Saturday, December 28, 2013


COMING 01.14.14

In a harsh new world, only she can bring him to life…

Crux Survivors, Book 2

Chase Hawthorne is on the run from a ghost. The shooting that took his little sister and scarred Chase’s face and body has left far deeper scars on his brother Tripp’s soul. Driven to pull up stakes and head for the most haunted place in Louisiana, Chase hopes to prove to Tripp there is no ghost of his twin beckoning from the afterlife.

When he comes upon a young woman fighting off raiders, Chase doesn’t hesitate to help the first female he’s seen in years. And he tries to ignore his instant attraction, hoping Tripp will feel it, too—and emerge from his frightening depression.

Keera has been alone too long, and Chase makes her feel things she never thought she’d feel again. Tripp may be the needier brother, but it’s Chase she wants. Scars and all.

But letting people too close comes with risks. And as they are drawn into the search for a young man’s family, both must accept the possibility that there’s more to life—and love—than simple survival.

Samhain Publishing-


Copyright © 2013 Dani Worth
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

“Why won’t you come out where I can see you?” Splattered with blood, the brunette curled her lip at the bodies, and stepped away from them. She squinted, obviously trying to see him through the leaves. “Who else is in the woods with you?”
“There was a woman with those men, but she took off. She also threw the knife so I don’t think she was willingly with them.”
She moved upstream and knelt in the clean water to wash the blood off her arms. She grimaced at the splotches on her shirt, then seemed to realize the side of her blouse was open to the waist…and that it was see-through. She crossed her arms, hunched her shoulders and grabbed the ripped sides of her blouse in one fist. “Let me see your face.”
“Trust me, you won’t be happy you asked,” he muttered to himself before stepping into the sunlight.
She winced.
He didn’t blame her. Raiders had thought it would be great fun to race up and down the streets in pickup trucks while firing into rows of “empty” houses. He’d been sharing one of those houses with his younger brother, sister and two other people. A bullet had shattered his right cheek. Two more had hit his upper chest. None had healed well in the year since it had happened. He’d been too busy grieving over the three who’d died, including his sister, Maggie. She’d been standing in front of the window when the first bullet struck.
The woman stood. “Why did you help me if you were with them?”
“I wasn’t. I’m passing through with my younger brother. We stopped to hunt and I followed the sound of a gun. Were you shot?”
She shook her head, frowning when wet black hair stuck to her lips. She reached up fast to pull her hair off her face, then re-crossed her arms. “They weren’t trying to kill me, just scare me into going with them.” Her lips turned down as she looked at the bodies. “I hate this. Hate that people act like this, make me kill.” She looked up. “There are so few of us left. I can’t understand the way they think.”
“Me neither.”
“You said you were passing through? To where?”
“I heard there was a settlement near here. I’m taking my brother by The Myrtles Plantation on the way.”
Dark eyes went wide. “Why would you want to go there? Most of the roof caved in years ago—the place is a moldy deathtrap.”
“I have—had—reasons.” Damn. It had been a gamble and the trip here had been a bitch. Most of the roads were overgrown with trees splitting them into barely passable chunks of old asphalt. He’d hoped the place would finally lay to rest Tripp’s ridiculous obsession with the afterlife. The Myrtles had been reputed to be the most haunted place in America once. The boy, well, he was really a man now at twenty-three, couldn’t get past his twin’s death and the longer they traveled without finding other people, the more often he stayed in these scary, depressed silences. The more he talked about ghosts and what happened after a person died.
“Suppose your reasons are your own.” She knelt in the water again—this time to wash her knives. She stayed hunched.
He guessed she thought the position hid her breasts. It didn’t. The wet blouse slicked to her like a second skin. Damn, her body was fine. He had to work hard not to let his gaze lock onto her chest again. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t want to make her more uncomfortable than she already was. As it was, needs he’d kept rigidly suppressed his entire adult life suddenly raged through his bloodstream, making sweat pop up on his forehead.
She must have been able to see some of what he felt in his expression because fear crept back into her pretty, brown eyes.
He shut his briefly before opening them and offering her a rueful smile. “Look, I won’t hurt you. I promise. It’s just been a long, long time since I saw anyone as beautiful as you.” He hoped she wouldn’t look down and catch the very uncomfortable evidence of his desire, but she did. He groaned. “Ignore that. I can’t help it.”
Her chuckle was husky and it brushed over his skin like velvet. “I’d be flattered but when was the last time you saw a woman?”
“About five minutes ago…in the woods.” He cleared his throat, told his dick to settle down. “Are there more people where you come from?”
“Not anymore, though I probably shouldn’t tell you that.” Keeping her arms over her breasts, she walked out of the water.
He frowned at the rate her shivering was increasing and reached up to remove his jacket, hesitating when she lifted her knives.
“What are you doing?” Her voice had gone lower.
He instantly thought of that low, husky voice whispering things close to his ears and had to keep himself from shuddering. It took effort. “You’re cold. I’m going to toss you my jacket. It’ll help if you cover those up anyway.”
“From the looks of your clothes, you should keep that jacket. I’ll warm up fine once I’m on the move and it’s time to do that. Where’s your brother?”
“We have an RV parked a couple of miles or so from here.”
“An electric RV? How do you charge it on the road?”
“No. it’s solar, with panels along the top—some we found and installed ourselves. It’s why we park in the middle of the day when the sun is like this. So they can power up. You have an electric car?”
She nodded. “Don’t use it much—just to take the odd short trip into town to dig through the rubble. My house is solar powered.”
She looked healthy, too. He wondered if she had a garden. He and Tripp had broken into a freeze-dried food factory and hit pay dirt, but they were always on the lookout for any overgrown mass of green that looked like it might have a few surviving vegetables. They got lucky with wild asparagus once in a while, but it had been a long time since either had seen a green bean or a bell pepper. He’d hated peppers as a kid, then spent most of his adult life craving the taste of one so much he dreamed about them. The ones his mother had stuffed with sausage, rice and cheese—three other foods he hadn’t had in years.
Food and people. It was the reason he’d braved this trip with his brother. That and hoping a new place would snap Tripp out of his funk.
Chase had read handwritten notes left in several places about a new settlement in the south and he’d thought with the warmer climate, some farmers could have saved seeds, kept gardens going every year. He craved fresh food nearly as much as he craved a woman. Nearly.

Product Warnings
A hero who puts his own needs aside for family. And a woman who’s out to prove there’s no law against a man listening to his body once in a while. 

Lord Bryon's Secret Obsession by H.C. Brown

Lord Byron Wilton, fearing exposure as a sodomite after a public argument with his secret lover Lord David Litchfield, leaves England for the Americas. On his return, he finds his delicious man in the hands of the brute, Hale and his cohorts.

Discovering Lord David is an unwilling sex slave for these three disgusting men, he makes outlandish and somewhat dangerous plans to outwit the trio. Byron must use every trick in the book, and a considerable amount of his fortune, in an effort to regain his lover’s freedom and trust



London 1772

Lord Byron Wilton opened his pocketbook and paid the tailor's account,
grateful to be finally out of uniform. He met the gaze of Mr. Joseph Brown.
The man had produced every inch of clothing he had worn since a boy. "Have
everything else sent over to Spencer Street, there's a good man."
Donning the new hat he had purchased from Locks in Bond Street, Lord Byron
pulled on his gloves and turned to look in the mirror. The new, delightfully
comfortable, clothes fitted well. Soft and fresh against his skin the linen
provided a welcome change from his stagnant, uniform shirt and stiff smalls.
At last, after three despicable years, he resembled a gentleman again. The
new clothes, ordered by letter some three months previously, had surprised
him with their elegance. Mr. Brown had tailored each garment in the height
of fashion, right down to the fine lawn ruffles and silver buttons. White
silk stockings, and a cloak of the finest black wool lined in silk completed
his dress. He rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully at his reflection.
The breeches stretched tight about his thighs and bottom, and Mr. Brown had
pinched the jacket in at the waist to enhance the width of his shoulders.
The cravat sat in exquisite folds. Dressed as such, in blue velvet, with his
hair tied in a neat queue, men of his predilection would admire his
appearance. Christ, I look like a peacock. In truth, his body had changed
from soft, to hard and muscular-but a commission in the Americas did that to
a man. His face had altered too, but not in a bad way. He had not suffered
any serious injury during his time abroad, but the man with haunting eyes in
his reflection had replaced the exuberant expression of youth.
Although, relieved by the sale of his commission and consequent arrival in
England, his thoughts were not on returning immediately to his country
estate in Surrey. Rather, he had spent the last two days in his townhouse a
short distance from Hyde Park, not wanting to endure the immediate duties of
Lord of the Manor. His ailing father, the Marquis of Wilton, who lay near
death in Bordeaux, had thrust this responsibility legally upon him.
Lord Byron stepped from the shop and glanced down Oxford Street. Nothing of
note had changed in London during his three years abroad with exception of
women's fashion and the volume of carriages barreling along the dusty roads.
He drew a deep breath to enjoy the scents of normality after enduring an
eternity of stinking jacks and sweat. The smell of gunpowder and the
unforgettable stench of a military camp had combined with horrors a man
could never forget.
Christ, he'd had little choice but to remain abroad. His role as a lover of
unusual pleasures had become impossible after a very public argument with
David had threatened to expose them both. Indeed, wealth alone would give an
enemy cause to bear false witness on the most pious of men let alone a
jealous lover's remarks. He ground his teeth with the memory of the stunned
expressions of the fellows who witnessed the spat. Of course, he'd covered
the incident with good humor making the play that the young lord was in his
cups. He'd waved Lord David into a coach and returned to the card room.
Nevertheless, to avoid the scandalmongers and the chance of prosecution for
the act of sodomy, he made the heart wrenching decision to leave his lover.
He'd purchased a commission abroad and joined the 29th Regiment of Foot in
Boston, Massachusetts as Captain, under the command of British Lt. Colonel
William Dalrymple.
He grimaced at bloody images too raw in his memory. On5 March 1770, he'd had
the misfortune to witness the results of the Boston Massacre. During a riot
in front of His Majesties customs house, five colonists had died. The
subsequent arrest and trial of Preston and his men led to the immediate
withdrawal of British soldiers from Boston. The decision to move the 29th to
British controlled Florida had been somewhat of a relief. Arguments over
taxes and the constant clashes between the colonists and the British
soldiers would no doubt boil over into war.
Not wanting to appear cowardly, Byron had gone to Dalrymple and put forward
his request to return to England, stating family problems. This application,
due to the ill health of his father, met Dalrymple's approval. The wait to
find someone to take his place had been impalpable. Months had passed before
Byron received an offer for his commission. He'd accepted with a short
prayer of thanks, and returned to London on the first available ship. He
smiled into the sunshine. It would seem, for once in his life, good fortune
had shined down on him.
Byron stood for a few seconds to enjoy his surroundings. There had been a
meager amount of birds brave enough to negotiate the noisy camps and his
heart lifted to see an abundance of sparrows on the footpath, feasting on a
discarded crust of bread. Above, a blue sky peeked briefly through a
profusion of white fluffy clouds. A stream of sunlight bathed a rose bush,
sitting in a large, yellow glazed pot, beside the milliners next door. The
rich perfume from the red blooms mixed with the pungent odor of horse dung
squashed on the road; the hay infused clumps thrown in all directions by the
constant stream of carriage wheels. Everything is so normal as if no one
knows a war of great proportions is looming.
Moving toward the curb, Byron called out to his driver to take him to
Charters, a gentlemen's club in Vauxhall, and climbed into the carriage. He
sighed, rested his head on the back of the squabs, and closed his eyes. A
familiar memory flooded his consciousness. A soft gaze the color of a summer
sky, hooded with long tawny lashes and set in a countenance sated from hours
of glorious sex. David. The memory of the man he had loved above all else
had not faded. Christ, he heard David's voice in his dreams. The vivid
recollection of the way the young man had touched him, loved him had never
left his memory. Heat pooled in his loins curling into a deep longing for
the only man he craved. He yearned to see his lover once more and touch the
young man's tender skin. The thought of marking David's pale flesh with a
birch cane made him hard. He craved the taste of his succulent lips, and the
joy of sinking to his balls in David's tight arse. The sweet recollection of
his young lover's moans of delight had haunted him during the long nights
away from his love. He would wake to the scent of the man and the taste of
David upon his lips. Then face another day, lonely and mean spirited

Thursday, December 26, 2013


COMING 01.31.14

Jamie O'Hara is crushing on Bull Raleigh, the Dungeon Master at Indiscreet. Bull hates twinks and Jamie is an gorgeous looking ebony haired twink personfied. But Jamie claims he's not a twink and sets out to prove it involving Bull in a white slavery ring, witness protection and the uncomfortable feeling that he likes Jamie more than he wants to admit. When Jamie needs a place to stay when he is threatened, Bull insists he stay with him. Jamie arrives with a White Persian Cat, the twinkiest cat in catdom and Bull is struggling to stay above water as this set of twinks take over his life.

Mary Lynn Hansel
Writing as AC Katt

Author of:
From MLR Press: Shattered Glass, A Matter of Trust, Jack's Back and Cisco's Boy
From JMS Books: The Sarran Plague

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Leukemia, My Husband and Me: A Turbulent Triangle by JC Cerrigone

 Leukemia, My Husband and Me: A Turbulent Triangle 
By JC Cerrigone 
Coming 12.26.13

The day my husband was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, my life became a photograph, a distorted picture that I was forced to look at every day. An image that stayed the same, capturing a moment in time, a moment that changed everything.
Seasons passed, birthdays and holidays, but the disease remained, hanging on a branch right in front of my face like a rotten piece of fruit I wanted to pick and throw away. My husbands diagnosis became our life, overcrowding our marriage and squeezing everything else out.
In order to completely describe the turbulence that my husbands cancer caused I have to revert back to the beginning.
Its important to realize that different personalities, age, and how one conducts their daily life play a major role in how one might handle a diagnosis such as this.
In movies and books its often portrayed as a sort of renewal for the relationship, the spouses uniting as a strong force, preparing for battle. I quickly learned that this is a misconception. Reality had smacked me square in the face and the sting has been painful ever since, a sort of lingering anguish.
This is my first memoir. My craft of choice is fiction romance. I have published fourteen novellas through several ebook companies.
When my husband got sick, because of his personality and how he managed the other components in his life, his diagnosis only brought us closer for a short period of time, a sort of stunned desperation that had us clinging to one another, but then soon after, it tore us apart. As the leukemia corroded my husband’s bone marrow, it also poisoned our marriage.
Because Mike wasnt what the doctors referred to as symptomatic, I think that worked to his disadvantage, aiding him to never really accept the illness for what it was. His acknowledgement of the disease wouldnt come until ten months later, and by then Mike’s prognosis and our marriage were drifting into dark territory.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

The Good Switch by Karen Mercury

AVAILABLE: Friday, December 20th
This title is offered at a 10% discount. Offer ends midnight CST, December 27th.

[Siren Everlasting Classic: Erotic Consensual BDSM Romance, public exhibition, flogging, forced-seduction role play, sex toys, HEA]
Natasha Woolf’s delinquent teen son is giving her nothing but headaches. Enter Ari Braverman, politician turned powerful food critic, and she welcomes the help. Ari is a charismatic, cultured silver fox in an expensive business suit, and Natasha wants to restore order to the chaos that has become of her life. Ari’s brand of domination equals security and safety for her.
After a nasty breakup in Washington, D.C., Ari hesitates to accept a new submissive. But he discovers the spitfire restaurant owner has a feisty side that refuses to offer total surrender, and he’s surprised that her rebel play turns him on.
When his old girlfriend Kelly pops up begging to reconcile, Ari sends the ex-sub packing. Kelly worms her way into the graces of politicos supporting his Congressional bid, with deadly intentions for the sub who has taken her place. Natasha must fight tooth and nail to prove she is…The Good Switch.

So she talked with the president of the food bank for a while, in between mingling with other guests, patrons, and entertainers. She was so vastly irritated when she was needed in the kitchen that she told Carlos to keep an eye out for Ari Braverman, “the lawyer from the other day.” She was aware she was practically ripping her sous chef’s head off for asking what was actually an important question about the rabbit. They were heatedly discussing how to properly fry the sage leaves when the harried Carlos stuck his head into the kitchen and motioned impatiently for her.
Chaos. I don’t need any more chaos in my life.
“Okay,” Natasha told the sous chef, suddenly eager to get out of there. “Frying it like that is perfect. Good job.” And just like that, she washed her hands of the entire sage issue and sped back to the dining room. She was temporarily waylaid by a group of Jane Dough’s wine tasting club members, but she cut it short and sped on. Then some moron from City Hall wanted to yammer at her about the wine selection. She tried to gently tell him to see her sommelier. She couldn’t be expected to know everything about everything, after all.
Then she saw Ari out of the corner of her eye. Who could miss that exquisitely tailored suit, the cultured tilt of his head, the broad, squared shoulders? Even in a room where about half of the men wore suits, Ari stood out as though a spotlight shone on him. Maybe it was just Natasha’s unrequited feelings for him, but she literally stumbled on her words in mid-sentence.
“My sommelier David selected some kosher wines—uh.” Did I just say “uh”? Am I standing here frozen like a statue? Yes, Bob Thornton is staring oddly at me. Her heart racing, her palms sweating, Natasha looked back at Bob but could only muster a ridiculous grimace.
“Kosher wines?” said Bob. “Well, that sounds just dandy.”
It was not just Natasha’s imagination that Mr. Braverman’s gaze was fixated on her, too. It was as though everyone around them milling and chattering turned to soft focus, fading into the fringes of her awareness. Ari, pausing with a wine glass in his hand, became sharper. The easygoing smile seemed to melt just for her, and even Bob Thornton from Public Works seemed to fall through a trap door in the floor.
“Excuse me,” Natasha said vaguely, much too quietly to be heard, and rudely walked toward Ari.
Yes, he was welcoming her with that wide, gleaming smile. He had a dignified elegance, and Natasha wasn’t even ashamed in the slightest that she’d fantasized about sitting on his face. It was true—Ari had that “just fucked” look that softened his well-groomed features, as though Natasha were the only person in the room he wanted to speak with.
As though she were of the utmost importance, the pinnacle of all his interest, the—
Oh, dear God. Those people he’s with. I know them. They’re from The Sandbox.
Abruptly, the smile fell from Natasha’s face. Unbidden, her body made a hard right down another aisle of tables. Her blurry, stinging eyes saw a table full of people congratulating her on something or other, but she just smiled and waved. Smile and wave, and keep walking to your office.
She successfully passed the table of happy people, but near the hostess stand again Moe intercepted her. “Say, Tasha, hate to bother you, but can you find out when they’re going to be able to start serving the green bean salad? I think people are getting hungry and they sure are hitting up the wine awful fast…”
Moe said some more stuff that sounded like blah blah blah while Natasha tried to breathe. The people milling around Ari were clearly friends or at least acquaintances of his. The one tall platinum blonde woman who had her hand on Ari’s shoulder was even collared, as Natasha had been collared to Emmanuel. Natasha knew the women and the two dominant men as being patrons of The Sandbox because they often discussed it freely, as though it were some kind of art association or community theater. The Sandbox was a local bondage club where—well, Natasha didn’t know much about it, having never dared to venture there, being a responsible businessperson and all that. Was that woman collared to Ari?
She stammered, “You’ve never…brought anyone here?”
“Never,” was all he’d say, and he reached behind a ceramic pot that sat on top of the low wall. “The Sandbox people told me where to get these cuffs and other…things.”
Nipple clamps. Natasha was in her element with that implement, and she looked down with interest as Ari slid the tweezer clamps onto her nipples with surgical precision. His gaze flickered back and forth from her face to her nipple, then back to her face. No doubt he was gauging her reaction to the varying tension of the clamps. She writhed, gritting her teeth and arching her neck, and he must have liked what he saw, for he left the clamps tight.
He sat back between her thighs to regard her with amusement. She snarled through her clenched teeth, snorting and bucking like a caged feline. “Do it, you bastard,” she seethed, like an actress in an exorcism movie.
Ari drew himself up. “Whoa, whoa! Who holds all the cards around here, young missy? I don’t think you’re in any position to issue orders. This deserves punishment.” Magically, from behind the same pot Ari revealed a pair of scissors, and with one snip he easily did away with the strip of panty shielding her pussy.
He admired the view while she undulated her spine mightily, like the swells of a stormy ocean. She just wanted him to touch her! Make me come, you bastard! Fuck me in the mouth or pussy! Just do something! Stop teasing me! But she knew this was part of clit torture, and she shouldn’t have been surprised when he swished several fingers quickly over her extended, swollen clit. Of course she jumped about a foot in the air and had to clench her jaw so tightly it hurt. Again and again he swiped his fingers, just enough to set her utterly on edge.
She could have safeworded, of course. She could have even crawled up the side of the wall and leaped over it. She could have brought her bound hands around her front and diddled herself into ecstasy. But this was part of the game, remaining at his beck and call, and Natasha loved it. Every time he brushed the flats of his fingers across her throbbing clitoris she cried out involuntarily and writhed even more furiously. She was trying to kiss the sky with her cunt, shaking and shimmying every time he so much as brushed his hand anywhere near her pussy. Yet he kept it soft enough to guarantee she’d never be able to come.
She shouted through her clenched teeth. “Ari...” Her warning tone did nothing to speed up his toying with her. Her pussy’s inner walls clutched at nothing hollowly, and her helplessness only heightened the anticipation. Would he turn her over his knee, like he had in her office? Would he lightly stroke her cunt, or would he choose the more severe option?
“You’ve got a lovely pussy,” he said now. He smiled, so relaxed, while she just wanted to scream and tear his—or her own—hair out! He gave her clit three or four serious, sensuous strokes of the thumb. Ten more of those and she would’ve been crashing into the heavens with a thunderous orgasm. But Ari seemed to know this. Even more casually now, he removed his tie slowly. “I think I came up with the right word for you. Firecracker. I can just tell that when I allow you to come you’ll just explode. You’re like a live wire, just crackling with electricity. You love being played with, don’t you?”
Natasha did explode then. “Ari! Will you hurry the fuck up?” She knew this would gain her more punishment, but it would probably be the sort she liked.
She was right. Again he frowned, twining his necktie around his knuckles. He tensed the silk between his hands, uncaring if he was ruining the Italian material. “You’re just a fresh, saucy little lady, aren’t you? I’m going to have to do something about that mouth on you.” And with one fluid motion, he kneeled over Natasha and whipped the tie around the back of her skull. A few simple knots and she was completely gagged. She whinnied like a horse and thrashed her head back and forth, but he had expertly prevented her from notifying his neighbors of their games.
Once more he reached behind the pot and withdrew what looked like a little riding crop. Aha. She was familiar with this item, too. It was a “flapper,” a combination of a flogger and a crop, with four leather falls that could be teased lightly or thwacked. Natasha fell silent and stopped writhing with anticipation of what might come next. She panted through her nostrils, her eyes burning.
There it was—the arrogant, smoldering flash in his eyes. She’d known it was there from the stories she’d heard about the trauma room, the brass balls, the ambitious barracuda. He claimed he’d mellowed out, but she didn’t think anyone ever lost that drive, that determination, that quest for power. His eyes narrowed and he slapped her labia with the flapper. It made a sharp crack there in the still courtyard air.
“You need to remember your place, woman.” Thwack. Again and again he slapped her, in such a precise way that every slap got her juices flowing even more. Smack. Not too hard, and definitely not too soft, Ari flogged her pussy in exactly the right manner. Every smack brought her higher and higher up the cliff. He continued the teasing, the torture he’d started with his fingers, only now he upped the ante. He smacked her pussy loudly and now he reached out and diddled her constrained nipple. That was when she screamed.

The Substantial Gift, January 2014
The Good Switch, December 2013
Her Master's Choice, November 2013
Three For All, October 2013