Title: Love Spell

Author: Mia Kerick

Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: September 17, 2018

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 43300

Genre: Contemporary YA, contemporary, YA, non-binary, bullying, homophobia, coming-of-age, humorous

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Synopsis

Chance César is fabulously gay, but his gender identity—or, as he phrases it, “being stuck in the gray area between girl and boy”—remains confusing. Nonetheless, he struts his stuff on the catwalk in black patent leather pumps and a snug-in-all-the-right (wrong)-places orange tuxedo as the winner of this year’s Miss (ter) Harvest Moon Festival. He rules supreme at the local Beans and Greens Farm’s annual fall celebration, serenaded by the enthusiastic catcalls of his BFF, Emily Benson. Although he refuses to visually fade into the background of his rural New Hampshire town, Chance is socially invisible—except when being tormented by familiar bullies. But sparks fly when Chance, Pumpkin Pageant Queen, meets Jasper (Jazz) Donahue, winner of the Pumpkin Carving King contest. Chance wants to be noticed and admired and romantically embraced by Jazz, in all of his neon-orange-haired glory. And so at a sleepover, Chance and Emily conduct intense, late-night research, and find an online article: “Ten Scientifically Proven Ways to Make a Man Fall in Love With You.” Along with a bonus love spell thrown in for good measure, it becomes the basis of their strategy to capture Jazz’s heart. But will this “no-fail” plan work? Can Chance and Jazz fall under the fickle spell of love?

Excerpt

Love Spell Mia Kerick © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Shine On, Harvest Moon Just call me brazen. It occurs to me that brazen—unabashedly bold and without an inkling of shame—is the perfectly appropriate word to describe moi right about now. It is, however, the only perfectly appropriate part of this evening. Which is perfectly appropriate, in my humble opinion. So get over it. I lift my chin just enough to stop the stiff orange spikes of glitter-gelled hair from flopping forward onto my forehead. Who can blame me? These spikes are razor sharp—best they stay upright on my head where they belong. And gravity can only do so much to that end. Okaaaayyyy…sidetracked much? Forces rebellious thoughts on business at hand. Chance César is a brazen B. I stare ’em down, but only after I pop the collar of the blinding “Orange Crush” tuxedo I’m rockin’ and shrug my shoulders in a sort of what-the-fuck fashion. Rule of thumb in this queen’s life—first things must always come first. Pop, shrug, and only then is it kosher to stare. I clear my throat. “Eat your ginger-haired heart out, Ed Sheeran.” Based on the buzz of scandalized chatter blowing about in the crisp evening breeze, I’m reasonably certain that nobody in the crowd heard me speak. And although several of the girls currently gawking at me may do double backflips over my red-haired counterpart across the pond, they don’t give a rat’s ass about Chance César. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that they view my atomic tangerine locks as more reminiscent of Bozo the Clown than of the smexy singer-songwriter. They are, however, completely unaware that this carrot top is going to make Harvest Moon Festival history tonight. Refusing to succumb to the impulse to duck my head, I take a single shaky step forward onto the stage that’s been set up on the dusty ground beside a vast—by New England standards—cornfield. The stage doesn’t wobble, but my knees sure as shit do. Okay, I’m an honest diva and I tell it like it is. And I’m what you might call a freaking wreck. Nonetheless, this brazen B takes a deep breath, blows it out in a single gush, and starts to strut. This boy’s werkin’ it. Smi-zeee!! Yeah, my smile is painted on, just like my trousers. Chance, you are by far the edgiest Miss Harvest Moon this ramshackle town has ever had the good fortune to gaze upon. I am a major fan of positive self-talk. Using the feigned British accent I’ve perfected—thanks to long hours of tedious practice in my bathroom—I dish out my next thought aloud. “I wish I’d put in a tad more practice walking in these bloody heels before going public in ’em.” And despite one slight stumble—a close call to be sure—the clicking sound my pumps make is crisp and confident. I saunter out onto the catwalk. #TrueConfessions: Faking foreign accents is a hobby of mine. I can yammer it up in improvised French, German, Mexican, Russian, and plenty more accents, but I don’t mimic Asian languages, as it seems too close to ridicule. My plan for the rest of the night is to continue vocalizing my abundant thoughts in Standard British, with a hint of Cockney thrown in for charm. After all, New Hampshire is the “Live Free or Die” state, and I’ll do what I laaaa-like. Yaaasss! “Introducing this year’s lovely…or, um, handsome Miss…ter…Harvest Moon. Let’s hear an enthusiastic round of applause for Chance César!” Mrs. Higgins always speaks using a lolling Southern twang, although I’m sure she’s lived her entire life right here in less-than-gentile, way-too-many-dirt-roads, Fiske, New Hampshire. (Like, can you say backwoods Fiske without it sounding too much like backward Fiske?) TBH, I’m thrilled: it seems I’m not the only one with an affinity for a colorful accent. But the applause is disappointingly, but not surprisingly, scattered. “Woot!” A solitary hoot splits the night—it’s quite impossible to miss— and I recognize an undeniably shrill and nasal quality in the sound. I know without a doubt that the hooter is my best (only) friend, Emily Benson. In my not so humble opinion, Emily’s hooting for my benefit is as liberating a sound as Lady Gaga bellowing “Born This Way” live on the Grammy Awards after emerging from a large egg. My Emily is everything! Not to be dramatic, but whatevs. In any case, the single, supportive hoot is followed by mucho expected heckling. “Chances are, Chance César is gonna moon the crowd!” It’s a girl’s voice, for sure. I do not have a lot of female fans here in Fiske. “Come on, Miss Harvest Moon, bend over and flash us your full moon!” A dude mocks me next. I’m proud to say I’m an equal opportunity victim of harassment. I don’t blink once in the face of the jeering. This type of inconvenience is par for the course in my life, and thus, I consider it a challenge of stoic endurance. I simply place one fine pointy-toed pump in front of the other, my eyes focused on the mountain in the distance. I’m especially proud that, amidst the chaos, I remember to offer the crowd my best beauty queen wave. Yeah, this is some beauty pageant realness. “Thank you, lovelies, for coming here today.” I speak in my most Princess Diaries-esque tone. “Werk it, girlfriend—werk hard!” Yes, it’s Emily again. And like always, she’s got my spectacular back. “Aw, shit, we must be havin’ a lunar eclipse or somethin’.” It’s another pubescent male voice, and a deep one at that. “There ain’t no moon to be seen ’round these parts!” The heckler is a douche I know too well from school named Edwin Darling—whom I less than fondly, and very privately, refer to as “Eddie the Appalling.” I watch as he looks away from me to take in the full moon in the dark night sky and shrugs. The lunar eclipse one-liner is actually fairly humorous. I toss out ten points for creativity in Edwin’s general direction by allowing a restrained smile, but I never remove my eyes from the single treeless spot on Mount Vernier. Time for a mental detour. Why is this one spot bare-assed of all trees? That’s when the music starts, and I’m more than glad for the downbeat. It helps me focus, plus it’s much easier to sashay to the sound of a jazzy snare drum than to the unpleasant clamor of heckling. Not that my backside won’t wiggle righteously to any sound at all. Because, rest assured, it will. “Shine On, Harvest Moon.” Whoever is in charge of the sound system plays the Liza Minnelli version, which may be the silver lining to this farce. For as long as I can remember, it’s been the more traditional, not to mention folksy, Four Aces version for Miss Harvest Moon’s victorious stroll up and down the creaky runway. I will say that tonight is a first for the Liza rendition, and I’m curious as to whether it is coincidental. But who really cares? Ring them sparkly silver bells for Liza M! On a side note, I wonder: Is it a good thing or a bad thing that Liza Minnelli’s voice brings out the dramatic streak in me? Okay, okaaaayyyy…so maybe it doesn’t take more than a gentle nudge to get me going in a theatrical direction. But, hey, drama ain’t a crime. My mind is pulled to the back of my bedroom closet (how ironic), where my flapper get-up hangs. Panic sets in… Should I have worn that instead? But it’s a muted peach—not a vivid orange—as seems fitting for a pumpkin festival. And then there’s the whole not-a-single-soul-except-Mom-Dad-and-Emily-has-yet-seen-Chance César-in-full-female-garb thing that held me back from rockin’ the vintage coral dress with its spectacular tiers of flesh-colored fringe. Tonight is Beans and Green Farm’s Annual Harvest Moon Festival, and for northern New Hampshire, this is a big freaking deal—the whole town shows up for cheesy shit like this. In light of this recognition, I confirm that pumpkin orange attire is mandatorbs. I mean, I went so far as to dye my hair for tonight’s festivities; the least I can do is choose garments that enhance my Halloween-chic style. At the end of the catwalk, I indulge the audience by providing them with their deepest desire. I stand there, still as a scarecrow—for ten seconds, give or take—so they can drink in the sight of me, from spiky glittering head to pointy patent leather toes. I allow them this rare opportunity for freeze-frame viewing pleasure. Whether they admire me for having the balls to strut around ultraconservative Fiske wearing a scandalously snug-in-all-the-wrong-(right)-places orange tuxedo and four-inch black pumps—which I will admit is a public first for me—or they wish the shining harvest moon would fall on my house and crush me while I sleep, what they all really want most is a good long moment to study me. To twerk or not to twerk, that is the question. When the spectators finally start to squirm, I throw out a few of my best vogue fem moves to the tune of some subtle arm, wrist, and hand action, followed by several full-body poses, avoiding the death drop move as I haven’t yet mastered it in pumps. And when it’s time to once again get this glam show on the road, I pivot on my toes and strut briskly—America’s Next Top Model style—back to the stage where my boss, the owner of Beans and Greens Farm, stands nervously clutching my crown. Mrs. Higgins is a tall glass of water, in the manner of a large-boned Iowa farm girl, but she’s accustomed to crowning petite high school junior girls, not nearly grown senior boys in four-inch heels. I crouch beside her politely and, I dare say, delicately, and she carefully nestles the crystal-studded crown in my spiky mop of neon-orange hair. “Be careful, Mrs. H,” I warn beneath my breath. “Those spikes might look harmless, but they’re sharp enough to slice off your little finger.” She offers me half of a crooked smile, for which I give her credit. I, Mrs. Higgins’ very own “boy with the bad attitude on cash register three,” have broken about every rule Beans and Greens has established for its hordes of Fiske High School summer workers, right down to the “no jewelry at work” clause. But a couple of points go to the lady because she manages to force out a grimace that could be mistaken for a smile…if your standard for smiles is on the low side. Besides, I’m not about to remove my nose ring. It in no way impedes my ability to count, ring up, and bag cucumbers. This is when I spin on a single heel to face the crowd. “You don’t happen to have any…very brief…words of wisdom for our audience, do you, Chance?” Mrs. Higgins asks, speaking into an oversized microphone. But despite the laid-back accent, I can tell she’s wary. Like a rat in a corner. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” My clipped British accent momentarily stuns the woman, and I take the opportunity to snatch the microphone from her less-than-dainty hand. Realizing it’s now in my possession, Mrs. Higgins shudders. “I just want to thank you all, my beloved coworkers at Beans and Greens Farm, for voting me in as this year’s Miss Harvest Moon.” I wipe imaginary tears from my eyes with my wrist, sniff for added effect, and, of course, I employ a most gracious, high-pitched tone of voice. “I am so honored to represent you all here tonight.” I sound like Eliza Doolittle in the stage play, My Fair Lady. The crowd is silent. Maybe it’s a stunned silence. I sincerely hope so. I follow dainty sniffling with my best duck-faced lip pout. Mrs. Higgins makes a sudden grab for the microphone, but I’m more agile. I only have to twist my shoulders ever so slightly to the left to block her move. She eyes me with a new respect. And then I lower my voice so it’s all man—momentarily losing the delightful British inflection—and pose my question to the crowd. “So you thought voting for me as Miss Harvest Moon would humiliate me—dull my shine or rain on my parade, perhaps?” I wag one well-manicured finger at the crowd while swishing my ass back and forth in matched rhythm. “Well, in your face, my sorry backwoods homies, cuz I’m here and I’m queer and I’m shining on—just like that big ol’ harvest moon!” Without hesitation, I bend, just enough to grab Mrs. Higgins around the waist, and lift her off her size eleven feet (by my best visual estimate) and swing the lady around, probs ’til she’s seeing more stars than the ones in the dark Harvest Moon sky. I’d bet my ahhh-mazing ass that no other Miss Harvest Moon has ever given Mrs. Higgins a joyride like that!

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Meet the Author

Mia Kerick is the mother of four exceptional children—one in law school, another at a dance conservatory, a third studying at Mia’s alma mater, Boston College, and her lone son still in high school. She has published more than twenty books of LGBTQ romance when not editing National Honor Society essays, offering opinions on college and law school applications, helping to create dance bios, and reviewing English papers. Her husband of twenty-five years has been told by many that he has the patience of Job, but don’t ask Mia about this, as it is a sensitive subject. Mia focuses her stories on the emotional growth of troubled young people and their relationships. She has a great affinity for the tortured hero in literature, and as a teen, Mia filled spiral-bound notebooks with tales of tortured heroes and stuffed them under her mattress for safekeeping. She is thankful to NineStar Press for providing her with an alternate place to stash her stories. Her books have been featured in Kirkus Reviews magazine, and have won Rainbow Awards for Best Transgender Contemporary Romance and Best YA Lesbian Fiction, a Reader Views’ Book by Book Publicity Literary Award, the Jack Eadon Award for Best Book in Contemporary Drama, an Indie Fab Award, and a Royal Dragonfly Award for Cultural Diversity, among other awards. Mia Kerick is a social liberal and cheers for each and every victory made in the name of human rights. Her only major regret: never having taken typing or computer class in school, destining her to a life consumed with two-fingered pecking and constant prayer to the Gods of Technology. Contact Mia at miakerick@gmail.com or visit at www.miakerickya.com to see what is going on in Mia’s world.

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Title: Undertow

Series: Port Lewis Witches, Book Two

Author: Brooklyn Ray

Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: September 10, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 33200

Genre: Paranormal, LGBT, witches, magic, kelpie, sacrifice, established couple

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Synopsis

Port Lewis, a coastal town perched on the Washington cliffs, is home to Crescent Cafe, a slew of micro-breweries, a downtown packed with antique boutiques, and violent, ancient storms. Thunder shakes rooftops and lightening cuts through dark skies, but Liam Montgomery has never been afraid. Until now. One night, Liam hears the scream of a kelpie, a Water horse whose cry foretells the beginning of a prophecy. Kelpies have not set foot on shore for decades, but as Liam digs into his magic and his family’s history, he uncovers a mysterious secret that could ripple into the lives of everyone around him. Liam’s tea-leaves spells out murder. The life of someone he loves is on the line. An unwelcome kelpie speaks in riddles. The Queen of Water demands a sacrifice. The Montgomery name is soaked in blood and secrets. Liam’s fate is sealed, but he’ll do whatever it takes to change it—even if it risks his circle, his magic, and his life.

Excerpt

Undertow Brooklyn Ray © 2018 All Rights Reserved The ocean swept around Liam’s ankles. Night hovered over the water, turning what was left of the day into a washboard of dusty rose and deep violet. Sea foam dampened his calves. He rolled a smooth, gray stone in his palm. Magic made itself known, a current wound tight in his core, churning blood and flexing bone. Uncertainty misted his cheeks, stung his eyes, and even when he willed it away, it clung to him. All magic was different—Fire, Earth, Air—but Water was something else entirely. It waited for no one. When it took, it took completely. When it gave, it gave until it hurt. Liam wasn’t used to being volatile, but tonight his magic thrashed within him, whispering lies about power and promises about the deep. Storm Wielder, the ocean said. Come closer. Port Lewis was a beautiful, awful place full of beautiful, awful things—the ocean and beaches, the unyielding storms, and wet weather-beaten sidewalks. Liam Montgomery often wondered if he was one of those beautiful, awful things too. Full of rage and antiquity; powerful and unknowable. Warm fingertips followed the ridge of his knuckles and slid over the stone he kept worrying in his right hand. Ryder’s energy blistered and taunted. Its darkness had an unmistakable heartbeat, a tantalizing, insidious taste that Liam still wasn’t quite used to. A hot breath hit Liam’s neck and he closed his eyes. “You’re still out here,” Ryder said. His lips touched the shell of Liam’s ear and Liam was reminded that unknowable was a useless label with Ryder Wolfe, who knew him like clouds knew rain and foxes knew forests. Ryder was one of those beautiful, awful things. He might’ve been the most beautiful. The most awful. Liam leaned back until his spine met Ryder’s torso. “Where else would I be?” “I can think of a few places.” Ryder’s lips curved into a smile against Liam’s neck. A long, pale index finger traced the veins in his wrist to his thumb, over his knuckles and back again. “Labradorite.” He touched the smooth surface of the stone and hummed appreciatively when Liam let him pluck it from his palm. “The stone of transformation?” “Yeah, figured it might be worth a try.” Liam tilted his head until Ryder’s lips were close enough to catch. He kissed him gently, a soft press and nothing more. “How’s Jordan?” “Ruthless,” Ryder said through a groan. “I didn’t think being a necromancer would be this difficult or require a fuck-ton of studying. How’s the ocean?” Liam smirked. He flicked his gaze to the sea and said, “It’s ruthless too.” “Anything new out here?” Ryder’s chin settled on Liam’s shoulder. “Merfolk stealing babies in the night?” he mused playfully. “Selkies and sirens arguing over meals?” “Selkies don’t eat people,” Liam corrected. “And no, there’s nothing new out here. Not yet, at least.” “Not yet,” Ryder teased. His mouth dusted Liam’s jaw, following the line of it to his cheek. “C’mon, Water witch, we’ve got a circle meeting.” “Joy.” Liam would’ve stayed at the beach with Ryder and the ocean for hours if he could’ve. He would’ve stripped down to nothing and dragged Ryder into the water with him, touched and been touched, let moonlight drape over their skin. But the ocean sang too loudly tonight, and if Liam let it have him, he might not make it back to shore. “Are we at least eating?” “Yeah, of course. You think I’d agree to a circle meeting after training with my sister if Tyler didn’t promise to bring pizza?” Ryder stepped in front of him, the fine angles of his face sharp and pronounced. His shaved head was covered by a beanie that slouched over the back of his neck, and a black peacoat was snug over his broad shoulders. It had been weeks since Ryder decided to become a necromancer. Since his Fire magic battled with the darkness inside him, since a King of hell took residence in his body, since he died and came back as this—a powerful, wicked darkling. It’d been weeks since Liam and Ryder cut through the red tape wrapped around their friendship and fell into bed together. Everything still felt new, somehow. “Are we going to the house?” Liam asked. Ryder laced their fingers and tugged. His palm radiated heat. “The barn, actually. But yeah, we’re going to Tyler’s.” They walked toward the banks at the edge of the beach. Roots sprouted from the dirt, tickling the sand. Giant trees that had fallen years and years ago littered the place between beach and forest, home to crabs and critters, overgrown with odd teal moss and sprinkled with beige mushrooms. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted. Somewhere closer, a creature screamed. It echoed from the water, a gurgled, awful howl, torn and pained, as if it’d ridden the backs of waves for miles and miles. The sound looped through gusts of wind, splintering around them. Liam had heard it before. Once. He whipped around at the same time Ryder did, fingers buckled in Ryder’s iron grip. Ryder’s magic surged. Heat blistered the air, lashing out at the unknown. “What the fuck was that?” Ryder shifted in front of Liam. Black tendrils snaked over the ground beneath his heavy combat boots. “A kelpie,” Liam whispered. He watched Ryder carefully, the way his jaw tightened, the way black drifted over his eyes like ink on a canvas. “Chill out, Ry. Put that shit away.” “Fuck off,” Ryder hissed. “I don’t need some water horse biting a chunk out of my neck tonight, all right? Since when have they come this close to shore?” The shrill, sudden call of the kelpie echoed until it faded, replaced by waves crashing, wind careening through tree branches, and Ryder’s steady breath beside him. “They don’t—they haven’t in a long time,” Liam said. He squeezed the heel of his shoes in his free hand. “It’s unusual. It means…” “It means we’re leaving,” Ryder snapped. He tugged Liam’s hand until Liam stumbled along, glancing over his shoulder as he went. The ocean looked back at him, whispering, wanting. The kelpie’s call meant something was coming for him. Liam swallowed hard. He kept hold of Ryder’s hand and listened for another scream, for the sound of hooves, but they never came. He climbed into the driver’s seat of his old Subaru and stared out the windshield, hand tight around the steering wheel. Mist clouded the glass, but he could still see the black ocean yards away, the white foam on dark sand and the moon’s smile rippling on the water. Ryder climbed into the passenger seat. “Hey,” he rasped. “Princess.” Liam tore his gaze from the sea. Ryder’s sharp eyes melted back to their jungle green and picked him apart, long eyelashes sweeping up and down. His lips thinned, and he reached over to brush his knuckles over Liam’s thigh. “Don’t call me that,” Liam mumbled. “I’m fine. It’s just the moon.” Ryder scoffed. His hand stayed put on Liam’s thigh, and Liam was grateful. “It’s just the moon,” Ryder parroted sarcastically. The car rumbled to life. The headlights cut a path through the darkness as they drove to the canyon outside the Port Lewis woods. Liam watched the ocean disappear in the rearview mirror, but he knew it would follow him.

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Meet the Author

Brooklyn Ray is a tea connoisseur and an occult junkie. She writes queer speculative fiction layered with magic, rituals and found families.

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Title: Knotted Legacy

Author: Brenda Murphy

Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: September 10, 2018

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Female/Female, Female/Female Menage

Length: 66700

Genre: Contemporary, Romance, contemporary, BDSM, menage, interracial, blackmail, kidnapping, switch, lesbian

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Synopsis

Martha McLeod, Head Mistress of Rowan House, Skye’s most exclusive pleasure house, is heartbroken. Frustrated and lonely after a bitter split with her lover, she departs Rowan House for Lake Como, Italy to seek solace at the feet of Madam Givernay, keeper of Martha’s deepest secret. Lake Como and Madam’s attention is the perfect balm for Martha’s broken heart, until she meets Mistress Lucia Coruso. Captivated by Lucia’s regal elegance and cool demeanor, Martha is torn between her desire for Lucia and the fear her secret will be revealed. When an extortionist threatens to destroy Rowan House, Martha and Lucia must join forces to save it.

Excerpt

Knotted Legacy Brenda Murphy © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One “Black suit? Wedding, or funeral?” Elaine shifted her weight on the bed and plumped the pillow with her fist. Martha tilted her head and looked at her sister. “Madam has a thing for suits.” She folded her shirt and placed it in her packing cube. “I miss the way Sarah ironed my shirts. So meticulous.” Elaine snorted. “Another one that left us. Are you going to see Vivian? I wonder how things are going with Bridget. What a succulent little brat.” She sucked her teeth. “Miss her?” “Do you miss Octavia?” Elaine smiled a sick smile, the one guaranteed to start a fist fight when they were children. Martha frowned at Elaine. “Let’s drop this. I’m not going to see Vivian. She messaged me last week. Something’s come up. She won’t be attending.” Elaine raised her eyebrows. “Something? She’s never missed one. Even the year she lost Miriam.” Martha sighed. “She said the three of them were—involved, and she was not attending.” Elaine’s expression changed, the teasing look on her face gone. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Martha pursed her lips. “I will be. I love Vivian. I want her to be happy. I can’t believe Bridget is okay with it. She’s such a tight-ass.” Elaine left the bed. She moved behind Martha and hugged her hard before she released her. “I’ll get out of your hair and let you finish packing. Anything special you want for lunch?” “Is Myfanwy busy?” Martha chewed her lower lip, longing for the comfort of Myfanwy’s sweet submission. “She’s scheduled with a client until tomorrow night.” Elaine rested her hand on her sister’s forearm. “Should I have Robin bring it to you? You haven’t even looked at her since I hired her.” Maybe something new. Who knows? It might fill this empty place inside of me. Martha patted her sister’s hand. “That sounds delightful. Is there any of the soup we had last night?” Elaine squeezed her arm. “Yes. I’ll send her up in an hour.” Martha, I hope this letter finds you well. I expect you will attend me for what will be my last occasion. I will explain more when you arrive. G. Martha folded the scented notepaper and placed it in her journal. The last? She swallowed on a dry throat. The rumors must be true. What will become of the Onyx? She sat back and looked out of the window. The last of the sun highlighted the drive and reflected off the white stones surrounding the center fountain. Her thoughts folded back in on themselves. So many years. No decisions. No worries. Submission. Obedience. Pain. And love. Madam’s love. What will I do? A tap at the door interrupted her melancholy thoughts. She slid her journal into her desk drawer and sat back in her chair. “Enter.” The door opened, and a small woman in a short black skirt and simple white blouse pushed a meal cart into the room. She was thin, her face defined by sharp angles. Her makeup was professionally applied, the cherry-red lipstick contrasting with her pale skin and overbright blue eyes. A cap of bleached blonde curls covered her head. “Your soup, Mistress.” She met Martha’s gaze briefly and looked down. Her voice was soft. “Where would you like me to serve you?” Elaine did well. Tasty indeed. “My bed.” “Pardon, Mistress?” Martha stood up and crossed the room to stand over to the small woman. She hooked her fingers under her collar. “Robin, isn’t it?” She leaned down, watching her response, and cupped the back of her neck. “My bed.” Robin stilled in her arms. Desire coiled in Martha’s gut. “Me, Mistress?” Robin’s voice was tremulous. “Look at me.” Martha pinned her with her gaze, assessing her true feelings. She ran her thumb over Robin’s plump bottom lip, smearing her lipstick. No fear. Acting. Enticing but not real. “You can refuse. I won’t hold it against you.” “Oh no, I’m not refusing, Mistress. I didn’t expect you would want me.” She spoke in a well-practiced voice, the facade of innocence mildly annoying to Martha as they moved through the dance of permissions. Robin lifted her chin and held Martha’s gaze. Martha studied Robin’s face. Her self-deprecating words didn’t match the hard edge reflected in her eyes. Practiced. Not innocent. But she plays it well. “I won’t ask for your permission again. You’re free to refuse me as is anyone who works here.” Robin pushed into Martha’s arms. “Oh no, Mistress. Please.” The breathy quality of her voice and the way she pressed her body into Martha’s embrace signaled her willingness to serve. “Don’t send me away. Let me serve you.” Willing. Truth. Not innocent but willing. Martha kissed her, letting herself get lost in Robin’s well-acted surrender. She broke their kiss, and Robin lowered herself to her knees. “Bed. Now. Face up.” Robin crawled across the floor. She stood up and toed her shoes off before she climbed up. She lay in the middle of the large bed, dwarfed by the king-size mattress. “Hands over your head.” Martha stood next to the bed, her thighs slick with want in spite of her depressed mood. Or maybe because of it. “Spread your legs.” She kicked off her shoes and shed her pants and underwear before she mounted the bed. Martha kneeled between her legs and shoved Robin’s skirt up; then she grabbed the waistband of her panties. She stripped her sheer underwear off and tossed them over the edge of the bed. The scent of Robin’s excitement made saliva pool in her mouth. She slid one finger over her clit. The small gasp from Robin made Martha press her legs together to relieve the ache. She thrust her thumb into the liquid evidence of her desire. Can’t fake being wet. At least she’s into it. She gathered Robin’s wetness before she leaned over her and pushed her thumb into her mouth. Robin opened to her and sucked hard. She moaned on cue, and the mechanical sound of her response threatened to derail Martha’s plans. “You like that, don’t you? You look like sugar wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but I see the slut in you.” She pulled her thumb free and slapped her face. “You want to suck my clit, don’t you?” Robin’s eyes were bright. “Oh yes please, Mistress. Let me. Let me please you. Please.” Martha moved her hand down and entered her, fucking her slowly. Robin arched up to meet her thrusts. “Do you want to be my little fuck-toy?” She ground the heel of her hand against Robin’s clit, watching pleasure play across her face. “Oh. Oh please, Mistress. I. Oh please. Just for you. Please, Mistress.” Robin twisted her hands in the sheets above her head. “Do you want to come for me?” Well trained. Knows what I like. Hot need wound through Martha’s body. She thrust harder. “Please, Mistress. Let me come for you. Just you.” Robin thrashed her hips, welcoming Martha’s deep thrusts. “Please.” “Give it to me. All of it. Now.” Martha pushed hard and deep, sweeping her fingers over Robin’s sweet spot. Robin arched off the bed and groaned as she spilled her pleasure, soaking the duvet beneath her. Martha pulled her hand away and rose to kneel over Robin’s face. She pinned her arms with her knees. “Lick me.” She settled on Robin’s face, rocking herself on her tongue, rolling her hips. Robin lapped at her and thrust her tongue deep before she sucked hard on Martha’s clit. Sharp spikes of pleasure shot through Martha and she came with a deep groan. She raised her hips and lay next to her. Robin rolled to her side to face Martha. Her lipstick was smeared, and Martha touched her cheek and looked into her eyes. “That was lovely.” Robin smiled at her. “The pleasure was mine, Mistress.” She reached out and rested her hand on the front of Martha’s shirt, toying with the buttons. “Is there anything else, Mistress?” Yes. No. Good, and yet not what… No. Who I want. Will I ever stop missing her? Martha caught her hand and squeezed it hard. “No. Thank you. You may return to your duties.” A flash of anger passed over Robin’s face before she smoothed her features. “Your soup will be cold. Should I bring you another bowl?” Angry. At me. Interesting. “No. I’m not hungry.” Martha shifted off the bed and picked up her clothes. She turned her back to the bed. She heard the bedsprings squeak, the rustle of Robin’s clothes as she put her uniform to rights. She kept her back turned and listened to the cart wheels rattle as Robin left and pulled the door closed with a hard click. Martha let out the breath she had been holding. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands in the sink, anxious to be rid of the reminder that what she had was not what she wanted.

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Meet the Author

Brenda Murphy writes short fiction and novels. She loves tattoos and sideshows, and yes, those are her monkeys. When she is not swilling gallons of hot tea and writing, she wrangles two kids, two dogs, and one unrepentant parrot. She writes about life, books, and writing on her blog Writing While Distracted.

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Title: Beyond Meridian

Author: CC Bridges

Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: September 3, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 26900

Genre: Science Fiction, sci-fi, space, futuristic, war, slaves, space travel, pansexual

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Synopsis

Captain Rick Raine thinks he’s just picking up a passenger and some cargo when he takes on Karl as a member of his crew. He didn’t sign up for battling privateers, the United Planetary Alliance, and his own heart. But everyone has secrets in space, even a naive kid who knows more than he should. Karl is on a mission, deep in the heart of enemy space. Sam saved him from a life of servitude and now it’s time to return the favor. For that he needs a ship and someone to fly it. Captain Raine seems like the perfect guy, a good pilot and an honest thief. But Karl doesn’t count on falling for the spacer, not when he has a mission to accomplish and the UPA’s secrets to keep.

Excerpt

Beyond Meridian CC Bridges © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One The kid should have looked out of place in the bar. Too young for this crowd, too freshly scrubbed, narrow shoulders under a heavy jacket, with wheat blond hair that fell perfectly straight around his face instead of tangling into matted knots. Wide blue eyes regarded Raine from across the table, giving the guy a ridiculously youthful appearance for someone who seemed to be looking right through him. Despite the fact that he should have been a target—fresh meat on Meridian, where someone that pretty would have been stamped with a pleasure-worker tattoo and set up in one of the whorehouses that spacers came to the planet for—nobody fucking bugged this kid. He’d walked through the room and not a single spacer gave him the time of day, until he plunked down across from Raine. Everyone knew this was his table. You didn’t fucking bother Rick Raine when he sat there with a tall, cool Siennan beer in the center and a deck of old-fashioned cards flipping between his fingers. “Are you Raine?” the kid asked. “I don’t do business in the bar, kid. Save it for the spaceport.” He barely blinked at Raine’s tone, ignoring the implied shove off. “Who said anything about business? Maybe I just want to have a drink.” He liked the kid’s spirit. Raine snapped his fingers and drew one of the barmaids toward his table—their table now, he supposed. “Cleo, get this fine young man a drink.” She turned her exotic, dark eyes and ample chest toward the fresh meat. “What’ll you have, doll?” The kid’s lips worked for a moment, and Raine hid his grin behind his mug, glad to have gotten a reaction out of him. “Meridian brandy,” he blurted, as if aware of Raine’s mocking. “One for each of us.” “Whose tab, babe?” Cleo turned toward Raine. “I got it,” the kid interrupted, plunking down a nice-sized chit. Well, now, maybe Raine might be swayed into doing business in the bar after all. “Sure thing, sweets.” Cleo snatched up the chit and disappeared. Raine set the beer down. “So, you came looking for Raine. Who are you, kid, and who sent you?” He slouched down in his seat, the motion making him look smaller and even younger. “You can call me Karl,” he said, making Raine wonder what he was hiding. “Nobody sent me. Your name came up when I asked around the spaceport. I’m looking for passage.” “I don’t take human cargo,” Raine snapped. Anyone dropping his name around the port should damn well have told Karl that. “No, but I heard you could use some crew. I figure I could work to earn my keep.” Karl seemed to have this all planned out. “Don’t need any crew right now. Besides, you don’t look like you know a spanner from a light drive.” Karl winked at him. “Oh, you’d be surprised at what I know.” Raine felt a stirring at those words, which were spoken in a low, raspy tone. If the kid only knew he was playing with fire. Cleo showed up with their drinks, two short glasses brimming with the dark violet liquid. She dropped them on the table, winking at Raine when he tugged on her skirt. He didn’t miss Karl’s narrowed eyes at that. This was freakin’ Meridian; the kid should know he’d see worse than that. Hell, if he’d been at the spaceport, he must’ve seen worse. “I only take on crew when I need the extra help for the cargo. I’m not shipping anything right now.” Raine picked up his glass and downed the brandy in one go, relishing the burning cold in his belly. Wasn’t the best vintage, but this wasn’t the place you went if you were picky about the brandy. Frowning, Karl attempted to toss back his own glass and came up sputtering and coughing. He’d probably never even had Meridian brandy before. Raine didn’t hide his laughter this time. “Kid, what the hell are you doing out here?” “Not a kid,” he protested. “I can pay you.” “Oh, yeah, in what? UPA credit?” He took a guess, because no way was this boy for real. At the silence, he nodded. “You just don’t scream border rat to me.” “You don’t know a damn thing about me.” At that snarl, Raine realized the kid had some bite to him. Well, they might be doing some kind of business, after all, just not the kind Karl had in mind. Raine liked bed partners with some teeth on ’em. “I can pay you in Confed chits, if that’s what you want.” “Everybody’s got to go somewhere. Plenty of people take on transfers, into the Confed and the UPA both. I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for, though.” Karl stared into his glass, swirling the remaining purple liquid. “I need a reliable cruiser and a captain who has plenty of discretion.” “And somehow you came up with my name?” Raine challenged. “I’ve heard the name Raine was the standard in private cargo transport for over thirty years.” Karl looked him over, since obviously Raine wasn’t that old. “My father,” he said, leaving it at that. Raine had taken over the family business when his daddy met the wrong end of a laser pistol, nearly ten years ago now. It had been him and his ship since Raine was seventeen. “You could say I’m coasting on his reputation. Where do you need to go, kid? Not that I’m committing to anything, you hear?” Karl gave him a small, tight smile. Shame, Raine would like to see what a real smile would do to that baby face. “Mendhem. I need passage there and back, with possibly another passenger in tow.” Mendhem. He might as well have said Tanvir, the goddamn capital of the Confederation. Mendhem was controlled by one of the most infamous warriors in the Confed military, General Purohit. Raine tended to avoid the place, which was too strictly controlled for the kind of cargo he dealt with. “You’d be lucky to find anyone to take you near there.” Karl all but crumpled in front of him. What the hell was so important? “Look.” Karl seemed to collect himself after a moment. “Maybe we can help each other out. If I can get you cargo to transport, would you consider taking me on?” Raine gave him one of his best smirks. “Oh, kid, I’d take you on for free.” Karl made a face. “You know what I mean.” “Loosen up, man. You need to find yourself a sense of humor if you’re going to end up as part of my crew.” “That’s a yes, then?” “That’s a yes only if you can get me cargo to transport,” Raine told him. Before he could second-guess himself, he continued. “I run a business, not a damn charity ship. When you find something, come find me in berth 52, south side of the port.” “I will.” Karl’s words were like a promise. Raine chased the taste of the brandy with the remains of his beer, wondering which one of them was biting off more than they could chew.

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Meet the Author

CC Bridges is a mild-mannered librarian by day, but by night she writes about worlds of adventure and romance. When she’s not busy solving puzzles in an escape room, she can be found diving into comics or binge-watching superhero movies. She writes surrounded by books, spare computing equipment, and a fluffy dog. In 2011, she won a Rainbow Award for best gay sci-fi/futuristic novel.

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Title: Ginger and the Wolf

Author: Kerry McBoyd

Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: September 3, 2018

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 27800

Genre: Contemporary, gay, age gap, businessman, college

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Synopsis

Mark Cross is a junior in college working to pay his way through college while forgetting his troubles by partying and hooking up. He meets Scott and finds himself falling head over heels for a wealthy man who couldn’t be any further from his rural background. The mutual attraction is instant, but Mark, unwilling to put himself in a position where his heart is on the line, finds ways to bring up their upper-crust/working-class differences to torpedo their budding romance. Scott Nolan feels old, even though he’s just thirty-four. Meeting Mark reinvigorates him and gives him a new sense of purpose. After a series of men who were only interested in his wealth and family background, he finally meets a man who doesn’t care about the family he comes from—in fact, Mark seems ready to blow everything up because he thinks they could never overcome their class differences. Scott must fight to show Mark that he doesn’t care about who has how much money, and what matters above all is that they could build something more together outside the bedroom.

Excerpt

The Ginger and the Wolf Kerry McBoyd © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One “I don’t know about this, Val. I think we’ll be the oldest ones here.” Val scanned the twenty-somethings milling around outside the club and shrugged. “I don’t think we look that old. I want a drink, and you need to get laid. You could clean in there!” “The last thing I need is a clingy, barely legal twink calling me Daddy in bed. I already feel old; I don’t need someone else reminding me about it.” Scott ran a hand through his hair, conscious about any gray that might have been present. “You’re thirty-four. You look great. And I know you need some stress relief from work. Why not take a virile young frat boy home?” She tugged at Scott’s arm. “Please. I need this. I haven’t been to a gay club in forever. I miss the drinks! The dancing! The eye candy! I feel like my vagina is going to grow shut from total lack of use, so I need the affirmation only sassy gay men can give. You’re always such a good time!” One of his eyebrows quirked. “That sounds very reductive.” He looked down at their attire. His blue-and-white button-down had the sleeves rolled to his elbows and gray slacks. Val wore a tight purple dress. They were dressed more for date night than clubbing—which, given that they had just come from a recently well-reviewed Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away, made sense—and Scott felt that both their age and clothing gave away their un-hip demeanor. Val tugged at his shirt. “I’ll be your wingwoman.” Scott had to admit that she performed admirably in that capacity in years past. He sighed in resignation. “Fine.” Val laughed and hugged him, then linked arms with him and practically dragged him to the bouncer. Once inside, Scott remembered why he’d stopped going to clubs, gay or otherwise—the music was too loud, there were too many bodies stuffed into one place, and there seemed to be an increasing number of people who cared too much about taking the perfect club selfie (#squad #nofilter). He was certain he had never heard the bass-heavy song vibrating his organs before, and while he admitted to himself that the bartenders clad only in neon briefs helped ease his suffering by providing a target for him to home in on, Scott preferred the quiet ambiance of the Italian restaurant to the mass of humanity crowded before him. Val pushed through the throngs to the bar, pulling Scott behind her, and flashed an impeccable smile at an equally impeccable specimen of man behind the bar. “Two vodka sours, please!” She turned to Scott and motioned at their bartender, who’d just turned around to show off a shapely ass hugged by neon purple. “Him?” “No, Val, it’s okay. I don’t know if I even feel up to it.” She poked him in the chest. “We are going to get some drinks and dance, and you are going to go home with someone, and if I can find a straight guy somewhere in here, then maybe I get to go home with someone too.” The bartender placed their drinks in front of them, and Val handed him her card. “Keep the tab open. Thanks!” They took their drinks, and Val toasted Scott. “To not feeling old!” “Just saying that makes us old!” Val downed her glass in nearly one gulp; clearly, she thought alcohol was the fountain of youth. He merely sipped his. She leaned over the bar to flag the bartender down for another drink as Scott turned to survey the dance floor. It all seemed to him like he was dropped in from another era. He knew that this was familiar, but it didn’t feel right. This scene was a young person’s game, and he no longer fit the bill. What did these children know of mortgages or 401(k) or how to donate to charity to have a better tax write-off at the end of the year? He was sure there were very few people he could relate to in the whole building, and certainly his friend next to him was angling to forget as much as she could about maternity leave and insurance as quickly as possible. He thought about Val’s insistence on his sexual well-being. True, he hadn’t slept with anyone in a few weeks; work had taken care of that, and even though the workload was becoming more manageable, he didn’t feel like getting on an app to meet anyone to take care of that need. His hand and Pornhub served him well if he felt that he needed to take the edge off before heading to the office the following morning. Still, that didn’t stop him from picking out guys in the crowd he wouldn’t mind taking home. A very young-looking man was out on the floor, dancing like no one was watching—but Scott was. He was hypnotized at the way he shook his head, his hips. He threw his arms in the air and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. It was mesmerizing, both because of the man’s attractiveness, and because Scott felt a stirring in his slacks. He downed more of his drink. Another glass floated before Scott’s vision; Val wiggled it around. “Yoo-hoo! Here’s another one! You need to catch up!” The unexpected arousal upon seeing the young man on the dance floor eased his apprehension at his situation; he clinked glasses with Val and also swallowed the new drink in one go. Val slammed her empty glass on the bar and clutched Scott’s arm. “Let’s dance!” He allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor, noting the glances from other men. Some undressed him with their eyes, but he didn’t want to meet their gazes; the alcohol was starting to work, and he wanted to locate the lithe dancer he saw earlier. There was no way to figure out where he was at the moment amongst all the people grinding away. Val spun him to face her. “Come on! Don’t be shy!” She started dancing in a way that, at the most generous, could be described as “mom-like,” but her sheer enthusiasm garnered some whoops and a call of “Shake it, mama!” Scott rolled his eyes but still smiled at his friend clearly having the fun she was seeking. He danced with her for a bit (the most generous description this time could be “uncle with two left feet”) before turning around to find himself face-to-face with the young man he had spied earlier. He had red hair and fair skin, though flushed slightly from dancing. Wide blue eyes caught his, but Scott tore his gaze away to note plump lips. He didn’t look as young as Scott’s initial impression suggested—college age, surely, but maybe not yet drinking age. He wore a white-and-green tank, multicolored shorts, and a wristband that had to indicate he was at least twenty-one. A pang of embarrassment hit Scott, realizing the bartender had never carded him or Val based solely on their perceived ages. But then the young man smiled. “Hi. Wanna dance?” Without thinking, Scott replied, “Yeah.” The man turned around and sensually ground his clothed ass against Scott’s crotch. Given Scott’s earlier poor dance routine, he was certain he was going to disappoint his partner. But deep within, something clicked: it was primal, instinctual, greedy. He gripped the narrow waist and pulled the man even closer into him. Scott was sure his dance partner could feel the growing bulge against him, and maybe it was too forward, but in that moment, Scott didn’t care. If the man wanted to dance, then that was what Scott was going to give. They were in sync, the man leaning into Scott and Scott boldly placing one hand on the man’s back to hold them together as their hips moved as one. A loud cheer from Val broke the spell. Scott pulled away, and the man turned around, seemingly confused why he had stopped. Scott gestured at the bar, then at the doors leading to a quieter outdoors area, and asked loud enough to be heard over the music, “Can I buy you a drink?” The young man smiled, grabbed Scott’s hand, and led him away from the crowd.

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Meet the Author

Kerry McBoyd can be hard to pin down. If he’s not engaged in a DIY home improvement project on the weekends, then he’s on the road seeing what the world has to offer just around the corner. If he’s not dabbling in graphic design, then he’s staring at his keyboard waiting for the muses to deliver inspiration. His favorite way to spend an evening is hunched over a simmering pan of homemade tomato sauce, whisk in one hand and a glass of Malbec in the other. Kerry lives in Texas with his husband and dog.

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