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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Title: On Andross Station

Author: J.C. Long

Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: August 27, 2018

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 37000

Genre: Science Fiction, science fiction, adventure, romance, gay

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Synopsis

Hikaru Adachi has come to Andross Station to discover what happened to colleague and fellow Inquisitor Katya. Thane, a tracer, has arrived at the station seeking a bounty on Galen Horn, one of the Unity of Planets’ most wanted men. They will find their paths cross as their interests intersect, and soon they are on a hunt that is more dangerous than they know, for Horn has enlisted some dangerous allies, including one from Thane’s past. If Thane and Hikaru together can’t bring Horn down, he will set in motion a plot that will see the entire station destroyed in an attack of massive proportions.

Excerpt

On Andross Station J.C. Long © 2018 All Rights Reserved Hikaru One second the café was calm, the next it exploded into chaos. Tables flew and chairs tipped and slid over the floor as people scrambled away from sudden gunfire. Only one person at the café seemed to maintain her calm. She dropped behind the table she sat at, taking shelter from the bullets. The shooter moved with purpose, seeming to seek an angle to make her his next victim, but she was not going to be so easily caught off-guard. She drew her legs back and then slammed them into the table as hard as she could. The table, made of some sort of ultra-light plasteel material, soared, slamming into the gunman’s knees. The woman jumped to her feet, efficiently disarming the shooter before pistol-whipping him with his own gun. With a harried look, she walked away from the café. “Rewind image five seconds.” The hologram projector obeyed Hikaru Adachi’s command, playing back to the moment right after the woman disarmed and incapacitated the gunman and looked toward the camera. “Freeze image.” The image’s movement halted. Hikaru squinted, focusing on the woman’s face. This was the last moment recorded of Katya—no other camera in the station caught sight of her. It was as if she walked out of the frame and then disappeared. No matter how many times he combed through the security footage, he couldn’t find a single sign of her again. “Vi, time to arrival at Andross Station?” “We will be arriving in just under two standard hours,” answered the “voice” of his personal VI, which he called Vi. It was a generic voice, free of any identifying inflection, the same sort of VI used throughout the Unity of Planets for ease of communication. The voice was easy for those not accustomed to speaking Terran—not too fast, not too slow. Only Hikaru could hear it, its “voice” processed directly to his brain. Hikaru rolled his head, trying to release tension in his neck. “Reaccess information regarding Katya’s current assignment.” “Note that access to some of the information is listed as restricted,” the AI informed him, as it did each time he asked to access it. “Most recent updates to assignment were made twenty-nine standard hours ago.” That time significance was not lost on Hikaru, even though it was probably lost on the VI. She’d received an update on her assignment an hour before the shooting at the café. It was unlikely to be a coincidence. He examined the material on a secure personal access point, as was proper protocol. It didn’t do much to alleviate his confusion. According to the files, Katya was assigned to Andross Station to monitor what might be a hotspot for subversive activity—not much surprising; Katya was, like Hikaru, an Inquisitor, enacting the will of the Unity of Planets as they were ordered. Inquisitors often found themselves in the role of watchdogs, keeping an eye on pockets of discontent that might boil over into open rebellion. The assignment was classified level two—which meant discontent was high, and in certain conditions might spill over into violence. Twenty-nine hours ago, it was upgraded to a level four—danger imminent. After that, everything was sealed. When given the assignment to investigate Katya’s disappearance, Hikaru was granted a temporary higher security clearance, which gave him access to one more piece of information, and it was probably the most critical piece he could get: approximately thirty-one hours ago, the Unity learned that Galen Horn, a notorious terrorist and murderer, was on his way to Andross Station. Two hours later, the threat level was upped, and an hour after that, Katya was gone. Hikaru didn’t believe in coincidences. Galen Horn was somehow related to Katya’s disappearance. If the connection was there, he’d find it. He was one of the best; it was why they sent him. Hikaru disconnected the data stream with a sigh, sat back in the chair, and stared at the bulkhead of the small fast-cruiser all Inquisitors used to convey themselves to their missions. He’d set out from Engiminon VI with little notice very late in the night; when an assignment came, you didn’t wait until morning; you boarded the cruiser and set off. Once on board, he opted to review all the material he could relating to the assignment, foregoing sleep. Now he was too close to his destination for sleep to be a valid option. Instead he would spend the time remaining in his transit to reinforce his psychic walls. Being a telepath was difficult, but it was most challenging on a space station or vessel. People crammed into contained areas while recycled air swept through, carrying the emotional vibrations of every passenger with it. If given the choice, Hikaru would never go to space stations, never make a transit on a crowded ship. But he was an Inquisitor, and he didn’t have the luxury of choice. He sat on the bed cross-legged and then closed his eyes in preparation for the mental exercises to come. He spoke aloud to Vi. “Has the station’s security been notified of my arrival?” “Affirmative. Their head of security will meet you at the docking bay.” “Thanks, Vi.” Inquisitors and local security or police forces never got along well; the security teams didn’t take kindly to an “outsider” stepping on their toes and taking over. Not that it mattered, in the end. Inquisitors had the authority, and Inquisitors did not work with other forces. The security team would just have to take a step back. They wouldn’t like it, but what they liked wasn’t of great concern to Hikaru. “Notify me when we begin docking procedures,” Hikaru instructed Vi. With a deep breath, he began building his mental walls, visualizing impenetrable steel panels falling into place one by one, until he was encased in a psychic Fabergé egg. Something told him he was going to need them on Andross Station.

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Meet the Author

J.C. Long is an American expat living in Japan, though he’s also lived stints in Seoul, South Korea—no, he’s not an army brat; he’s an English teacher. He is also quite passionate about Welsh corgis and is convinced that anyone who does not like them is evil incarnate. His dramatic streak comes from his life-long involvement in theater. After living in several countries aside from the United States J. C. is convinced that love is love, no matter where you are, and is determined to write stories that demonstrate exactly that. J. C. Long’s favorite things in the world are pictures of corgis, writing and Korean food (not in that order…okay, in that order). J. C. spends his time not writing thinking about writing, coming up with new characters, attending Big Bang concerts and wishing he was writing. The best way to get him to write faster is to motivate him with corgi pictures. Yes, that is a veiled hint.

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Title: Trouble's on the Way

Series: Outcasts, Book Two

Author: CL Mustafic

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: August 20, 2018

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 52500

Genre: Paranormal, shifter, bonded mate, menage, lycanthrope, werewolf, bigender, gender fluid

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Synopsis

After leaving the Outcast pack, Clay Anderson and Damian Macoon head to Alabama where they’ve both secured a job with the construction company that employs Damian. Their new relationship is off to a good but not too harmonious start in no small part due to Clay still holding a grudge against Damian for turning him into a werewolf. So when they walk into the office trailer parked on the job site and Clay realizes that their boss is none other than Damian’s fated mate, things get even more tense between the two. Billy Ray Hicks was raised believing he was going to find his mate and be a cherished member of whatever pack he ended up in, but those dreams came crashing down when his bonded mate ran away and disappeared from his life before the mate bond was completed. Billy Ray always figured he’d run into Damian again but never suspected his mate would have a boyfriend when he did. With tensions mounting between Clay and Damian, Billy Ray becomes the focal point of their ire. Damian ends up in the middle of two men—one he wants and one he needs—who both want him. Now he needs to convince them that they all belong together before he loses both.

Excerpt

Trouble’s on the Way CL Mustafic © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Clay Almost nine hours of sitting in the pickup with Damian gave me plenty of time to think. Part of me thought going with him to Alabama was an okay idea. Sure the money would probably be decent, and since I was no longer gainfully employed, what did I have to lose? Another part of me thought I was crazy for not only shacking up with the guy who’d turned me into a werewolf, but now I was letting him drag me halfway across the country. Maybe contracting lycanthropy had messed up my ability to make a good decision. I glanced over at Damian, who was concentrating on the road signs because he was looking for the exit just outside Iowa City that would lead us to one of the campgrounds. I couldn’t lie to myself enough to pretend I wasn’t attracted to him. Hell, who didn’t have a fantasy about the tattooed bad boy? Reminding myself Damian wasn’t the stereotypical bad boy, I tore my eyes off him before he could feel me staring. I spotted the exit we were looking for, but before I could point it out, Damian switched lanes and pulled off the interstate. “You sure you don’t want to drive? We could make it to Tuscaloosa by morning and sleep the day away,” Damian asked for the millionth time. “I told you I don’t want to drive this rig and I’m tired anyways.” I’d dozed some but not enough to stay awake and drive all night. Plus, I wasn’t confident about my ability to drive the pickup with a thirty-five-foot trailer attached to it. “You’d only have to drive for about four hours, and then I’d be fresh enough to take over, but if you’re too scared to drive, I’m fine with that.” A grin tugged at the corner of his lip at his dig, but all I had to do was let a growl rumble up out of my chest to kill his urge to smile. Pulling up to the campground’s reception building, Damian got out of the truck and stretched before turning back to me. “I’ll go pay for the night. You want to run into the store and maybe get us some snacks and beer?” “Sure. You want anything special?” I opened my own door but waited for his response instead of getting out. “Maybe some ice cream, chocolate, oh, and some nachos and gummy worms.” “Are you pregnant?” I snorted and shook my head at his request as I dropped down to the ground from the pickup. “You know those are just stories, right?” Damian called over the hood of the pickup at me. “Hey, I have no idea what to believe anymore. I used to think werewolves were just stories.” I made air quotes around “just stories” to get my point across, making him roll his eyes at me. “Go get me my junk food.” Turning, Damian went to pay for our stay while I went into the little convenience store. The woman behind the counter watched my every move as I loaded down the little red basket with Damian’s requested junk food and then grabbed a case of beer to go with it. She rang up the sale but before she was done, Damian came in the door. Her eyes widened and I could smell the change in the atmosphere around her. Apparently, she also liked bad boys, and her interest in what my beast thought of as his brought out its jealousy. “Hey, are you buying the whole store or what?” Damian’s sexy grin was at full wattage as he sauntered up to the counter. Turning it on the woman, he nodded a greeting, making her blush like a school girl. “Not my fault your cravings are so weird.” I managed to swallow the possessive warning my beast wanted to growl out at the woman. Instead, I put my arm around Damian’s waist and pulled him to my side, making his smile falter. Taking it a step further when the woman’s scent didn’t change once she saw Damian wasn’t on the market, I pointed to the row of condoms behind her. “Give me three boxes of the magnums too. I have a feeling we’re going to need them tonight.” I winked as Damian stiffened at my side. “Clay–” “Make it four.” I reached down and squeezed Damian’s ass. His arousal wafted up to join that of the woman’s, who’d turned to get the requested condoms. She didn’t make eye contact with either of us as she finished tallying the items and took my card. “Have a good night.” I practically sang the words as we walked out the door. Damian pushed away from me when we hit the parking lot. “What the fuck was that all about?” His glare would have been much more menacing if I hadn’t found his mismatched eyes to be so damn alluring; plus his anger only made my beast want to make him submit to it. “What was what all about?” I shrugged and held out the bags I was carrying in one hand. “Just getting stuff for the night.” “And what do you expect to do with twelve condoms?” His eyes narrowed as he tried to cross his arms over his chest, forgetting he was holding the case of beer, so he had to drop them back down to his sides. He had me there. We didn’t use condoms, since neither of us could catch anything, so did he think I’d intended to go out and find someone else for the night? Shit. That was not my intention, but just to see how pissed off I could make him, I decided to throw the possibility out there. “Well, maybe there will be a hot guy in the spot next to us. We should be prepared, right?” “You’re an asshole.” Damian stomped off to the truck and before I could get in, he pulled away, leaving me to walk behind. He was right. I was an asshole, but he knew that, so it was his fault for sticking around. Our spot was a bit down the road from the lodge and when I got there, Damian had already hooked up the power and was standing by the door pressing the button that pushed out the pop outs on the camper. I’d only glanced inside before we’d left so when I stepped past him, I had to stop and stare. “Holy shit, this thing is huge.” I looked over my shoulder at Damian, who was squatting to pet Stumple and Grumpkin, his cats. “I wanted there to be enough room for both of us so we wouldn’t have to be tripping over each other.” Damian stood and walked across the kitchen to the living room at the end of the trailer where I was inspecting the entertainment system. “There’s only one bedroom but if you want to bring someone back here, I can always sleep on one of the convertibles.” I turned to look at him because I could tell he was hurt, and though I’d wanted to keep the space between us, I didn’t much like him feeling he didn’t matter to me. He did mean something to me; I just wasn’t sure what. I crowded him up against the wall, pressing my body to his, making his breath catch. “You’ll sleep where I tell you to sleep. And if I want you in the bed with me while I’m fucking someone else, you’ll lay there and watch,” I growled. Where the fuck did that come from? Damian whimpered. He knew when my beast was talking and his beast deferred to mine, always. It still boggled my mind how his huge wolf was afraid of my tiny puppy one. “I hate you sometimes, you know that?” he asked through clenched teeth. “I know, and the feeling’s mutual.” I stepped back and let him go about taking care of the cats and then hooking up the water. I would have helped, but I had no idea how to do any of the things that made the camper run. I went to the bedroom on the other end of the trailer and grabbed a fresh pair of underwear before going into the bathroom and taking a shower. When I came out of the steamy little room, Damian had changed into a pair of low-hanging sleep pants. He was curled into one of the arm chairs in the corner, watching a movie with Stumple purring on his lap and his array of snacks on a folding tray next to him. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch. Grumpkin jumped up and sat next to me, and after sending a look at his owner, he lay his head on my lap and started purring. “Fuck you too,” Damian mumbled to the cat before shoving a handful of gummy bears in his mouth. “How can you eat all that shit?” I shook my head in disgust as he chased the gummies with a spoonful of ice cream. “Fast metabolism. If I don’t eat like this, I’ll start looking like you.” He let his eyes run over my upper body, which I’d noticed lately was getting a little scrawnier than it normally was. “I told you, the beast needs food; either you feed it or it eats away at you.” He shrugged and filled his mouth with chips so his next words were interspersed with crunching noises. “Take advantage of it while you can, eat the good shit before the beast gets old and tired and then you get a pot belly.”

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Meet the Author

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

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Title: Tale of a Dragon Princess

Author: Lizzie Colt

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: August 20, 2018

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 21600

Genre: Fantasy, dragon, witch, princess, warrior, curse, lesbian, PTSD, disability, prosthetic

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Synopsis

The day Princess Mellie turns sixteen, her parents reveal she was cursed as a baby and will spend the rest of her nights as a dragon. Two years later, she discovers a chance to break the curse, but it will take a quest with only her chosen bodyguard, a brave female warrior who has lost her lust for fighting but has developed an attraction for the princess.

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Tale of a Dragon Princess Lizzie Colt © 2018 All Rights Reserved Waking up on the day of her daughter’s sixteenth birthday should have been a joyous event, but Queen Jasmine awoke to a feeling of dread in the pit in her stomach. Almost sixteen years had passed since the ice witch, as they had dubbed her, had visited their castle that mid-winter’s night and laid a curse on their sweet Mellie. Now it was spring, and they had learned little about the witch and her magic, and they hadn’t been able to break the curse. Jasmine had been praying that when this night fell nothing would happen, that the curse would simply be a terrible lie or a nasty trick. She had even prayed nightfall wouldn’t come. “Come, my love. It’s time to get dressed and greet our princess.” Magnus’s voice called from the other side of the room. “Are we doing the right thing, acting like it’s a normal day and telling her just before dark?” Jasmine asked, slipping out of bed. “We’ve talked about this. We agreed to give her a normal life for as long as we could. For sixteen years, she’s been like other princesses she’s met, lived a similar if sheltered life. We’ve protected her but let her grow. Let’s watch her have one more perfect birthday,” Magnus said, and Jasmine nodded in agreement. She wanted to see her daughter smiling, to watch her opening gifts and being spoiled. “Go wake her. I’ll get dressed.” Jasmine smiled faintly, hoping her worry didn’t bleed through and show itself to Mellie. Her sweet young lady was very perceptive of other’s emotions, she always spoke softly when people needed to be calmed, but knew how to raise her voice when it was needed. She’d make a good queen one day because she read people well. She was also fair and kind. “Would you like my help with that?” Magnus glanced in her direction raising an eyebrow. “Your Majesty, you flatter me, but we do not have time for such distractions. Go to Mellie. I’m sure she’s nervous about the presentation.” Jasmine loved that her husband still desired her after all these years. They had finally come to terms with the fact that Mellie would be their only child, the damage from her birth too much to allow her to have a sibling. But Magnus had only to look at her, and Jasmine felt like a young princess again, and a beautiful one at that. “She is her mother’s daughter, so shy in the face of grand ceremonies. Who would know what a handful you both are?” Magnus laughed and headed for the door. “Are you complaining?” Jasmine asked, pulling the cord to ring the bell for her dresser. Some days, she dressed herself, taking time to comb her long dark hair and line her blue eyes with kohl, but today, she’d be presenting herself in a fine corseted gown to face those coming to visit the castle. The birthday celebration and acknowledgement of Mellie as the future queen of Silver Kingdom had drawn lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses from near and far. It would be a long, busy day. “Never. I wouldn’t trade my girls for anything, not the silver in the hills, not the diamond mines in the west or the gold in the east,” Magnus said, his brown eyes gleaming with pride. Jasmine laughed in delight, waving him away. He could make her laugh even on days like this, when darkness lurked closer with each passing hour. Jasmine only hoped Mellie found someone who would do the same for her.

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Meet the Author

Lizzie Colt is a writer in her late twenties who has always loved writing and has been doing it her whole life. Lizzie is bi and disabled and she wanted to see more of characters like her in YA books. She loves fantasy but will turn her hand to any genre and hopes to share many stories. Lizzie loves animals and hates being cold.

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Title: In Vino Veritas

Author: Sydney Blackburn

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: August 13, 2018

Heat Level: 2 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 33200

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, family drama, gay

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Synopsis

Anthony Beretta inherited the family winery at the tender age of twenty-four. It’s a struggle to keep it up, but he loves it and is determined to make it work even if it kills him. That is, if a motorcyclist doesn’t kill him first. He initially judges the man, attractive as he may be, on the basis of his appearance and apparently limited vocabulary. He soon discovers he’s wrong, but by then Oscar Kennett has already judged Anthony on his appearance. Oscar thinks Tony Beretta is uptight and snobbish, and Tony’s speech for the charity they’re working on together reinforces that, even when he finds out Tony did it just to push his buttons. His adorable curls and sexy glasses might not be enough to change his mind, but maybe there’s more to Tony than meets the eye.

Excerpt

In Vino Veritas Sydney Blackburn © 2018 All Rights Reserved One: Beretta Estate Winery Anthony Beretta hovered in his office, listening to his cousin Katie extol the virtues of their Concord wine. “It’s a heritage grape,” she was saying, “the kind they make grape juice from.” Because wine that tasted like commercial grape juice was so popular. Still, there were customers to extol its dubious virtues to, and that was something. Didn’t mean he wanted to meet them, not over the Concord. “It makes a great spritzer and is the perfect base for a sangria,” she continued. “Not too sweet, but with a full fruity flavour.” He had to hand it to her. She knew how to sell it. Then again, Katie loved the winery almost as much as he did. He moved away from his office door and sat behind his desk, looking once more at the open agenda. The winery hosted events, mostly weddings, and provincial regulations had recently changed. He had an appointment with his insurance broker in Bayham in little more than an hour. Which was why he was wearing his suit, instead of the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy cotton button-down he normally wore when he worked at the tasting room. He tugged at the lavender tie that felt like it was strangling him. After checking the time on his phone once more, Anthony cleared his desk and locked the files away. No one else needed to know how shaky the winery’s finances were. He got to his feet and patted his jacket pocket for his car keys. There was a mirror beside the door, so one could double-check one’s appearance before going to talk to customers. Anthony gave himself a critical look, pushing his glasses up his nose automatically. The mirror showed him what he was—a rail-thin man just shy of six feet tall, with hair that would never look anything other than dishevelled and dark-framed glasses. At least the glasses went some way towards disguising the shadows under his eyes. He looked like an upended mop, albeit a well-dressed mop. He scowled. He’d much rather be in his jeans and work boots, out with his stubborn Foch vines. Three years ago, he’d put those bastards in, after his father had the gall to die of a heart attack. His mouth tightened. He couldn’t think of his father without a sour mix of anger, grief, and guilt. A discordant jangling let him know the customers had left, and he pushed his door open wider just as Katie rounded the corner. “Ant,” she said, “so glad I caught you. Could you pick up some of that jalapeño sauce from the Mexican store? It really shows off the Viognier. It’s a hard sell on its own.” He refrained from scowling. Ant was a childhood nickname he’d long outgrown. His name was Anthony. She was right about the Viognier, though. “Jalapeño sauce. Yes.” “I don’t suppose you’ve thought about giving me Friday off,” she said, her tone rising at the end of the sentence, but not quite enough to make it a question. He stifled a sigh. “And you’re not asking Leigh to switch with you because…?” “Because it’s her wedding shower. Jesus, Ant, pull your head out of your ass once in a while.” He ground his teeth as he bit back a sharp reply. “Fine. You have Friday off.” It wasn’t like he had anything better to do on a Friday. The tasting room closed at seven. He could catch up on the paperwork while he ate, and on Saturday, he could spend the day in the vineyard, trying to discover why the Foch vines were underproducing. “You’re a prince,” Katie replied, but her snark had hardly any bite. Happy employees were long-term employees, his father had always said. Katie really did care about the winery. She just had a social life. He shouldn’t be so hard on her. And what about my happiness? As the owner of the winery, there was no one around to see to his happiness. He didn’t even know what would make him happy anymore. “Sorry, Katie.” He forced a smile. “Do you mind picking out a gift the estate can give her?” “Yeah, give me a hundred dollars. It can be from the winery, you, Aunt Rosie, and me.” “Take it from petty cash.” “There’s no petty cash left, remember?” He turned to hide his wince. “I’ll take some money from the account while I’m out.” She hesitated. “The Wine and Song event will go on this year, right?” “That’s why I’m going to town.” “I know. It’s just… Is there anything I can do?” His answering smile was forced. “Be careful what you volunteer for, cuz. Keep your fingers crossed the insurance hasn’t gone up too much.”

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Meet the Author

Sydney Blackburn is a binary star system. Always a voracious reader, she began to write when she couldn’t find the stories she wanted to read. She likes candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach… Oh wait, wrong profile. She’s a snarky introvert and admits to having a past full of casual sex and dubious hookups, which she uses for her stories. She likes word play and puns and science-y things. And green curry. Her dislikes include talking on the phone, people trying to talk to her before she’s had coffee, and filling out the “about me” fields in social media. Besides writing, she also designs book covers for poor people.

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