?

When a war-torn Druid meets his legendary Green Man, he discovers a new meaning to Christmas by helping Jewish orphans.

Buy Link

Excerpt:

Outside the Jeep, the sleet intensified, creating a blinding veil. Bad luck it happened just as I navigated a tight turn. The Jeep's tires skidded on the thick ice sheet. "Damn it!"

I gripped the wheel. For a few frantic seconds, I struggled to keep my military surplus Jeep on the narrow road. Too much dangerous wartime driving in France should have made me panic-proof, but this still tested my resolve. I didn't fancy careening into frosty moor bog and sinking into the morass. I wanted to celebrate the blessed Solstice dry and safe.

The Jeep bent to my will, remaining on the slippery tarmac. My breathing sounded too loud. As long as no silly escapee moor sheep wandered in front of me, I should complete my journey sans a dip in the bog.

Earlier today I had started my celebration at a gathering at Stonehenge. We had welcomed the equinox's dawn. I'd remained longer than planned, enjoying the company of my fellow Druids. My membership in the Ancient Order of the Druids remained secret from others in my life. I worked in a government position, which meant I knew to keep my mouth shut. After all, I doubted if my superiors would appreciate my beliefs.

Ten minutes later, my headlights illuminated a familiar sign. I carefully drove down the icy gravel into the parking lot. The relief sweeping over my nerves embarrassed me. I stopped strangling the steering wheel and breathed normally again.

Damn, two other cars occupied the spaces closest to the inn's door. I scowled.

Instead of exiting the Jeep, I relaxed back, listening to the sleet attacking the metal. The horizontal wind blasts created low plinks, like someone hammered pebbles against the vehicle. Above me the canvas roof shook hard enough to create a hollow billowing sound.

Hiding away like a sugar-spun confection seemed unmanly, but I didn't want the sharp particles to frost me into a living ice sculpture.

Hail to the unpredictable southwest weather. When I had passed Winchester four hours ago, a glittering winter sunset had graced the blue sky. The sharp light had contrasted against the threatening grey clouds massing to the south. In fairness, Old Man Winter had warned me about his nefarious plan to taunt Mother Nature. My desire to reach my destination had made me push through. Suffering through a violent storm on the Solstice made sense. I had passed through the darkness to reach fresh new life.

I chuckled at my pretentious thought. It held truth, but still, spending too much time alone often made me think thoughts which, if spoken aloud, would make people laugh at my drama. Damn, I didn't want to end up as a lonely, pedantic old man nattering on about his spiritual quest to anyone patient enough to listen.

I still lived, which is more than I could say for most of the men whom had fought the Nazi monsters. My limbs were intact as were my faculties, although too often I wondered about my sanity. It had taken a great beating.

Boredom urged me to light a hand-rolled herbal cigarette. My custom mint and lemongrass blend soothed me. When I'd started coughing too much during the war, I'd quit smoking straight tobacco. Afterward, I made due with smoking dried mint when I found it. Someday I would conquer my oral fixation.

As I puffed, I pulled my leather document bag and small travel case forward into the battered front seat. I could fetch my remaining luggage once the storm had passed.

I blew out smoke. It formed a spiral mist within the rough interior. My thoughts drifted back to remembering pleasant hours spent in the sprawling old farmhouse converted into an inn. Good conversation and company was always the case here. I grinned. Sadly, aside from the fresh bread, the food didn't live up to the inn's other attributes.

The carved wooden sign proclaiming The Watchers, above an illustration of three standing stones, swung like a sugar-crazed child on a swing. Ice-rimmed ivy and holly strands twined around the edges, tokens of older rituals stolen by Christmas.

Sad how Christianity tried to steal Yuletide from Mother Earth's worshippers. Long ago I had read the Bible. Reading between the lines told me Jesus had probably been an earth-loving pagan, more of a Druid, who believed in people and their spiritual rights. Christianity had elevated him to their poster child.

Of course, I kept these radical thoughts to myself. After a devastating world war had shattered their spirit, people needed their beliefs.

I certainly needed mine. At this time of year, Christianity dressed up my beliefs in quite a different costume. Then again celebrating Yuletide generated no commerce.

A foul mood waited to darken my thoughts. No, not tonight—tonight I wanted to relax and enjoy life.

The wind ascended into a sullen howl. Suddenly the chilling assault subsided to cup loads instead of nasty bucketfuls. In a blink, the sleet changed over to steady snow. Fat white flakes started covering the icy texture spread across the ground.

I scrambled out from the Jeep, skidding around the bonnet to the passenger side. My soles slipped on the slick stones, sending me down against the hard surface. This wasn't the time for slapstick pratfalls! I grabbed the two bags and minced across the parking lot, trying for cautious speed. Despite my care, slushy slashes splashed over my shins. At least my stout old boots kept my feet dry.

I reached the exterior door and twisted the brass knob. To my relief, it swung open. Practical Ben usually closed down early in the off-season, yet something told me tonight the door remained unlocked for an old friend.

I entered the foyer, foiling the wind-driven onslaught, and secured the outer door against the cold invasion. Soaking my skin didn't sate its greedy need--this storm wanted to freeze even my bone marrow.

A huge holly, ivy, and purple heather wreath decorated the glass-paned inner door, which opened into the impressive wood and stone interior. Mellow honey-toned paint warmed the granite walls. Stout ancient beams buttressed the doorways and windows. The inn appeared lovingly maintained and highly polished, just as I remembered. A tasty aroma tickled my nose.

Ben Tremethyk's great-great-great—damn, many greats back—Cornish ancestors had built the original old farmhouse. After careful remodeling to create public areas, the space offered a protective atmosphere. A small lamp cast light over the rugged old ship table which served as the front desk. Red and silver bows held together berry-rich holly branches and pine boughs. An elaborate wreath of holly, yew, and ivy hung on the dining room door. The greens added a pagan touch to the space although I knew that wasn't the intent. Their natural beauty soothed me.

Ah, a familiar brass key rested on the burgundy reservation book. Amazing how the simple sight faded away the years. Bless Ben for securing me the River Palace. The large room overlooked the lively Meavy River as it tumbled down from the higher moors. Sleeping by the river's natural power recharged me or at least that's how I perceived the sensation.

I hesitated at ringing the brass ship bell. I shouldn't disturb the other guests.

A melodic voice echoed from the dining room. "Dear Roger, I do hope that's you! I felt right worried about you traveling in this wretched storm." Swift footsteps crossed the polished wooden floor. A shadow prefaced its owner. "Ah, you arrived safe, sound, and snow-flaked! What a bloody miserable night. Old Man Winter wasted no time showing who's the boss now. At least the snow is more festive than slush."

Hmm, who was that? I leaned forward to peer toward the voice. My motion skidded the heavy travel bag down my leather-clad shoulder. I staggered to my right. How damned annoying! I extracted myself from the damp mess. When I looked up from my struggle, I froze for a wonderful second. In the face of the heat flooding my skin, the recent icy assault meant little to me.

The most desirable man alive in all of Cornwall, hell, in the United Kingdom, stood before me like a mythical Green Man—tall, dashing, and robust. Curly hair swirled against his high cheekbones in a daring hairstyle, the golden lengths trailing toward his neck. I studied his ruddy face, peeled away the added years, and blinked. "Little Lynn Tremethyk?"

He released delighted laughter. As he grinned, Lynn patted his ample belly. "How cute, no one has used that sweet nickname in years—ha, for obvious reasons. Hard to believe you've been away for six long years."

I sighed. "Unfortunately war has a nasty way of disrupting a life. At least I was lucky enough not to suffer from any serious physical impairment. I saw too many others grievously injured. Mentally, well…" I shrugged away the lingering fears. I'd seen too much horror to ever forget certain details.

"Dear Roger, I hope staying here eases traumatic memories." Lynn's cheerful voice seemed designed to chase away shadows. His warm tone soothed my jangled nerves almost as well as a shot of fine whiskey. "When Penny told me you called yesterday to reserve a room, I felt ecstatic. Hearing your name sparked memories of exploring the moor marshes with you. I wouldn't mind accompanying you again. Really, I'm a big man, but I still move quietly." He fluttered his long fingers at me. "Enough talk! Your favorite room awaits you. I told my two other parties the River Palace was reserved."

I wondered what place Penny held in Lynn's life. Wife, girlfriend, or perhaps housekeeper? "Who is Penny? She sounds charming."

"She's an absolute doll. Penny is my second-in-command, my secret weapon of housekeeper and bookkeeper. I'd be lost without her. She created the wonderful holiday decorations." A fond smile crossed Lynn's face. "Penny reminds me of Mum, or at least how I remember her. I think Da is a bit sweet on her."

"Interesting. Speaking of Ben, where is the old rascal? I hope's he's still hale and hearty."

Lynn's dismissive laughter answered me. "Don't worry yourself over Da. He's visiting cousins in the Canary Islands. I spoke to him yesterday. He claims he's tanner than an old walnut, quite the tropical beach bum! This year Da went into what he calls semi-retirement for the off-season. He'll return for the busy season."

"Smart man. Well, let me go up and change. I hate to presume, but is there any chance I can make myself a sandwich?"

Lynn appeared vastly insulted. "Sandwich? I won't hear of such a thing. I'll serve you a proper meal."

I held up my wet hands. "Please, Lynn, it's late. Don't go out of your way for…" Wait, why was I protesting enjoying time with my new obsession? I was acting completely water-brained!

Lynn's firm headshake squashed my words. "I'm not going out of my way. The fridge is stocked with cold salads. I'll heat up seafood chowder—it's for tomorrow's dinner, but there's plenty." He pointed at my two damp bags. "Do you need my help carrying those?"

Ye Gods, I hoped I didn't appear that old and infirm. I was only thirty-five! I waved away Lynn's query. "No, how kind, I'll handle this moist lot. I have everything I need for tonight. I'll fetch my other gear tomorrow when the weather stops imitating the North Pole."

Author Bio:

Thirty years ago, I started writing m/m romance. My writing remained a secret lest my friends thought me a freak. Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy and Larry Kramer helped me fill in informational gaps. Yes, I read these books in my bedroom.

As the years progressed and I discovered my sexual path, I still wrote m/m romance, although the stories progressed from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the computer. 

Running B-Side, an indie music magazine, helped develop my dialogue and description skills. While traveling to interview bands, writing fiction percolated in the background. Traveling also offered me new backdrops and locations for my stories.

Now I am glad I kept the writing faith. Six published novellas and novels later, my life is a fun quandary of too many stories hindered by slow typing skills. I accept the silly challenge.

When not obsessing over unique ways to describe erotic encounters, I enjoy reading, gardening or more like trying not to kill everything, traveling, arguing politics and teaching my house bunnies tricks. Unfortunately, the furry furies refuse to answer e-mails or blog posts. They also refuse to clean their litter boxes. Brats. I enjoy cooking for my beloved partner because she endures the endless experiments with grace.

I hope my manic devotion to words and romance connects with my readers. Is that a sincere enough ending? Drat, the sentiment needs work. Blame my sloppy muse.

Find S.A. Garcia Here

World of Words, Blogger, Goodreads

Facebook, Novelspot, Twitter. 

Updates from N.J. Nielsen [Me]

Well this last month has been as busy as all get-go for me. This is what I've been up to for the last couple of weeks:

1) I've been writing a lot in long hand as my computer is playing up... so even though I'm nearly finished with The Lines Of Marsden 3: You Make Me Die In Pieces I still have to type everything up.

2) I'll be starting on edits with MLRPress for Experimentals 2: Running Into Zero Tolerance sometime soon. 

3) Today and tomorrow is dedicated to my family Christmas with the Walker Clan (my eldest sister's family) so it's going to be loud at the Nielsen household--Oh what fun.

4) My daughter Emily whom some of you have met or have heard me talk about is in the middle of moving out of home and into Uni Village in Toowoomba as she is doing a Bachelor of Arts at USQ (University of Southern Queensland). So she's excited. She starts full time in March 2015. 

5) I should hear in the next week about The Diamond Rose 1: Gateway To Kalethia which is subbed at Fireborn Publishing.