Friday, March 28, 2008

Demon's Triad by December Quinn & Anna J. Evans

Sorry for the break. Deadlines can be a bitch. However, I've enjoyed browsing through the publishers to create a new list of books I've found. Some are familiar authors, some new. All in a variety of genres. Keep stopping by to see what book I've posted for the day.
The book today looks very intriguing and is on my list for the next spending trip to Ellora's Cave.

Demon's Triad
By December Quinn & Anna J Evans

Publisher: Ellora's Cave
ISBN #9781419912542
Genre : Paranormal / Menage a trois or More Book Length: Plus Novel

Price: $6.49 (e-book)


What's a witch to do when her coven has been cursed with a celibacy spell?

Break it. By any means necessary. Aleeza dips into gray magic to scratch the itch that's been driving her crazy. She never dreams deviating from the "white magic only" policy of her coven will land her in the middle of a serial-murder investigation…or in the arms of two magnetic men.

Ferrin and Dorand plan to find their woman's murderers and make them pay — with their lives. But when a spell to communicate with her spirit awakens a forbidden lust, their quest to catch a killer becomes even deadlier. A legacy of demonic evil two thousand years in the making is about to begin. One misstep and innocent passion becomes tainted desire, and three true lovers…a demon's triad.

Reader Advisory: Contains scenes of male/male sexual contact. This book is not for the faint of heart and contains non-gratuitous scenes of rape and incest.

EXCERPT: (from publisher's site)

“Can we just get to the briefing so I can go home and clean up before I head into enemy territory?” All that training paid off. Lies came so easily to her now.

“They’re not my favorite coven either, but they’re the client and I expect you to treat them with respect. Amiantos might not be our friends, but neither are they the enemy.”

“They might as well be.”

“You can’t really believe that, Al. Sometimes it works out between the Gunera and the Amiantos. Just because your father—”

“Damn it, Gavyn, are you going to brief me or not?” She stood up, anger suddenly boiling in her chest. How dare he, how dare he talk like this? Who did he think he was? She wanted to hit him, to punch him, to slice his throat with her nails and let his blood run—the desire was so strong for a minute she thought she’d done it. She saw Gavyn’s limp body on the floor, saw herself standing over him, laughing, sucking his power into her body…

What the hell?!

“Aleeza? Aleeza! Are you okay?” Gavyn’s hands squeezed her arms so hard it hurt. Her vision cleared and she saw that his face, only inches away from hers, was thankfully unmarked. Had she really seen that? Goddess, had she really imagined doing something so terrible to Gavyn, her coven leader, her friend?
Her legs shook as she sank back into the chair. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I am, I’m just…I’m just tired. Could you get me something to drink, please? Preferably something with caffeine?”

“Caffeine might not be a good idea if you’re unbalanced today,” he said, actually looking as if he might regret having given her such a hard time. “I have—”

“Just anything. Please.” Please, let him leave her alone for a minute. He needed to leave her alone for a minute. Because the image of his broken body still shone in her head like a bright new penny and she had no idea why, but the thought of hurting him made her pussy throb.

Something was definitely wrong, horribly wrong.

The feeling of foreboding didn’t disappear when Gavyn brought her some orange juice and started briefing her on the new job.

“Three witches murdered,” he said. “All on Fire Festivals. The first was Rimer Lorcan, at the Spring Equinox. Rimer was a loner, a petty criminal. He’d been covenless for years, and pissed off more people, super and human, than you can count on two hands. Everyone assumed it was a revenge killing until they did postmortem.” The picture she pulled from the file was so lurid with blood Aleeza had to close her eyes for a second. “They found evidence of ritual murder. Magical symbols carved into his organs—the ones they didn’t take, anyway.”

Aleeza swallowed hard.

“Next was Carantha Smoler, on Beltane. This one was better documented than the first, more pictures, close ups of the symbols in the organs.” A picture of a woman’s battered, broken body seemed to leap out of the file at Aleeza. Tears sprang to her eyes. The woman was lovely—had been lovely. For a moment it was almost as if she could see her smiling, laughing…Aleeza shook her head. She was more tired than she’d thought. She’d never had psychic flashes like these before.

Unless the sex spell had opened her up somehow. She didn’t even want to think about that, couldn’t think about things like that until she was far away from Gavyn.

Whatever that odd flash was, it didn’t happen with the next picture.

“Lymera Brown.” Gavyn shifted on the arm of her chair. “Lammas. The Amiantos have no leads. Since the murders all took place in the forest, they’ve been the ones responsible for investigating, even though only two of the victims—Rimer and Carantha—were theirs. Lymera was Phillias coven, but she was going to marry an Amiantos, so they feel she was theirs too.”

“And now they want us to find the killer?”

Gavyn nodded. “Not only that. They want us to prevent the next murder, which if the perps follow their pattern will take place on Samhain…not quite a month away.”

For more books by these authors, visit their websites.

Monday, March 17, 2008

At the Mercy of her Pleasure by Kayelle Allen

At the Mercy of her Pleasure
ISBN 1-59578-035-1
Cover Artist: Laura Givens
Genre: Sci-Fi
Length: Full length

Price: $5.95

The beautiful rebel NarrAy Jorlan hires professional thief Senth Antonello to retrieve a vital piece of data the Conqueror killed her scientist parents to gain. When Senth nabs it, the Conqueror turns the tables and holds his brother hostage to coerce him into returning the item.

NarrAy must choose between completing her mission to provide the rebellion with a device that will win their freedom, or allowing Senth to save his brother's life. Her duty is clear. But how can she let the young man she's come to love lose the brother he only just discovered he had? Or is there a totally different option. . .
Once he tastes her passion, he'll always be At the Mercy of Her Pleasure.

Read first chapter HERE

Find more of Kayelle Allen's books at her website -

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Saving Will by Stephanie Vaughan

Looking for a few good--if not hard-headed--men in--and out--of uniform? How about your own personal navy seal! This heroine has her work cut out for her but this soldier is out to win the on Love in the end!!


Saving Will by
Stephanie Vaughan

ISBN 978-1-59426-804-5
Publisher: Phaze
Genre: Romance - Erotica - Contemporary

Price: $6.00

Buy Book

Will Bruschetti's life is simple. As a Navy SEAL he trains hard, works hard, and plays hard. Experience has taught him not to trust anyone outside the teams -- a woman least of all. But Will never expected to meet anyone like Lee Ann.

Newly relocated to San Diego, Lee Ann Hunt has traded in her expensive lifestyle as one of Hollywood's top entertainment attorneys to do something that matters to her. Smart, sexy and caring, Lee Ann is the epitome of everything Will ever wanted in a woman.

Burned before, Will knows the military life is a relationship killer, and vows to enjoy what the lovely lawyer has to offer while keeping his heart safely out of play. But for once, safe is a lonely place to be. Can Lee Ann save Will from himself?


The sound of a woman's high heels on his driveway drew him slowly back from his reverie of self-pity. Jesus, if this day got any worse he'd have to shoot himself. Although, as much of a son of a bitch as he'd been to his teammates lately, he didn't think there would be any lack of takers for someone to just do it for him. Hell, he could probably sell tickets to the show and make a pile. Of course, he'd be dead and the money wouldn't do him any good, but that was sort of the point. Wasn't it? Just someone to fucking take him out so he didn't have to deal with it all any more?

Christ, Bruschetti, he thought, listen to yourself, could you be any more pathetic? Even he was sick of listening to himself bellyache. Sick of feeling shitty. Sick of his life. Sick of himself.

A five-mile swim in the pre-dawn hours, immediately followed by the day's usual load of PT had left his arms and legs exhausted and his lungs burning. Usually the outlet of the physical training that was so integral to his life and work was his best source of relief. Alcohol was stupid and self-destructive, and sex was out of the question. Today he'd swum, then lifted weights, and finished off with a longer-than-usual run--and he was still pissed off and not fit to be around.

But the sound of what was undeniably a woman coming up his driveway and the smell of something infinitely female had him pulling his head out from under the hood of his classic BMW and wiping his hands on his jeans as he turned to see what new torment was about to be added to his day.

Ah, if it wasn't his new little neighbor. They hadn't met yet, but he'd noticed the moving truck last week. And he'd sure as hell noticed the legs she showed off every night, climbing down out of an SUV that cost more than he made in the last two years, in her tight little suits. If he'd been a total lowlife, he'd have given in to the temptation to get out some binocs and see what kind of underwear she wore underneath those ass-cupping skirts she must paint on. Thong, he'd be willing to bet. It would just be a confirmation of what he knew in his gut, though. Oh yeah, she was definitely a thong kind of woman. But he considered himself only a moderate lowlife, so he'd settled for staring hard through his window and willing her skirt to--just this once, sweet Jesus--split.

He sized her up from her high-heeled feet to her buttoned-up suit coat to her upswept wheat colored hair. Uptight didn't begin to cover it. He was surprised it took the sound of her heels to alert him to her presence. The squeaking of her ass cheeks should have been enough. He kept his expression neutral, but seeing her up close just confirmed what he'd known instinctively: that she was exactly the kind of woman that chapped his butt royally. A hot little package, perfectly displayed to showcase something no man was ever going to get his hands on.

She smiled and thrust out a hand, as if to shake. "Hi. I'm your new neighbor. Lee Ann Hunt. Nice to finally meet you."

He held up his hands and shrugged, indicating the grease on his hands; as though that was the reason he declined to shake her hand. These days he did his best not to touch any woman, unless he absolutely had to.

"Will Bruschetti. Pleased to meet you, too, ma'am."

She looked across the street toward her house, and he could see through the big picture window that the moving boxes no longer obscured the view.

"I finally got everything put away and I'm..." She looked back and her voice trailed away as her gaze flickered over him. She stopped at his chest, her eyes going slightly wider for just a second.

He wondered what her problem was. What? She'd never seen anyone actually working on their own car? In her world, no doubt, underlings in greasy jumpsuits whisked away any vehicle that had the bad taste to malfunction to the never-neverland of broken things. They would be returned later, but only after the problem had been solved and they were once again trouble-free. God-forbid she should be inconvenienced or--perish the thought--chip a nail fixing it herself.

He glanced down to make sure his fly wasn't open. That wasn't it. No, her eyes were definitely fixed on his chest. It was an okay chest--women, especially, usually didn't mind looking at it. And--bingo--there it was.

He hadn't cared what shirt he'd pulled on when he'd come home and realized the water pump on his twenty-year-old BMW--that he'd been hoping would make it one more pay period--had finally given out. The dirty, sweaty, pain in the ass job was going to take up what should have been his last day off for the foreseeable future. But it figured a princess like her wouldn't appreciate the sentiment expressed in the one-line slogan on the shirt his hand had pulled at random from his drawer: "Let the fucking begin".

Will fought a smirk as she put on her game face and struggled to pull herself together. Her eyes narrowed briefly, before she began again.

"Uh ... I'm having a few friends over for a house warming tonight. And I just wanted to say that in case the music gets a little loud..."

Her voice trailed off again and he almost chuckled out loud at the way her eyes slid away, only to return again and again to his chest. He hadn't felt this sense of childish delight since the time he'd let loose with a championship-quality fart during mass and the priest had nearly given himself whiplash doing a double take, trying to pinpoint the offender. The sensation was so strong, he braced for his mother's elbow to his ribs. But she had it together again, and continued on.

"So if the music gets a little loud, just come bang on the door. We shouldn't be going very late, anyway. Or, if you're going to be around, why don't you come by for a while? We'll have food and beer. Nothing too exciting, but if you're not doing anything, we'd love to have you."

He had to give her credit. Whatever she did for a living not only paid well, but required her to think on her feet and keep her cool. Probably some advertising executive downtown. He could just see her, pitching ideas for soap commercials for two-hundred dollars an hour. What must that be like? Being paid forty-thousand for thinking up "Zoom, zoom," or "Can you hear me NOW?"

And the entire time she was standing up in front of the boardroom, rattling off sales statistics and ripping through her Power Point presentation, she'd be fingering the top button on her blouse. No doubt she'd crank up the air-conditioning so that her nipples were perky and make sure her shirt gapped open when she bent over to point out some completely obvious point in the handouts. She'd use that sweet body to sell her catch phrase and have some dumbass corporate stiff completely stiff for her. Mr. Corporate-type would be so enthralled thinking about having her bent over the boardroom table, that he'd nod like a bobble-head doll and fork over the big bucks that paid for her big bucks wheels and thousand dollar suits.

"Thanks for the heads-up, but don't worry about the noise, ma'am. I can sleep in a war zone. A little music won't bother me."

What probably sounded like gross exaggeration was truer than blondie would ever know. He really could sleep in a war zone--and had on more than one occasion. He just wished he could sleep anywhere else.

"Well. Okay then." She paused to look down at his shirt one more time. "It was nice to meet you, Will. And please come by for a little while, if you can. I really would like to have you."

She turned to go and Will felt his eyes drawn irresistibly to the princess's seriously luscious backside. Long, lean legs with good definition to the muscle were shown off perfectly by her high-heeled shoes. And that ass, well ... he'd dream about that little darlin'. If he ever got to sleep.

"I really would like to have you." No, she didn't repeat herself; he was just hearing her words echo in his head like a shot fired in the eerie quiet of the desert. Oh, sweet thing. Not like I'd like to have you. Up against the wall, hard and fast. Stretched out on a bed, nice and slow. He could think of a half-dozen ways he'd like to have her--and that was just the first day. He didn't have to like her to want a little taste of what she had. Good thing it looked likely that the team would be shipping out any day now. Otherwise he had a feeling he'd find himself obsessing over some high-maintenance ass and rethinking this whole 'no sex' thing.

* * * *

Well. Hadn't that just been a little slice of heaven? She'd been called 'officious', 'prickly,' 'controlling,' and 'difficult' in her short but otherwise unremarkable career and those were just the ones actually said to her face. One could only imagine what went on behind her back.

She had faced down outraged professional athletes who hadn't been shown the money and rock stars in full tantrum because some hapless stoner groupie hadn't brushed her teeth three times before giving him a blowjob. She'd even stood up to her mother the year she'd had the audacity to choose to spend the Thanksgiving holiday weekend with a boyfriend in Colorado, rather than put in the requisite appearance at the family table.

But she couldn't ever recall experiencing quite the mix of embarrassment--and she wasn't sure what--she had just struggled through. What was so difficult about introducing yourself to a neighbor? Piece of cake. She met and dealt successfully with every difficult personality type on the planet for a living. So why could the previous five-minute interview now be included among the top ten most difficult of her life?

Oh, come on, sistah. Don't try to play yourself. Okay. So maybe it had to do with the little fact that Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Grumpy pushed buttons you didn't even know you had. One look in those big brown eyes and you were a goner.

Lee Ann shook her head to herself and kept on walking. She needed to get home and check a mirror to see if she had actually been drooling during their little tête-à-tête. Control was a core value for her and she'd never felt more out of it in her entire life; she had been caught in the grip of the most powerful personal charisma she'd ever come up against. That was saying something, considering she made her living babysitting half of People Magazine's Fifty Most Beautiful list. She'd spent time around enough of the firm's clients to know good looking when she saw it. But she'd never before experienced that helpless feeling of instantaneous, total physical attraction.

Will Bruschetti. My God, he was beautiful. There was no other word for it. She'd never met anyone so perfectly gorgeous, or ever been so embarrassed in her life. She'd frozen to the spot when he turned around and she'd gotten her first good look at her new neighbor. Well, the whole street was full of new neighbors to her, but that was beside the point. When she'd gotten her first up-close look at this particular new neighbor, that is. She'd only seen him from afar up until a few minutes ago and, aside from being able to tell he moved with an athlete's unselfconscious coordination and appeared to be well put together, she'd simply had no idea she had just moved in across the street from the planet's most attractive man.

It might help if I knew what I said to him. Lee Ann realized she had absolutely no flipping idea what they'd talked about. He fastened the most penetrating stare on her she'd ever experienced and she'd been mesmerized. She remembered his shirt, though. 'Let the fucking begin.' Oh my God. Like she'd needed a visual prompt to fantasize about him once she'd looked into his eyes and gotten a look at that body. That had been written on his shirt, hadn't it? It hadn't been some weird Carrie-like manifestation of her thoughts. Had it? Or worse, all in her head?

How utterly and totally humiliating. There had been an almost out-of-body quality to it. She had realized--as it was happening--that she was completely physically attracted and was just as equally helpless to do anything about it. Deer in the headlights, butterfly on a pin, glued to the spot; choose your analogy--that'd been her. She'd stood there looking at him and his perfectly proportioned, gorgeously muscled hardbody, listening to herself babble about God knew what ... and had had zero ability to do a damn thing about any of it.

Maybe she'd catch a break and find out he drank a lot and wouldn't remember anything about it the next time they met. No! They couldn't meet again. What if it wasn't some weird hormonally induced freak thing and it happened again? No, she just must be ovulating and her body was simply responding to some super-charged pheromones her sex-on-a-stick neighbor gave off. Yeah, that sounded good. Better than the alternative, certainly.

As she reached her front door, she consoled herself that at least she hadn't let it show on the outside. The only thing keeping her from marching inside and calling the moving company back to pack her things right back up again and move out was that she didn't think she had tipped her hand. At least her legal training, not to mention the lessons she'd learned at her mother's knee, had spared her the final humiliation of having her new neighbor realize exactly how attracted she'd been.

She gave thanks, and not for the first time, that at least mental telepathy and mind reading only existed in fantasy and science fiction books. She could still settle in and go about her life because her new neighbor couldn't have been reading her thoughts when she'd been gazing sappily into his eyes and thinking how wonderful that hair, that looked so soft and was cut so short on the sides, would feel caressing her inner thighs. "Let the fucking begin." "Now, please?" She'd almost blurted.


I loved this book. This author has a way of telling a story which captivated me and made me want more. There are surprises throughout the book, especially at the end. I recommend this book to anyone who loves to read about second chances, military or just a charming story with a beautiful ending.

The Romance Studio

Readers can’t go wrong with Saving Will as it encompasses all the things a great romance story should. I’ve heard it said that Saving Will is a step away from Stephanie Vaughan’s norm. As this is my first book by her, I can only say that typical of her or not, I would not hesitate to read anything else that had her name on it. Hence my 5 Angel – Recommend Read rating!

Fallen Angels Review by: Jaymi>

Friday, March 14, 2008

Predatory Game by Christine Feehan

I'm a huge fan of Christine Feehan's Game series. I love the concept of the Ghostwalkers, along with all the intrigue and mysterious revelations about themselves and what Dr. Whitney did to the soldiers and the innocent orphans he experimented on. Mrs. Feehan just delves deeper and deeper into the psychotic mind of the Doctor who did this to his 'subjects' in a way that the character doesn't even have to be in the book.

Of course, I liked Jesse Calhoun the first time I met him a few books back. He showed strength and loyalty when he was captured and tortured, never once giving up his fellow Ghostwalkers. So I felt it his due to be paired up with a very special woman. I'm glad my wish was fulfilled.

If you are a fan of this series, her newest release is a must read. If you haven't read the series....what are you waiting for? :)

Predatory Game
by Christine Feehan

ISBN: 0515144282
Publisher: Jove

Available in Stores across the country

Print book

Saber Wynter is running from her past when she meets Jess Calhoun, an ex-Navy SEAL who is physically and emotionally compromised by his own mysterious and violent history as a GhostWalker. What Jess senses in Saber is a kindred spirit, a lost soul desperate for sanctuary. He offers her a home, job, and a haven where she can safely reveal the secrets that shadow her. But danger follows her, too. Now, the riddles of both their pasts are about to collide, shattering the promise of their future with the ultimate betrayal.

Read the first chapter here

For more information on Christine Feehan and her other series, visit her website -

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Dark Resurrection by John A Karr

ISBN: 1-59998-449-0
Cover art by Anne Cain
Genre: Horror

Price: $6.50

Surgeon Victor Galloway kept death at bay in the operating room–now death has claimed him. Resurrected against his will, he must fight for his family and his soul.

Victor Galloway is a prominent surgeon and family man. When he suffers a heart attack, he claws his way to the phone and dials 911. The paramedics arrive, smile down at him and quickly administer a lethal injection.

Victor’s life is ending, but his nightmare has just begun.

Close to death and strapped to a gurney, he’s offered an unholy deal by Tobias, H.E.L.L.’s CEO: Use his surgical skills to harvest the living to feed the undead in exchange for immortality.

Refused but not to be denied, Tobias presses his unwilling recruit into the ranks of the undead. Whether by chance or divine intervention, Victor is different from the others. He is a monster with a conscience, a force for good ensnared by evil, and the only one willing to stand against Tobias and his burgeoning nest of zombies. He must destroy them, but doing so risks the lives of his family and the last hospital employee with a pulse.

This book has been previously published and has been revised from its original release.
Warning, this title contains the following: dark themes, graphic violence, language, gore, and a smattering of explicit sex.
Excerpt: (from Samhain site)

Victor whipped around, his back to the elevator doors. Jack stood thirty feet away, in the center of the hallway. His suit was unruffled and clean, without a drop of water on it, though he’d landed on the wet floor. And though Victor knew he’d tagged the guy pretty good with the punches, there were no marks on Jack’s face. Victor glanced left and right, desperately seeking a way out.

No stairs. No emergency exits.

Only walls. Walls of stone. The tunnel ran into infinity before him, sloping ever downward.

The lone avenue of escape was at his back. If he could pry open the doors, he could climb the elevator cables to the ground floors. But first he had to get rid of this “Jack O’Feliz” before it changed into that beast again.

Jack strolled toward Victor. His hands in his front pockets caused a fold in his suit jacket around the middle. His tie hung arrow-straight. Take away the glowing scarlet of his eyes and he could have graced the cover of Businessman’s Weekly.

Victor tensed, ready to spring.

Jack smiled, and now long fangs showed. “Really, Victor. I do admire your tenacity. Usually the rejects Tobias sends down here follow me around like puppies, begging and whining to be released. Not you. Oh, no, not you. You have the testicular fortitude to challenge me.”

He threw his head back and laughed, his glowing eyes squinting into flat crimson lines. His laughter was the same high-pitched sound Victor had heard when he was first rolled into this hell-tunnel. Maniacal laughter. Laughter that sprang from an insane mind.


He rushed the smaller man, hoping to take him by surprise. He didn’t want to wait to find out what treatments Jack might have in store for him. From ten feet away, Victor launched into the air the same way he’d done as a linebacker in high school. But just as his shoes left the wet floor, Jack’s form shimmered before his astounded eyes. Clothes disappeared. Black fur sprang over a bestial body. The thing that had been a short, slender man was suddenly huge—a mass of muscle and sinew and slavering jaws.

It leaped at Victor.

The huge head and shoulders and claws filled Victor’s vision. In mid-air, he collided with the beast. The impact threw Victor backward as if he were straw.
The beast enveloped him. It snarled and growled, sliced him open with its claws and sank its fangs in him again and again in a whirling blur of motion.

He had no chance to fight back. Victor heard his bones crush, his tendons snap, his flesh rip apart. In rapid succession, the beast tore Victor’s arms and legs from his body. No pain, but instant power loss.

From a far away point of sentience, Victor wondered if this beast would kill him after all and disregard Tobias’ wish to merely “straighten him out”.

Victor prayed so.

But the beast backed off and squatted on its haunches. Slaver oozed as it held Victor’s detached left leg between its jaws. It watched Victor with eyes narrowed to burning slits of rage. The tendons of Victor’s leg hung like wet spaghetti to the femur bone. The beast shook the leg violently, like a wolf shaking a rabbit to snap its neck, then gobbled it down in three massive bites. Victor could see the bulging outline of his leg as it traveled down the beast’s throat. He wanted to turn away, but he could only watch in sickened awe.

Jack answered to no one. That much was clear.

Somehow Victor remained aware of his surroundings. He could see the tunnel and the way the beast filled it.

Jack laughed at him through the throat of the beast. “You have no arms or legs, Victor…and yet you’re not dead. Isn’t that a wonder to you?”

Victor stared.

“Speak!” The beastly voice rumbled from the depths of its massive chest. “You can still talk. You still have the life-sustaining stomach within your chest cavity. Properly nourished, it will create the black energy that will power your undead body. Speak to me, Victor!”

The beast’s blackened lips drew back even farther, exposing row after row of long teeth in a vicious smile.

“Kill me and be done with it,” Victor cried.

“Ahhh…still he fights back. Good, good. You have a strong will, Victor. The strongest I’ve encountered in a long, long time.”


The beast blinked. “How did you know?”

A long moment passed.

“I could keep you like this, you realize. Give you just enough nourishment to keep you going in this pathetic state. I could keep you like this for eons.”
Victor knew the beast spoke the truth.

“But it is not my wish to do this,” the beast continued. “I do not serve Randolph Tobias—far from it—but we do have an arrangement. I break in his rejects, and he provides me with supply.”

“Supply?” Victor whispered.

The beast grinned. “Bodies and souls.”

Suddenly the beast shrank, changed, and in its place stood the human-looking form of Jack O’Feliz in that natty suit and tie, black-gloved hands clasped before him. “Get up, Victor.”

“I can’t. You tore my…”

“So I did. But that was a moment ago. Things can change quickly down here, you realize.”

Jack regurgitated Victor’s leg.

Victor looked down at what was left of his body, expecting to see only a torso and torn ligaments and tendons. Instead, his body was whole once more. His limbs had reattached in an instant…without his feeling anything. Mentally he commanded each arm and leg to move, and they did. Victor raised himself then stood just as easily as he had when he’d first come out of the grave. Even his clothes were restored.

This is insane. It goes against all the rules…medicine, nature, logic.
But the rules had changed, and drastically. New parameters had been added, old ones had been modified, and many quite simply no longer existed.

Jack brushed nonchalantly at a piece of dust on the shoulder of his suit. “I rebuilt you in the same instant I changed back into this human form. Power is everything, don’t you think?” He held up a gloved finger. “Never forget what happens to you down here. When you go back up, you will take part in Tobias’ plan. If you fail in that task, you will be returned to me, and then you will be mine for all eternity.”

Had he been alive, Victor would have been paralyzed by fear.

He existed at the mercy of this unholy being.

“Follow me,” Jack ordered. He turned and strode down the tunnel, away from the elevator and the passage to the world above. Victor followed. He glanced back at the elevator from time to time, and each time it got smaller and smaller, until it completely disappeared from view. They continued down the scarlet hallway, their shoes echoing wetly before and after them. At some point they passed doors, large metal doors, all painted black. Victor heard moans emanate from behind some of them, silence behind others and screams from still others.

Victor didn’t want to know what horror they were experiencing.

He and Jack walked on, seemingly for hours.

At some point, Jack halted before a similar black metal door and turned to face him.

“Yours,” Jack said.

Victor eyed the black metal door. It had a latch handle with a keyhole and a large bolt thick as his wrist above that. The purpose of the bolt and metal door was immediately apparent—they were meant to keep people in. There was a small opening in the door, around head-level. Three small vertical bars ran over the opening.

A jolt of power crackled through the air. The lock clicked open and metal screeched. The bolt turned itself upward then shrieked through the metal containment holders. The door swung slowly open.

As with Victor’s manacles, Jack hadn’t physically lifted a finger to get the door open.

A small cell. Not much larger than the walk-in closet of the master bedroom of his house. No cobwebs, no signs of rats. No furniture. Barren. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor hewn from rock. Victor considered another try for the distant elevator.

He wouldn’t make fifty feet before the beast would be upon him.

Jack gestured with a gloved hand for Victor to proceed inside the cell.
An invisible push helped him stumble in.

The door swung shut, the lock and bolt clicking and sliding into place. Jack’s glowing eyes peered through the barred opening in the door, so bright they lit the cell.

“Not quite like home, is it? Oh, I almost forgot,” Jack said, raising his index finger. “Just a moment…don’t go anywhere.” His insane laughter bounded off the stone walls and drilled into Victor’s ears. Outside, a rising tide of moans rose in response.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Blue Ruin 1: Some Kind of Stranger by Katrina Strauss

Katrina Strauss is an author I recently chatted with during a Loose-Id chat day. She's very nice and I have found that I enjoy her writing style. It only took me one day to read Some Kind of Stranger. Her character Blue and Derek are intruging and drew me in immediately. Especially Blue *drool* This story is a yaoi with strong BDSM theme, especially Domination/submission.
I often wondered the difference between the gay erotic romance I write and yaoi. It's been explained to me by a couple of yaoi writers, and I've read some, but it never really clicked in my head until this book. Ms. Strauss has done an excellent job with the beginning of the series. Her characters are sexy and it's not just another book about sex. The plot kept me intrigued as she feeds you a little here and there on their history. I'm looking forward to more :D I strongly recommend this book.


ISBN: 978-1-59632-609-5

Publisher: Loose-Id
Cover Artist: P. L. Nunn
Genre: Yaoi - BDSM - Contemporary

Price: $5.99
Derek Graves's desire for the perfect sexual "prisoner" has left him with a dark reputation and a string of jilted lovers. He needs a partner who wants the pleasure and the pain he can give. After his search lands him on the wrong end of the fantasy at the hands of ruthless predator, Derek returns to his accustomed hunting ground of Blue Ruin with one purpose in mind: revenge.
He gets it, but he also ends up rescuing the predator's next intended victim, a homeless blue-haired waif who is just Derek's type. He brings the incoherent young man home, needing to find out what he saw, and ensure he won't tell anyone. The scenario couldn't be more perfect to service Derek's dominant fantasies --
Shane "Blue" McGowan wakes up groggy, blindfolded, and chained to a stranger's bed. Upon finding himself in luxurious surroundings, the cunning Blue realizes two things: he has no desire to return to a life on the streets, and his handsome captor stirs strange and unfulfilled longings in him.
Manipulating the terms of his own "imprisonment," Blue swings a place to stay in exchange for his silence about a second stranger left beaten and unconscious behind Blue Ruin. To sweeten the deal, Blue agrees to become Derek's submissive. But as their relationship progresses, Derek finds himself wondering whether Blue is truly at Derek's mercy, or is Derek at his?
Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: BDSM (including bondage, Domination/submission, spanking), homoerotic sexual practices (male/male), masturbation, strong violence..
Excerpt: (from Loose-Id site)
How y’all bitches doing tonight?”

With a toss of her ebony curls, the statuesque black diva greeted the crowd. The modest gathering of men seated near the stage hooted and wolf-whistled back.

“That bad, huh?” she asked, deadpan, hand on one hip. The crowd cheered louder. Her rouge red smile widened in approval as her hand fluttered against her ample breasts. “Yes, honey, much better, much better. Show me your love.”
She strutted and sashayed across the small stage, her sequined gown accentuating her curves as her stiletto heels clicked in time to the sway of her hips. “I’m Miss Doreena Dee Vine. That’s Dee for” -- she paused, primping her wig, patting herself on the butt -- “delicious.” She peered into the crowd and held out her hand, open-palmed. “Wait a minute now. Hold up, y’all, hold up.” She pointed one lacquered red nail. “Girl, what have you done to your hair?”

The busboy looked up from where he was clearing a table, surprised for the moment to find the spotlight turned on him. He grinned shyly, then mouthed something toward the stage.

“What’s that?” Miss Doreena asked, cupping her hand to her ear. “You say that’s your natural color?” Her jaw dropped in disbelief as she scanned the crowd, then fixed her sights back on her target. “So does that mean you’re blue all over?”

At the crowd’s laughter, the boy blushed pink to his blue-tinged roots and quickly went back to busing tables. Miss Doreena turned her focus to another unsuspecting audience member and continued working the crowd.

From the corner of the dimly-lit alcove, Derek Graves took in the drag queen’s antics. Reclined in his chair, his long legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, he turned the chrome butane lighter in his hand and tapped it against the scratched tabletop. Turn, tap, turn, tap. With his other hand, he nursed his third drink of the evening.

He watched; he waited. Turn, tap, turn, tap.

He wasn’t sure what had snapped him out of his stupor, a misery fest of self-loathing that had lasted the past few weeks. He only knew it was time to act, time to seek…


If only he could remember the asshole’s face.

Certain a simple sighting would jog his memory, he peered between wisps of his shoulder-length auburn hair and scanned the club, the alcove affording a good view of the premises while its occupants remained discreetly tucked in the shadows.

Blue Ruin, his preferred haunt in the Oakwood district for a few years now, with watered-down well drinks, bad disco music, and all. He’d found so many willing young men here, taken in by his easy cash and sleek vintage suits, their appetites further whetted when he’d lured them outside to his black Porsche -- a cheap model which he drove courtesy of a low-interest lease, but his passengers never knew the difference. Pretty boys, skinny boys, all of them over eighteen but their hands stamped Under 21, his instincts to their natures confirmed once he’d gotten them back to his place, and they’d easily submitted to his every carnal whim.

As always, post-libido guilt had plagued him afterward. As always, he’d come back to Blue Ruin, hunting for new prey, his sadistic urges renewed. Nearing his thirtieth birthday, he’d searched in vain for the one who would stay with him and let him raise things to the next level -- one strong enough to take the pain, yet submissive enough to relish the role of hapless victim.

And then three weeks ago, the tables had been turned. He’d found himself on the wrong side of the fantasy, his part in it nonconsensual.

A clatter of glass and ice broke Derek’s reverie. From a closer vantage, he saw that Miss Doreena had not been exaggerating about the busboy. A shock of bangs, dyed cobalt blue save for a strip of pure white, fell from beneath the black scarf that held the young employee’s hair back.

Forgetting, for a moment, his purpose for coming that night, Derek peered over the rim of his drink and watched the new boy. He took in the eyes smudged with kohl, the cheap plastic bracelets that ringed one skinny arm. Pierced ears added to the youth’s disaffected vibe, the row of studs on his left ending at the cartilage on top.

Despite the seedy surroundings, Derek assumed the owners only hired ages eighteen and up. Yet the boy’s lush, full lips and soft, cherubic features lent him a younger aura. Draining his drink, Derek plunked the glass down. Ice rattled around wedges of lime.

The ruse worked. His attention caught, the busboy stepped into the alcove. As he approached, Derek noted his build. Just his type, roughly five-foot-eight, making the boy half a foot shorter than he, with a pale and slender frame -- at least what Derek could make of it, given the oversized black T-shirt and wide-legged carpenter jeans.

In the shadows now, the busboy greeted him with a shy grin. “I’ll get those,” he offered, swiping Derek’s empty glasses into the plastic tub balanced at his hip.
Derek nodded and lit up another cigarette.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” the boy said, wiping the table with a damp rag. Derek noticed he used his left hand.

“So is breathing,” Derek countered, studying him intently.

The boy laughed, casting him a sidelong glance, then bit into his lip. He began to scrub the table more vigorously. Even in the dark, Derek could tell he’d just blushed. Reaching out, he placed his hand over the boy’s wrist and stopped him. The boy flinched in surprise, but he didn’t pull away.

“Tell the waiter I need another drink.” Derek gave the boy a pointed look. “I’ll be here a while.”

The boy darted out his tongue, just a little, and licked his lips. “Sure.”

Standing straight, he held Derek’s gaze a moment longer before turning to leave.
If he came back sooner than three drinks this time, Derek would take that as his cue and make his move.

He watched the boy walk away, his rhythm lithe and svelte beneath the baggy clothes. Derek entertained the prospects, the urges he’d repressed since his last visit to Blue Ruin rising full force. The things he could teach such an innocent, ripe for the plucking, perfect for training. With that enticing notion came an image of the skinny, blue-haired busboy, naked and tied to his bed, moaning in pleasure, crying in pain.

Instantly, his thoughts were bombarded with another vision. A bright flash of light. His own hands tied to a stranger’s bedposts, the rope cutting into the flesh of his wrists as he’d been pummeled from behind. The drug in his blood, the belt at his neck. He could barely breathe…another snap, another flash of white…
Derek sat straight, stifling the gasp that had nearly burst from his throat. He crooked his finger and loosened his tie.

“No,” he whispered. Never again would he take another in such a fashion; never would he do what had been done to him. And he was here to make sure it never happened to him, or anyone else, again.

A volley of boos and hisses erupted near the bar. Derek peered through the smoky din of the lounge and caught the muted television screen that hung above the drink rack. The late-night recap of the local news featured District Attorney James McGowan addressing the press at the courthouse steps on some latest ruling. His office had earned a reputation for its anti-gay bias in how certain cases were prosecuted, if at all. Combined with the policies of his equally homophobic cronies on the police force, it made for one tense relationship between Oakwood denizens and city law enforcement. In fact, it was that very prejudice and ineffectiveness that had influenced Derek’s decision not to go to the police after what had happened.

At least that was what he kept telling himself.

He caught sight of the pretty busboy, stopped behind the bar to alert the waiter. The boy gestured toward the alcove, then stared up at the screen, his face twisting in a scowl. He dropped the plastic tub with a loud rattle and turned away. Wiping his hands on his apron, he stormed off and disappeared into the bathroom, the door slamming behind. While the DA certainly proved unpopular among the crowd, Derek found the boy’s reaction particularly curious. Somehow it seemed…personal.

Miss Doreena chimed in, never missing a beat. “Now I know y’all bitches aren’t booing at little old me!” She squinted across the club at the television, then tossed her glorious fake mane in contempt. “Oh, that asshole! Jimmy McGowan, this next number is dedicated to you!”

A bass note sounded, and the disco classic It’s Raining Men began pumping through the sound system. On cue, the crowd started clapping in time to the beat while Miss Doreena launched into campy, choreographed lip synch.
Another half hour passed; patrons came and went, some in pairs, others alone. The busboy tended the tables in between. Derek plunked his fourth empty glass against the table. His head spun, a buzz finally hitting him. He lit a fresh cigarette, inhaling deeply. Smoke scorched his abused lungs.

A face in the crowd caught his attention. Sitting straight, Derek exhaled a thick plume of smoke. Through narrowed eyes, he stared across the lounge at the man who had just taken a seat on the main floor.

Could that be him?

He had the same blond waves, pleasant features, spotless smile. But Derek saw something different in the eyes, something dark and cold and remote. Why hadn’t he seen it that night, before he’d allowed himself to get talked into going home with someone who normally wasn’t even his type?

Just a drink, the asshole had told him, so Derek had agreed, thinking maybe it was time to play with someone his own age.

His vision dimmed. Anger rising, he started to stand, then stopped short. Beside the tall, blond stranger sat the blue-haired busboy. Apron off, he shared a drink with the man, popping open a single can of orange soda. He looked in the general direction of the alcove, his smile gone from shy to sly, and raised the can in toast, apparently sensing -- or hoping -- Derek watched.

Cute, thought Derek, his alarm tinged with jealousy. And you chose to have a drink with him instead, because he’s sitting in the middle of the club while I’m lurking back here in the shadows.

He continued to watch and wait. If they went outside, he’d follow them.
Minutes passed, only a few by the clock, but the wait tedious. The boy chatted with the blond, his body language open and flirtatious, yet his eyes drifting back to the alcove. The blond went for the boy’s hands a few times, going so far as to gently pry one from the can, but the boy played coy each time and pulled away, his gaze shifting toward the shadows and Derek.

What is this scamp playing at? Derek wondered. If the boy had been sitting with anyone else, he would have marched over there and stolen him away.
He watched; he waited. He detected the boy’s movements growing sluggish, and his eyes seemed a touch unfocused.

Surely the asshole wouldn’t be so bold as to drug the boy right there in the club?
He hadn’t observed the blond slip anything into the can, but then he was admittedly distracted by the boy, his sense of concern mixed with an inexplicable desire to protect -- and possess.

Suddenly, the boy slumped in his seat, his eyes glazed. With a cool glance around the club, the blond rose swiftly, hefting the boy with him. Derek froze, rooted to his seat, his best-laid plans of action, of violence, of sweet revenge eluding him.

The boy’s head lolled against the blond’s chest, yet somehow, his gaze found Derek’s, through the smoke and the shadows, and their eyes locked. He managed to mouth a single word before his jaw went slack.


Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Cold Warriors by Clare Dargin

ISBN: 978-1-60168-050-1
Genre: Science Fiction/Futuristic
Artist: Tuesday Dube

Price: $4.90

When Caitlin Driskoll is awakened from a cryogenic stasis, she’s got a lot of adjusting to do. It’s a new century and the planet is at war. Once married to a Navy JAG, she now experiences life from the viewpoint of a Jarhead, and the view isn’t pleasant.

Colonel Medoro Keegan lost the two most important things in his life during his Marine career: his wife to friendly fire, and his ability to fly combat missions. Now, he’s stuck aboard the Blanchard as the XO. The Corps is the only family he has left and he’s not about to lose the last thing he values.

Until he meets Caitlin, who isn’t shy about telling Medoro what she thinks about his Marines. How can such beauty wrapped in an icy body have so much fire?
It’s the future, and a new kind of prejudice has replaced the racial prejudice Caitlin experienced in the last century. After all, when you’ve been given a second chance at life, you are expendable.

Click HERE to read excerpt

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Happy Birthday Marty!

MySpace Graphics

This is a special birthday post to my fellow ex-Roswellian, writer, and most Importantly Best Friend Marty Rayne! Today is her special day as is this her special post.

To think all this started with a lil alien show just a few years...and some stick figures LOL That one person's vision could draw readers out from all around the globe to leave feedback to an unknown writer because her writing is so truly HAWT that they had to give her her due. To watch those same people urge her, along with her husband, to take the leap to try getting published and to be able to see it happen step-by-step has been a gift I will always treasure.

You will ALWAYS have my continued support my friend and may the ink continue to flow in your future...the sooner the better.

Stephanie (Marty Rayne's Personal & Profesional Editor)

Now for a little something special-the first book we both got to work professionally on together.

Happy Birthday Marty!

enWrappture by Marty Rayne

Publisher: Phaze
Length: Frost HeatSheet
Rating: 5 Novas
Genre: Contemporary, BDSM, Gay, Christmas themed

The sexy follow-up to At the Edge!

Buy Book

We first meet young, charming, and sexy Christopher O'Malley on Valentine's Night in New York City helping his friends Michael and Todd complete their most hidden fantasies. This night helped Christopher create his own flights of imagination where love and bondage were once just a passing fancy , along with an erotic BDSM book series written by Master Stafon.

Spending the Christmas holiday on the east coast, Christopher finds himself without family or friends. That is until he meets little Emily, her mother Devyn and her uncle Mason…a writer whose pen name is Master Stafon.

Christopher is instantly attracted to Mason, even before he discovers the man's profession. As Christmas draws near, the holiday looks more appealing as Mason gives Christopher the opportunity of a lifetime. To experience some bondage play first hand. Could this be the gift that keeps on giving?


"Uh, what is it that you do for a living?" Christopher asked, moving on to another grouping of frames.

"I'm a writer."

Christopher took a look at the desk holding a computer and clutter of papers then back at all the frames on the wall. There were fifteen in all.

"You don't write as Mason Romero, do you?" He asked, but already he knew the answer.

"No, I don't use my real name." Mason spoke softly, his breath fell on Christopher's neck. When had he moved so close?

Christopher reached out and touched one particular frame. Under the glass was the cover for Darrien's Temptation. Beneath the lettering was a picture of a man's back, his arms pulled behind his back and secured together with rope. Only it wasn't just around the wrists, but it wound up until it almost reached the model's elbows. His fingers trembled slightly as it ran over the smooth glass and imagined the feel of the course rope beneath his fingers.

It wasn't a flashy cover, but it had gotten Christopher's attention the year before, enough to buy the book. It had taken him only a day to read it, which was unusually fast for Christopher, who normally disliked reading unless he was absolutely bored or was forced to. That one book had opened a small fascination with the author's other books. In fact, the latest one, Hunger's Kiss, sat next to his bed waiting to be read.

"You're Master Stafon?" It was a realization more than a question.

"You know my books?" Mason's voice dipped an octave lower.

Shivers slipped down his spine. Christopher nodded, unable to get his voice to work past the lump suddenly stuck in his throat. He couldn't believe he was standing in the same room as Master Stafon. Or rather, the mind behind those erotically charged books.

Mason chuckled and backed away from Christopher. Though he wasn't looking behind him, he felt the shift in temperature at his back.

"Are you in shock or debating on running out of here screaming?" There was no humor in his question. It was almost more of an accusation, as if both of what he suggested had actually happened.

"Surprised, really." Christopher finally found his voice again.

Master Stafon's books were surrounded with controversy. Many of the religious groups protested of the supposed pornography that was being printed and sold in bookstores around the country. Others, including the BDSM and gay communities, actively supported the works of fiction that Master Stafon crafted. The plots were original, all based on male gay relationships with strong BDSM themes. Yes, the scenes were graphic and very explicit, but they also drew out the emotions of the characters. He'd never read anything constructed that was both erotic and romantic, despite the often thought of as taboo theme.

Christopher turned around to see Mason sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. "Since this is Florida, can't really expect a dungeon below the house." He smiled. Not only was this man a piece of hotness, but he was also the creator of the stories that had fed Christopher's dark fantasies.

Mason didn't reply right away, his eyes studying him, as if he were sizing Christopher up. Christopher's stomach clenched with nervousness. Had he said something wrong? He hoped not. The allure of the attraction he felt toward Mason increased now knowing along what lines some of the man's imagination ran.

"Perhaps another time I will show you my dungeon." Mason sipped at his wine before standing. "But I believe Devyn and Emily are waiting with dessert."

"Wait," Christopher stopped him from passing, his hand on Mason's shoulder. "You really have one?"

Mason smiled, the dimple deepening. "Of course I do. But I only let those willing to play see it."


enWrappture - 4/5 stars from Rainbow Review"Yet again this author has woven a truly beautiful story that had me both eager to find out what happens next, but at the same time not looking forward to when the story would end. The story was both erotic and romantic, not an easy thing to achieve, but forgive the pun, Marty Rayne has mastered it wonderfully." ~ British Bull Dog

enWrappture - Joyfully Rieviewed"I was excited about this sequel and couldn't wait to read it. I was not disappointed." ~Ley