Release Blitz: Various Distractions by AE Lister #BDSM #eroticromance #gay @pridepublishing @firstforromance

 

Various Distractions by AE Lister

Book 2 in the Persuasions series

General Release Date: 28th December 2021

Word Count: 69,144
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 286

Genres:

BONDAGE AND BDSM
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MÉNAGE AND MULTIPLE PARTNERS
TRANSGENDER

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Book Description

When life is perfect, you know it’s gonna throw you a curveball…or four.

Nic and Vincent have been riding the high of a new romantic relationship that works so well they are on the verge of officially moving in together—but then the distractions begin. Their friend Daphne needs a temporary dungeon space, and Nic’s basement seems the perfect solution. Vincent’s gay seventeen-year-old cousin, Taylor, needs a safe refuge from his uber-religious parents. When Vincent suffers an unexpected injury, Nic asks Daphne to suggest someone to help with domestic duties around the house.

These combined circumstances lead to a less-than-ideal home life for Vincent and Nic, who struggle to find alone time. But life has a way of giving people what they need, and the arrival of Matteo to help with chores around the house sets into motion an opportunity the three must decide to follow to its logical conclusion or abandon in order to maintain the emotional safety of all the participants.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of food play, minor incidents involving a Domme and public sex There is reference to the abandonment of an older teen by religious zealot parents, puppy and kitty play, and a suggestion of suicidal ideation. This book is best read as book two in the Persuasions series.

Excerpt

Taking afternoon tea at Daphne’s on Sundays had become a regular event.

Vincent wore a pretty pair of panties beneath his clothes, either at my direction or of his own choosing, and Daphne had him strip when we arrived. We had agreed Daphne could take charge of Vincent while we were in her home. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed watching him respond to her. He’d told me it was much more exciting for him, now that I was involved.

The first few weeks, she’d made Vincent perform some relevant service in his lacy underthings, like setting up the finger sandwiches and cakes on her tiered stand or making the tea or coffee.

Now that this visit had become a weekly ritual, his duties had expanded into other, more delectable, areas.

We took turns feeding Vincent small bites of cake or bread, giving him sips of tea from our cups and otherwise treating him as our amusing and beloved pet. He grew more and more aroused, and I caught him eyeing Daphne’s magnificent tits more than once. He said he didn’t like the clichés of femininity but, honestly, who didn’t appreciate a great pair of boobs?

As if on cue, a piece of the cake Daphne was eating fell into her cleavage, and she giggled. “Oh dear!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Vincent, did you see that?”

Daphne refrained from digging the morsel out of her blouse as her cheeks heated. The woman could set off a fake blush on cue. She winked at me with a grin.

“Yes, Sir,” Vincent said, gazing at me with wide eyes.

“Would you like a taste of that delicious cake?” I asked devilishly.

Vincent made a small sound and nodded, licking his lips.

“I thought so. Why don’t you snuffle that crumb out from between Daphne’s tits? If you can find it, you can have it.”

Daphne giggled, pulling her blouse down and leaning toward Vincent. Vincent blushed and looked at me to make sure I knew what I was asking.

I nodded. “Go ahead. It’s all right.” I gestured at Daphne’s generous offering. “I’ve been there too, y’know,” I whispered, as if it were a secret between me and him.

Something flashed in his eyes, and he smiled, then turned to Daphne.

“Mistress?” he asked.

His utter politeness sent a jolt of desire through me. He was so well-behaved, as if I had trained him to this, when, really, it came so very naturally.

“Go ahead, Vincent. Hands behind your back, please. You’ll probably need to use your tongue.”

My eyes widened as I watched my sexy twenty-four-year-old boyfriend lean forward slowly, hands behind him as requested, and gently push his face into the tantalizing crease between Daphne’s breasts.

She made a small noise and looked at me over Vincent’s head as his velvet tongue darted and licked to find the morsel of cake.

“Oh, goodness.” She stroked Vincent’s cropped ash-brown hair while he cleaned her up. “What a soft tongue you have, Vincent.” She gasped. “I’d forgotten, my dear, how adorable you are.”

Vincent made whimpering noises as he chased the crumbs and no doubt inhaled Daphne’s particular scent of jasmine and roses.

I glanced at the black lace boy-shorts he was wearing today and noticed he was hard, which was par for the course with Vincent. The boy was a priapic miracle. A savant perhaps? He got hard at the drop of a hat and came on command. What more could a Dom ask for?

Lots more, it turns out.

When Vincent finally located the piece of cake and swallowed it, pulling reluctantly away from Daphne’s warmth, I smiled at him, pleased.

“Good boy. I’m sure Daphne is very relieved that her little accident has been rectified.”

Daphne looked anything but relieved. She looked like she’d like to tie Vincent to a chair and ride him for a couple of hours. But she’d had her chance with Vincent, and now the boy was mine.

I watched him stand and start to tidy the dishes, while flashes of memory came through of using the single-tail the previous evening. I’d strapped Vincent to the spanking bench and lashed his buttocks and thighs lightly, just enough to push his arousal to the brink of tipping over. Then I’d released him and sucked his cock until he’d come, howling, down my throat. He’d wanted to touch me, but I’d forbidden it, and I wouldn’t forget the sight of his fingers clenching and unclenching while I worked him furiously to orgasm.

“Are you finished, Sir?” he asked, and it took me a moment to realize he was speaking about the cake and not asking if I was done reliving our encounter.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, thank you, Vincent.”

He took my plate and I leaned back in my chair, checking the time on my phone. It was only four-thirty, but we needed to get home and have a light supper. We had a gallery show to attend this evening. My friend Juno was exhibiting their artwork for the first time, and I’d promised them Vincent and I would drop by.

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First For Romance

About the Author

AE Lister

AE Lister/Elizabeth Lister is a Canadian non-binary author with a vivid imagination and a head full of unique and interesting characters. They have published 10 books, one of which received an Honorable Mention from the National Leather Association – International for excellence in SM/Leather/Fetish writing.

“Sensual and visceral BDSM.” – Amazon.ca

Find out more about AE Lister at their website, and follow them on Instagram and Patreon.

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Release Blitz: All the Wrong Reasons by Sebastian Hansen #LGBTQ #urbanfantasy @ninestarpress @GoIndiMarketing

 

Title: All the Wrong Reasons

Author: Sebastian Hansen

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/28/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 111700

Genre: Fantasy, LGBTQIA+, Romance, urban fantasy, action, family-drama, superheroes, gay, nonbinary, trans, BDSM, secret identity, billionaire, Dom/sub relationship

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Description

The day after telekinetic supervillain (and billionaire philanthropist), Stetson Nadenheimer dies, he wakes up on the autopsy table and falls in lust with the man hired to cut his cold, dead corpse open. The problem is that the forensic pathologist is Doctor Julian Dandridge, the part-time superhero, Scatter. It’s probably a bad idea for a supervillain to get into bed with a superhero. Probably.

Not that it stops him, but trying to start a relationship with a reluctant hero without getting caught turns out to be easier said than done. Between midnight meetings over games of checkers and kinky secrets, Stetson and Julian begin a tremulous romance. Unfortunately for them, there’s an actual villain watching from the shadows, waiting for Stetson to stumble.

Excerpt

All the Wrong Reasons
Sebastian Hansen © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
STETSON

The last thing I remember seeing before I died was the garish gold and orange spandex-clad fist of Major Bigstuff flying at my face at something like a million miles an hour. I lost my telekinetic grip on the wall I was holding. The debris came down on my head, which the masonry squished like a rotten melon. Brains all over the place. Bones shattered. Totally dead.

Not my finest hour.

A day later, I woke up on the medical examiner’s slab. Nobody knows why this happens. It’s a super-thing. Superheroes come back from the dead all the time. It’s practically a requirement for the job. Like when you go to get your physical at the Hall of Good Guys Forever and they stab you in the heart to make sure you’ve got what it takes to come back. I’m not entirely sure this is true, but you hear rumors.

What’s odd about me waking up is that I wasn’t a superhero. I was kind of the opposite. The anti-superhero.

My name is Stetson Nadenheimer (it’s not my fault), and before my timely death, I was a supervillain. They call me Jester. Nice to meet you.

It’s not that supervillains don’t come back from the dead. We do, but it’s usually the big-time ones. The “build a death ray and hold the world to ransom for all the money” ones. I’m not even Major Bigstuff’s main rival. He just happened to be flying past the bank I was robbing on his way home from Denny’s.

That’s what I did, by the way—rob banks. No building death rays, no kidnapping or killing people. I’d never even held anyone hostage. My Fortress of Evil is more like a Penthouse Belonging to That Mildly Irritating Villain.

But I liked robbing banks. Since most super-people are what you’d call physical (strength, size, agility, speed—you know, that kind), they don’t know what to do when someone’s power is mental. Mental powers aren’t common—and they’re not popular. Telepathy isn’t as flashy as super strength and doesn’t play well on camera. Hence, nobody’s figured out anti-telekinetic security.

Besides, I liked to flirt with the tellers. They had no idea how to handle a tall, handsome man in a sleek (cheap) black tux and white masquerade mask. I’ve got some killer green eyes too. Alas, while my black hair is long enough for a ponytail (tellers love ponytails), I kept it bound up and hidden in a hat. I’ve never wanted to take over the world, but I’m damned charming. It drives superheroes up the wall.

Anyway, back to the ME’s slab. Right. So. After knowing for a fact that my brains are all over the floor of the First United Citizens Bank on Twenty-second Street, I open my eyes. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever woken up to? In my case, it was a whirring bone saw in the general vicinity of my head.

I screamed. Well, wouldn’t you?

The bone saw immediately stopped, and I quickly became aware of someone laughing. A glance to my left confirmed that I wasn’t alone. A young man in green scrubs with tousled blond hair was turned away, covering his mouth to hide his grin.

“Works every time,” he said and set the saw down on a table just out of my reach. Then he turned to look at me, and I stopped breathing again.

In addition to the adorable hair, the man was indeed young with deep-blue eyes, dimples, and the prettiest smile I’d ever seen.

The smile faded quickly. “Welcome back.” He narrowed his eyes and watched me carefully.

My mouth opened to say something, but my brain hadn’t caught up. It was still trying to imagine what the man would look like in my bed. I’m an uncomplicated person like that. It might not have been love at first sight, but lust? Certainly. The problem currently facing me was this: I was obviously in a morgue of some kind, half-naked, drenched in my own blood, and sitting on a frigidly cold metal table. The place smelled of chemicals—formalin (I found out later) and bleach.

Forget flirting. This man had seen me dead, which is so much worse than naked.

Eventually, I managed a strangled, “Hello.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and the smile came back slightly. He nodded and walked away from me toward the far wall, where he dug a clear bottle of water out of a cooler. He held it up for my inspection. “Thirsty?”

I nodded. My voice was still on the fritz, and he thought it was because my throat was dry instead of…oh…any other reason. I was thankful for it. Anyway, my mouth was parched. I took the bottle gratefully and drank half in one go before finding my voice again.

“Do you often wake people up in the morgue with a bone saw?”

He smiled. I wanted to melt. God. I can’t describe that smile and do it justice. Accept for a moment that it was stunning, will you? If it helps, compare it to rainbows on sunny spring mornings. Like the sun rising at dawn. The light of his smile forgave all sins, watered all crops, and brokered world peace.

The hyperbole is necessary. Everything that happened after that night started with his smile wrapping me up and turning my world on its head.

“Only people like you.” The smile didn’t budge.

“People like…me.”

“Dead people who aren’t dead anymore.”

“Oh.” I blinked. “So, you do it to heroes, too, then?”

He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes thoughtfully. “Mm-hm. They don’t like it either—Mistress Tidal broke one on me, but there’s something about the sound. It tends to bring people around quickly.”

“The alternative is getting our heads cut into.”

He laughed. Please insert a description of silvery bells and songbirds here. He had a pleasant voice. “I wasn’t going to cut you open. You were already breathing.”

“I…was?” I glanced around, certain I knew where I was now. I looked down at my blood-stained hand. “Tell me, were you able to get fingerprints off my corpse? I’ve never been arrested before, so I doubt they’d do you any good.”

“No.” He shook his head. “And no DNA either.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Ah. And now we’re just waiting for reinforcements to arrive, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” He smiled again, and my reply stuck in my throat. “It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Thursday night. Nobody’s around.”

“Ah…and you’re alone here with a formerly dead supervillain because you’re, what? Confident in your medical plan?” I asked with a snort.

He laughed again. “I don’t think you’re going to hurt me. I’m pretty durable. My name is Dr. Julian Dandridge. I’m a part-time superhero. They call me Scatter.”

Ah, Scatter. I’d heard of him, but never run up against him. He belonged to the Guild, which was Kinsley City’s very own organization of superheroes. A sort of Hall of Self-Righteousness. Major Bigstuff ran the show over there.

Well, that put a wrench in my dream of having him tie me to my bed.

I frowned. The revelation that Dr. Julian was a lost cause stung more than it should have, considering we’d just met. Still, he was in the Guild, and that wasn’t good for me by any means.

The Guild didn’t typically bother about me. I was small-time and didn’t offer much in the way of a challenge. When I did run into one of their members, I tended to extract myself from the situation as quickly as possible. I can fly—and over my months-long bank robbing spree, I’d gotten good at evading the Guild’s fliers.

I glanced around, getting my bearings. A few pencils on the desk behind Julian rolled on my command, and I breathed a little easier. My telekinesis was up and ready to go.

I smiled. “You know what they call me, I’m assuming.”

“Jester.” He shrugged. “So, here’s what’s going to happen—”

I held up a hand to forestall him and started talking. It was important to prattle on so his attention focused on me and my mouth. That way, he wouldn’t notice me telekinetically prying the window out of its frame until it was too late.

“There’re a couple ways this could go. The first is dull and causes more of a mess than its worth. You call your Guild. They show up, we have a spirited scrap, and maybe I end up dead again. If not, and you manage to throw me in SuperMax, I call my astronomically overpriced lawyer and make bail in under an hour. Then we spend weeks wading through red tape, and in the end, I get a slap on the wrist, some community service, and maybe a fine. I’m not the kind of supervillain who makes headlines, Scatter, and you lot have bigger things to worry about than someone like me. Death rays and such.”

He crossed his arms.

“Of course, there’s option number two.” Grinning, I simultaneously lifted myself off the table and out of Julian’s reach and crooked my finger at the window, popping it out of its frame and setting it gently aside. “Which involves me escaping. You can’t fly, can you?”

“If I could, I’d have you down already.” He shrugged. Then he did something I did not expect.

He winked.

I paused near the ceiling. “You’re letting me go?” I asked, incredulously.

“Letting you go? Oh no. No. What kind of superhero would I be if I let a villain escape?”

“A very bad one.” I pressed my hands against the ceiling and stared down at him in disbelief.

He frowned. “Do you want me to stop you?” The tone of his voice implied that he could. I believed him.

“Not particularly.”

He looked away, thinking, arms crossed, then glanced back at me. “Then do me a favor and knock over some tables on your way out.”

“So it looks like we got into the aforementioned tussle?” I asked.

“Plausible deniability.”

I blinked.

“Look, either go or don’t. Let’s just say I’ve seen some things, Jester. Supervillain?” He smirked. “Sure.”

“You’ve seen some—”

He waved me away. “Get out of here. If I see you near a bank in the future, you can be sure I won’t be so nice next time.”

I stared at him for a few more seconds, but his expression suggested that his patience was wearing thin and the invitation to escape wouldn’t last indefinitely.

So, stunned and unsure if what had happened was real, I flew out of the window. But I made sure to knock over two sets of shelves and a table on my way out.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Sebastian Hansen (she/her) is a non-binary mess of a person. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and herd of opinionated cats, where she spends most of her time playing video games, reading comic books, and writing about superheroes. She likes strawberries and is easily frightened by the Internet.

Website | Twitter

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Release Blitz: The Forest God's Favor by AT Lander #eroticromance #gay #fantasy @pridepublishing @firstforromance

 

The Forest God's Favor by AT Lander

Book 1 in the Of Gods and Men series

General Release Date: 21st December 2021

Word Count: 19,781
Book Length: NOVELLA
Pages: 79

Genres:

EROTIC ROMANCE
FANTASY
GAY
GLBTQI
GODS AND GODDESSES
HISTORICAL
MÉNAGE AND MULTIPLE PARTNERS

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Book Description

Can the love of a man heal the heart of a god?

Fertility god Anthos, a shy and gentle three-hundred-year-old virgin, has grown up in the shadow of his brutal older brother Dryas and spent his life hiding from mortals, no matter how much his nature draws him to them.

Cleon, a humble farmer who always has room in his heart and his bed, knows that Lord Dryas is angry. The crops aren’t growing, and his family is going to starve if he doesn’t give the god a worthy sacrifice—his own body. But when he reaches the shrine, he finds a very different god, the sweet, untouched Anthos.

Eager to satisfy Anthos’ curiosity, Cleon shows him what sex is…and what a relationship between them could be, with their instant attraction blooming into love. But when Dryas returns with a vengeance and Cleon’s life hangs in the balance, Anthos is forced to make a choice.

Will he bow once more before his brother’s rage, or take a stand for the only man who has ever had faith in him?

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of abusive behavior, double penetration, voyeurism, exhibitionism and violence.

Excerpt

Cleon’s heart sank as he walked the rows of his family’s field, scanning for a single green shoot and finding none. The barley was two weeks late for sprouting—if it didn’t start growing soon, his family would starve come winter.

“Anything?” his little sister Amara asked as he left the field. Her hands were wringing the fabric of her peplos skirt even as her eyes said she knew the answer.

“Not one,” he said. “Any eggs from the chickens?”

“Not one,” she echoed. “The gods must be angry at us.”

That was the only explanation Cleon could think of, too. Dryas, their local fertility and forest god, was known for his temper. It would take very little provocation for him to withdraw his blessings.

The family gathered in front of their modest farmhouse, worried faces gazing at their patriarch. Cleon, the eldest son and the only one unmarried, glanced at the other members of the household. Amara sat beside him, while his twin younger brothers sat with their wives, both of whom were pregnant with their first children. They had no servants, no field hands, just them.

“We have to beg Lord Dryas for his forgiveness,” their father said, pacing back and forth. “Someone must go to the shrine and pay tribute. Whatever it takes, this curse on our farm must be lifted!”

“W-whatever it takes?” Amara asked nervously.

“Yes,” their father said gravely, words heavy with guilt. “Whatever it takes.”

His children looked at one another, eyes wide with anxiety. They wouldn’t say it out loud for fear of angering the god, but they knew what their father was asking. Dryas’ tastes in tribute were usually carnal and never kind. None of them had any illusions about what would happen to whoever went to plead their case, but there was no other option.

Cleon looked from face to face. Neither of his brothers had any taste for men, and it would be cruel to send either of their wives to such a fate, especially pregnant as they both were. As for Amara, the thought made his stomach twist in disgust. There was only one choice.

“I’ll go,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Are you sure?” Amara asked. “You know what—what he’ll do to you.”

“I know,” Cleon said, trying to sound brave. “But I’ve been with men, so it won’t be so bad for me as it would be for one of you.”

It was weak reasoning, but none of the others had anything better. Cleon was tall and strong, hardy enough to take some punishment and tan from hard labor in the sun. He was no Adonis, but he’d been called ruggedly handsome by past lovers, and he’d earned every muscle on his arms and chest. Dryas preferred pretty youths and maidens over men in their late twenties, but hopefully the god would accept his tribute anyway.

Cleon bathed in the river, combed his black hair and trimmed his short beard, brown eyes watching his reflection in a still pool. He prepared his body as best he could with slick oil and shaking fingers, hoping to reduce the inevitable pain. Finally, he donned their newest, finest tunic, the one Amara had woven and each of his brothers had worn for their weddings, and picked up their offerings with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing left to do but go.

Cleon gave his family the bravest smile he could muster, and they smiled back with pinched, anxious faces—all save his father, whose eyes were solemn and dark with guilt, and Amara, who was crying in his arms. Cleon squared his shoulders and turned resolutely toward the woods. He would face any terror and endure any hardship, if only he could save his loved ones from starvation.

The worn dirt path led deep into the forest, twisting and turning on the way to the shrine. Dappled light slipped through the swaying branches as chittering squirrels fled his passage to peer down at him from the trees.

He suppressed a shiver. These woods were old and sacred, the domain of a cruel and capricious god. At least Lord Dryas didn’t like live animal sacrifices—Cleon would hate to make this trek with a squawking, struggling chicken in his arms. Instead, he had a small jug of spiced wine, a half-dozen honey cakes and his own body…no matter how meager his offerings, they would have to be enough.

He had been to the shrine before as part of the harvest festival, placing the fruits of the year’s labors before the god’s great throne. Those had been times of song and drink and dance, honoring Dryas’ bounty and appeasing his temper with revelry and praise. The god had always chosen one or more young worshippers for his pleasure, and the thought made Cleon nearly sick. It always took them days to recover, if not weeks, and their eyes remained haunted for far, far longer.

This time the shrine was empty, the ring of marble pillars standing silent around the sacred oak. At the base was the god’s throne, grown out of the living wood, made for a nine-foot giant of a being. Cleon could remember looking up at him during the last festival—his eyes dark and cold, his legs those of a black deer and his antlers spreading like ancient, gnarled branches.

“Hello?” Cleon called, looking around for the shrine’s priest. The little hut next to the sacred circle was empty, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Lord Dryas tended to discard his priests when they turned twenty-five, and he must not have found a new one yet. It seemed like Cleon would have to beg for divine intervention on his own.

He walked to the stone altar and tried to keep his hands from shaking as he kindled the sacred flames. He doused the honey cakes in wine then fed them to the fire. The offerings were more than his family could really afford, but still they seemed too little. Finally, Cleon knelt before the great throne, pressing his forehead to the grass and trying to look as humble and pathetic as possible.

“Oh Lord Dryas, god of the forest and the field,” he prayed. “I beg your forgiveness! Whatever sin my family or I have committed against you, I humbly offer these gifts to appease your wrath.”

There was a deep, terrifying silence broken only by the blood pounding in Cleon’s ears. He dug his fingers into the grass, eyes squeezed shut, praying with all his might. If Dryas didn’t answer—

“Uh…yeah…” The voice was so small and hesitant that Cleon almost missed it. “Not your fault, really…”

Cleon’s head snapped up and he scanned the treeline. He didn’t see the speaker at first, looking for a taller shape, but when he finally found him…

Oh gods, the young man was exactly Cleon’s type. He looked to be twenty or a little younger, cute and small and beardless, with willowy arms and a bare, slender chest. His eyes were a vivid green against sun-bronzed skin dusted with faint freckles, and his light brown curls looked delightfully soft. He was blushing prettily, shifting from foot to foot and biting his full, kissable lower lip.

“Um, hello,” Cleon said when he could remember how words worked. He struggled to stay on task—he was here to save his family, not get distracted by a pretty face. “I don’t suppose you know where the forest god is?”

“That’s the thing,” the youth said, ducking his head bashfully. “I kind of…am the forest god?”

Cleon frowned at him. The young man might be cute, but he was clearly delusional. Yes, the gods could take other forms, but the idea of Lord Dryas becoming so small and adorable was ridiculous.

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Cleon said. “Lord Dryas is not known for his merc—”

He stopped, eyes widening as the young man stepped out into the clearing on slender, delicate hooves. Deer hooves, just like Lord Dryas’. Unlike Dryas, though, his flanks were dappled with faint white spots and tawny brown to match his hair. What Cleon had assumed to be branches above the youth’s head revealed themselves to be antlers, short and nubby and covered in soft-looking velvet.

Cleon’s heart plummeted like a stone. This was no mortal boy, or even a common satyr. There was an aura about him—the trees leaning in just a little to bask in his presence, the sunlight glowing off his skin. He might be different from Dryas, but there was no denying that Cleon was in the presence of a god.

“Please forgive me, great one!” he cried, groveling once more in sudden terror. He already had one god angry at him and he wouldn’t survive a second. “I had no idea—I am so sorry—”

“No, don’t be,” the youth said, sounding weary and miserable. “I’m a pretty terrible god, to be honest.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Cleon asked, daring to raise his eyes from the grass. The godling was shifting awkwardly from hoof to hoof, not looking at Cleon.

“Your farm,” he said. “It’s my fault nothing’s growing. My big brother left last month and I…well…”

“You mean Lord Dryas?” Cleon asked.

The youth nodded, biting his lower lip in an adorable way, and Cleon couldn’t help a twinge of relief. His farm was still in trouble, but at least this god seemed willing to help.

“I’ve been trying, I really have,” the godling said, running his hands through his hair. The gesture revealed adorable little pointed ears, and Cleon had to fight to stay focused. “I just don’t know how to make it work!”

“My lord—” Cleon started, sitting back up on his knees.

“Anthos, please.” The god ducked his head. “I’m not used to…it feels weird.”

“Anthos,” Cleon said, “what exactly is the problem?”

Anthos sighed, walking over and sitting on the grass a few feet from Cleon. He pulled his fuzzy knees up to his chest, hugging them close and staring at the ground.

“I’m a fertility god,” Anthos explained. “I’m in charge of new life, new growth…or I am now. My brother took care of things for so many centuries that I never learned how to do it. Now he’s gone, it’s my job, and I can’t do anything.”

“He never taught you?” Cleon asked.

“We’re not Olympians!” Anthos cried, eyes flicking up to Cleon and face turning bright red. “Only the highest gods do…that with their siblings.”

“Oh,” Cleon said, blushing too. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Anthos said, dropping his gaze again. “But that’s the problem—it requires personal experience. I can’t make things fertile until I’ve, you know…had sex.”

“Oh,” Cleon breathed. His heart was beating faster now, his throat going dry as he stared at Anthos. “Would a mortal do? A man?”

“Yeah,” Anthos said with a mirthless little chuckle, “if anyone wanted me. Big brother always said nobody would want to sleep with a puny, pathetic runt.”

Rage flared up in Cleon, all the hotter for its rarity. He’d revered and feared Lord Dryas all his life, burying resentment deep in his heart. The gods could be cruel or kind to mortals—that was their right—but this? The thought of treating his own siblings like this made Cleon ball his hands into fists, and a lifetime of suppressed hatred boiled over. For the first time in his life, he spoke ill of a god.

“You’re not a runt!” Cleon cried. “Your brother was a cruel bastard! He made whole families starve…he set wolves on their flocks and took any man or woman he pleased! I bet he cut down your confidence because he was scared of you. Anyone would prefer a god like you over him!”

“R-really?” Anthos gasped, looking up with wide, shocked eyes.

“As long as you don’t send a famine when there aren’t enough dancing girls at your festival,” Cleon said, belly clenching in remembered hunger. “We worshipped him because we were afraid, but nobody liked him.”

“And you…you like…me?” Anthos asked, voice soft and hopeful.

Cleon opened his mouth then closed it again, unsure of what to say. His flirting experience said this was going pretty well, but how was he supposed to proposition a god? He was just a farmer, rough and rugged and no great beauty. Anthos was so out of his league it wasn’t even funny.

Still, in for an obol, in for a drachma. The god didn’t seem like the type to curse someone for asking, and if he said yes…

“I like you a lot,” Cleon said earnestly, “and I’d really like to kiss you.”

“I…” Anthos licked his lips, his gaze lowering. “I’d like that too.”

Cleon scooted forward slowly, like he was approaching a skittish deer. He reached out to cup one cheek, tawny-gold and warm. Sun-dappled lashes fluttered, the godling’s green eyes falling closed as he leaned in with bated breath.

The first kiss was soft and gentle, just a chaste brush of lips. It was a little thing, but it still sent a thrill through Cleon, a surge of desire. His body knew what Anthos was, something wild, ancient and divine. By the time they pulled away, his cock was hard and twitching.

Anthos let out a soft little sigh when they parted. He gave Cleon a shy smile, nervous and sweet.

“Again?” he asked, as though Cleon might say no. Could say no.

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About the Author

AT Lander

AT Lander has loved stories, both the reading and the telling, since she was a child. Born in upstate New York to an English professor and a former librarian, she now lives in the queerest part of Massachusetts. She never leaves home without a knitting project or a pencil, and she’s never met a cat she doesn’t like.

She has worked as an history museum guide, a professional storyteller, and an actress, sharing tales of what was, what could have been, and what can only be imagined. World mythology is her driving passion, as what better way to understand a people than through the tales they tell?

Follow AT Lander on Twitter and Facebook.

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NEW RELEASE: The Night Bartender by Alexa Piper #LGBTQ #holidayromance #PNR @prowlingpiper @changelingpress

 

Aaron has come to Fairview to find his ex’s teenage sister, who went missing in the city. As a witch both rich and powerful, Aaron follows a trail that leads him to a bar frequented by supernaturals and to a bartender who attracts Aaron's attention -- and not just because the bartender is keeping something from Aaron. When Aaron runs out of leads, he follows the mysterious and pretty bartender, and the next thing Aaron knows, he's foiling an attempted abduction.

Ilya has built a quiet life in Fairview mixing drinks and flying under the radar. He is a banshee, and the psychic ability and mild telepathy that comes with that makes Ilya a sought-after commodity. That carefully constructed life Ilya built for himself breaks into a thousand pieces when a handsome witch starts asking questions and becomes Ilya’s rescuer mere hours after they meet.

The witch, Aaron, vows to protect Ilya and to keep his secret. Now Ilya has to decide whether he will give Aaron his trust and risk a lonely but safe life as a night bartender in a wintry city in which people disappear only to then turn up murdered.

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EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Alexa Piper

Aaron buried his hands in his coat pockets and gave the bleak Fairview midday sky a hard look. Not that the sky gave much of a damn. It was late November, just after the Thanksgiving weekend, and for most of the morning, it had sleeted in a way Aaron had never before experienced in his life. It was like a hot shower, except the cold, freezing water got all the way through to your skin and passed the cold to every inch of your body.

“Damn city just might be cursed with bad weather,” Aaron mumbled as he walked along a street in the Old Town, which should lead him to a bar friendly to the not-quite-human clientele if his online research skills hadn’t failed him. A deep black cloud caught his attention. It zapped across the horizon as if blown by a particularly vicious breeze. Aaron frowned before he picked up his pace. The sooner I’m done here, the sooner I can go back to Morrowvale where November doesn’t suck so bad your balls want to freeze off in surrender, he thought.

In all honesty, Fairview wasn’t a bad place. The city itself was nice enough. The parks and trees here littered the streets with the bones of leaves turning to sludge in the puddles left from the earlier sleet showers, and the people, while ignoring both other people and the suck-tastic weather, dressed a little nicer than the average Morrowvaler. Aaron had also never had Japanese food as good as he’d had an hour ago in a small, unassuming place he’d accidentally walked into, at least not outside Japan. That counted for something, at least in Aaron’s book.

Traffic was in what passed for a bit of a midday lull in Fairview. The honking had ebbed to a not-eardrum-shattering noise, and Aaron managed to cross the street without it feeling like he was gambling with his life.

The Ragdoll was a basement bar, and if Aaron hadn’t been looking for it, he probably would have missed the small neon sign that was either broken or just off this early in the day. A wrought-iron fence further hid the sign and the door, which lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs. This could be a private gambling den or the hideout of a bunch of Russian spies, Aaron thought.

He walked down the stairs and pulled the door open just as another sleet shower was getting ready to wash the streets and everyone walking outside with icy wetness. Aaron shivered as he crossed the threshold and blinked into the softly lit bar.

Last week’s Thanksgiving paper turkeys and fall-colored garlands were still up, though a busboy collected the decorations into a cardboard box labeled “Turkey Day” in black sharpie. There were no Russian spies and no gambling going on here.

Surprisingly, there were several patrons in the bar this early in the day. Aaron spotted a handful starting their day’s drinking early, but most nursed mugs of coffee or were digging into sandwiches which, admittedly, looked better than was right in a basement bar. Judging by their business suits, those were just office workers who knew where the good sandwiches were at. The music was pop, playing just loud enough to offer background noise without becoming obnoxious. This place, despite the outward appearance, looked hip, trendy even. Fucking Fairview. This city is as confusing as a clown at a dinner party, Aaron thought.

Aaron’s fingers closed around the talisman in his pocket. With his touch and the smallest pinch of magic, he felt the worked metal coin activate and the spell bound to it sizzle to life. Three people, including the strawberry-blonde girl behind the bar, whipped their head around to look at him. So, this place really is supernatural friendly, Aaron thought. The talisman heated rapidly in his pocket. And Dora definitely was here before she disappeared.

That confirmed, he let go of the talisman and walked straight to the bartender. The other two patrons who’d noticed his magic had gone back to ignoring him like the good Fairviewers they were.

“Hi,” Aaron said, giving the strawberry blonde his best winning smile. “What’s good here?”

She shrugged. “Depends on whether it’s drink-o’clock in your world or not. If not, the pumpkin spice latte kills. If yes, you look like a Macallan kind of guy.”

Aaron grinned at her. “You’d be right about the whiskey, but I think I’ll go with the latte,” he told her.

He was doing his best with the charming vibes, which usually worked even if he turned it on women, but the bartender just nodded and went about preparing his coffee. Aaron watched her, more interested in the fact that she was making coffee at a bar decked out with an impressive assortment of liquor than anything else. The coffee machine was one of those intimidating ones that took up some primo counter real estate, and from the looks of it, it saw some use.

When she was done, she brought the latte over to him and puffed a dash of cinnamon over the foamy top right in front of him. The warm scent of the spice immediately made Aaron feel just a little more optimistic about everything. The mug was the cutesy kind with a grinning, red-nosed reindeer on the side.

“There you go,” she said with little enthusiasm, though not exactly unfriendly.

“Thanks, miss,” Aaron said. Before she could walk away again, he focused on her instead of the latte. “Could I ask you something?”

“I’m guessing I’m not your type, so go right ahead,” she said.

Aaron’s eyes widened, and it was the girl’s turn to chuckle. “Half-succubus,” she said on a whisper. “The gay-dar is practically built-in.”

He nodded, fighting the color rising to his cheeks. “Right. Makes sense.” Aaron cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’ve seen this girl,” he said and pulled the photo Patrick had given him from his pocket. It showed Dora smiling, her blond hair shimmering in the sun.

The half-succubus took a look, then shook her head. “No, sorry. Friend of yours?”

“My ex’s sister, believe it or not,” Aaron said. “She went missing, and I tracked her first to Fairview, and now here.” Aaron had the cellphone gods to thank for that. It made using his magic almost unnecessary, although Aaron still liked to confirm the actual person had been to a place, not just their phone, hence his talisman.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alexa Piper writes steamy romance that ranges from light to dark, from straight to queer. She’s also a coffee addict. Alexa loves writing stories that make her readers laugh and fall in love with the characters in them. Connect with Alexa on Facebook or Instagram, follow her on Twitter or TikTok, and subscribe to her newsletter!

Visit her website.

NEW RELEASE: O Christmas Tree by Emily Carrington #LGBTQ #contemporaryromance #Christmas @CarringtonEmily @changelingpress

For Jake, losing his eyesight isn’t nearly as frightening as having to rely on someone else. Especially if he wants that other person to be his lover. He was taught from an early age that being gay is synonymous with being a sissy and he can’t see past that lesson to the one Tyler is trying to teach him.

Tyler has been attracted to Jake since they first met. When Jake comes to Tyler’s bed, it seems all of Tyler’s dreams are coming true. Except Jake doesn’t want more than friends with benefits. Can Tyler stand being Jake’s second choice?

Available at Changeling Press

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Emily Carrington

For Tyler Carter, there was no better pre-Christmas present than watching Jake swim. The lean-muscled, pale-skinned man was God’s gift to the world of gay men. With his Irish last name, Calhoun, he should have been freckled too, but Jake had been adopted. Tyler sometimes wondered how his mother could have possibly given him up as a baby. But maybe she’d had no choice.

He watched Jake knifing his way through the water at Colton University’s pool and his cock rolled over in its winter hibernation. It took very little time in Jake’s presence to waken Tyler’s body even though they’d never even kissed. Hell, they’d never even held hands.

Jake knew nothing of Tyler’s longing, although Tyler was hoping the vacation they were taking together would change that.

Shoulder-length chestnut brown hair was plastered to Jake’s head like a helmet and Tyler’s fingers itched to touch the slightly curly locks. Jake’s tattoo, on the right side of his back and over that shoulder, was of a dolphin and ocean waves. The twenty-seven-year-old certainly swam like a dolphin.

Tyler knew he should call to Jake, get his attention. They were due at an appointment in less than an hour and who knew how long it would take Jake to get dressed? But Tyler couldn’t quite bring himself to raise his voice or even to speak. Jake was so beautiful while swimming.

If Tyler watched much longer, he’d have to hide in a bathroom and take care of his little problem before the appointment.

He approached the edge of the pool, not close enough to get accidentally splashed. He thought, All the angels in heaven would sing your praise if they were allowed.

Jake was in the second lane from the edge and when he reached the deep end’s side, he finally came up for air. He shook his bangs out of his eyes and turned his head. Maybe he’d somehow sensed Tyler’s nearness, or he was looking for him. Their gazes met and locked. Jake’s grin lit up his whole face, from stretching lips that were slightly pinker than the rest of his skin to crinkling the corners of absolutely stunning hazel eyes.

He swam over to Tyler, gestured for him to step back a bit, and then, with what looked like very little effort, hoisted himself out of the deep end.

Tyler wanted to turn away and adjust his jeans so his boner wouldn’t be so obvious, but he knew doing anything like that would draw more rather than less attention to his reaction. So, feeling his cheeks heat up, he grinned back at Jake.

“Are you early or did I lose track of time?” Jake glanced over his shoulder at the cock hanging on the wall.

The clock, Tyler thought. Not the cock, the clock. Get your mind out of the gutter.

The past six months knowing Jake had been a pleasure. Learning, about six weeks ago, that Jake was gay had just been icing on the cake.

Jake said, “I guess time got away from me.” He walked over to his shower shoes and put them on. “I’ll meet you out front? I need to towel off and get dressed.”

Can I come with you? Tyler swallowed the words. Jake had been walking a very fine line since coming out to Tyler, never being suggestive in his speech or actions. But he was too friendly to tell Tyler he didn’t want him. Or maybe that was just Tyler’s impression. Maybe Jake was one of those weird people who believed it was okay to be gay but wrong to act on it.

Tyler was Christian. Jake wasn’t. At least Tyler didn’t think he was because he didn’t go to Tyler’s church, and he didn’t seem to attend any of the others in Marisburg or Colton.

“I’ll meet you out in the main lobby,” he told Jake now. “We’ve got a little over forty minutes to get there, so there’s not too much of a rush.”

“I’ll probably shower if I have time. There’s nothing more offensive to some people than smelling like chlorine.” Jake flashed him another killer smile, complete with a dimple. “I’ll be out soon.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male, female/female, and transgender romance. She has been writing since 2011 and has dedicated her career to two universes: SearchLight and Sticks and Stones. SearchLight is all about magical creatures finding their HEA, and Sticks and Stones finds happily-ever-afters for her contemporary characters. Sticks and Stones tends to happen in small towns, whereas SearchLight happens all up and down the East Coast and across the United States.

Find Emily Online: Facebook | Blog | Twitter 

 

Release Blitz: Grounded by K.R. Collins #LGBTQ #sportsromance @ninestarpress @GoIndiMarketing

 

Title: Grounded

Series: Sophie Fournier, Book 6

Author: K.R. Collins

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/21/2021

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 76000

Genre: Contemporary Sports, "LGBTQIA+, contemporary, sports, family-drama, demisexual, bisexual, ice hockey, teammates, coach, injury"

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Description

Sophie’s coach was fired over the summer but not before he took several parting shots at Sophie’s character and dedication to her sport and her team. Her coach’s firing, her own injury, and her team’s whimpering exit from the playoffs weren’t the ideal way to end a season, but Sophie’s looking forward to a fresh start.

If Sophie is on the ice, everything makes sense. She can navigate a new coach, she can handle a strained relationship with Elsa, and she can breathe hope back into her franchise.

An unprecedented hot start to the season sees Sophie breaking NAHL records. She has her sights set on Bobby Brindle’s point streak record, the one she fell short of breaking in her rookie season. With personal success comes team success, and Concord has a resurgence on the back of Sophie’s accomplishments.

And then she’s injured. She has to spend the rest of the season on the sidelines, and it forces her to confront a question she has never considered before. Who is Sophie Fournier when she isn’t playing hockey?

Excerpt

Grounded
K.R. Collins © 2021
All Rights Reserved

End of an era?

Sophie Fournier is no stranger to the heralding of the end of her hockey career. People have tried to tear her down since she first put on skates, but none of them have succeeded. Even though it was Coach Butler who was fired and tossed out of Concord, it’s her career everyone claims is over.

Oh, the articles mention the Maple Cup she won, but they refer to it as if it happened two decades ago. As if it wasn’t just a few seasons ago and a historic moment for the sport. It was the first Maple Cup in Concord’s history, and she captained her team to victory and became the first woman to lift hockey’s greatest trophy.

None of the articles mention the International Hockey Tournament win from last February. There, she captained Team Canada to a win on the international stage. Does everyone believe her talent evaporated between then and now?

She was injured in the tournament, and she never fully healed, because her team needed her and her coach demanded her presence. With the season over, she will heal, and she’ll return next season better than she’s ever been.

End of an era.

Fuck. That.

When there are competing voices in the locker room, no one wins.

I’m looking forward to the opportunity to coach a team with the toughness and endurance to succeed at the end of a long season.

Sophie reads every article Butler is quoted in, and she watches every clip from his exit interviews. She swears at her computer and shakes her fist at the TV and excises the worst of her temper before she sits for the interviews Mary Beth, Concord’s PR manager, arranges for her to do in response.

It’s important for the coach and the captain to be on the same page.

No, shit. Sophie was on Butler’s page. For much longer than she should have been. She knows a divided team doesn’t make it far, and she knows how stubborn Butler is. There was no middle to meet in because he wouldn’t budge. By being on his page, she lost Elsa.

Elsa Nyberg is Sophie’s teammate. She was Sophie’s winger, when Butler didn’t split their line, she was Sophie’s alternate until Butler stripped the A from her jersey. She was Sophie’s roommate until, furious Sophie sided with Butler over her, she moved in with her boyfriend.

She’s still Sophie’s best friend, and Sophie will repair their relationship this season. With a fresh season ahead of them, Elsa will move back. With a new coach behind the bench, they’ll be reunited on the top line. The only reason Sophie couldn’t hold the team together at the end of last season was because her injury in the IHT kept her off the ice.

It was Butler’s fault she was hurt. He was behind Team USA’s bench at the IHT, and he gave his heavy hitters the green light to take runs at her. It was Anthony Sinclair who took her out, but it was done with Butler’s blessing. She still beat Team USA, and Butler didn’t forgive her for it, even once they were back in Concord with the same condor stitched onto all their gear.

With Sophie on injured reserve, he set about breaking the team next. He killed their confidence, insulted their hockey IQ, and took a group of highly motivated athletes and made them dread coming to the rink every day. She knows the start of this upcoming season will be spent undoing the damage he caused. She doesn’t know how long it will take or if there will be any long-standing consequences.

She wishes time would speed up and it was August already. She doesn’t want a summer to linger over everything that went wrong. She wants to dig in and fix it.

Instead, she sits for interviews, and smiles, bland and boring, as she answers stupid questions with even stupider, scripted answers. This isn’t what she’s meant for. She’s meant to be on the ice, with skates on her feet and a stick in her hands.

She wishes she could ditch her media responsibilities. She wishes she could answer truthfully, with all the fury she uses when she’s alone in her room.

She can’t do either of those things, so she does the next best one.

She goes to Wisconsin.

“I didn’t think you’d show.” Lexie picks Sophie up from the airport. Even with the obnoxiously large sunglasses which cover half her face, Lexie manages to project derision.

Alexis Engelking is the American forward who went fourth overall at her draft. It’s easy to remember; fourth woman drafted fourth overall. She even made it her number, but she did it out of spite, not pride. She’s a woman who runs on spite, always dialed up to eleven, the perfect foil to Sophie’s bland Canadian personality.

Sophie doesn’t hate her the way the media wishes she would, but she doesn’t particularly like her either. Lexie’s made it her mission to not be Sophie, which means constant attacks from someone Sophie hoped to be an ally.

Still, Lexie extended an offer to train together this summer. Sophie knows there will be plenty of competition. And she could use a little spite in her summer.

“I told you I would,” Sophie answers. She has a pair of sunglasses of her own and a Boston Red Sox cap she wears with the brim tipped low. Lexie promised her discreet summer training, a break from the media vultures who want to pick at the mess Butler left in his wake.

Sophie trusts they won’t be bothered here, if only because Lexie has her own reasons for being left alone this summer. Indianapolis, Lexie’s NAHL team, made it all the way to the Maple Cup Finals. It all came down to Game Seven. It took triple overtime, but the Boston Barons were victorious over the Indianapolis Renegades.

Chad Kensington, one of Lexie’s teammates, picked up the nickname Mr. OT, because he scored three OT series-winners throughout the playoffs. He closed out each round right up until the finals. He couldn’t get it done when it mattered, and Indianapolis ended their season without the Maple Cup, the same as every other team in the North American Hockey League, except for Boston.

Lexie isn’t the captain, but she and Kensington share the responsibility for being the face of the franchise. The media, happy to build up the duo during the season and the playoffs, is even happier to tear into them with the loss.

So yeah, Lexie’s equally motivated for a quiet, intense summer training session.

Sophie isn’t sure she has another hill left in her. Her quads are tight, her calves burn, and her shirt is soaked through with sweat. Now is as good a time to stop as any.

Lexie’s hair sticks up in every direction, the short strands wet from sweat and the water Lexie splashed on her face three hills ago. Her face is red with exertion. She wipes her face on her equally sweaty arm and casts a challenging look in Sophie’s direction. “I bet I beat you on this next one.”

Sophie takes inventory of her body again. She matches Lexie’s grin. “Loser buys lunch.”

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Meet the Author

K.R. Collins went to college in Pennsylvania where she learned to write and fell in love with hockey. When she isn’t working or writing, she watches hockey games and claims it’s for research. Find K.R. on Twitter.

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NEW RELEASE: Hothouse Bloom by Hannah Morse #LGBTQ #historicalromance @evernightpub

Noah Tenbey’s body and soul were torn asunder during a cavalry charge at the battle of Waterloo. A year later he’s still suffering. Fearful, his family calls in Dr. James Byrd from London, who not only helps Noah with his injuries, he also brings Noah’s heart back to life. But what life can James, the bastard son of an Earl, and Noah have together when all of society doesn’t see them as they truly are? Will they find a way to keep their love blooming, or will it wither on the vine?

Be Warned: m/m sex

Get it at Evernight Publishing

EXCERPT

Setting the last seed pot in the wheelbarrow with a flourish, James marched back to the greenhouse. He yanked open the door, pushing the pots inside with determination.

“There you are.”

Startled, James dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow. It thudded on the stone floor, the pots clattering together. He blinked at Noah, who was sitting on the hard bricks that formed a platform in the center of the greenhouse, cane in hand. Most of his hair had escaped its queue, and his eyes were pinched like he was in pain. Probably from sitting on the damned bricks.

Forget the greenhouse being a hell of a lot of work, somehow James was supposed to train a nobleman. It’d be easier to get a horse to talk than convince a rich man to do what was asked of him.

James made a show of hefting the wheelbarrow back up and pushing it to the low tables at the back of the greenhouse. He lifted out the pots and set them in neat rows.

After a few moments, the tap on a cane on the flagstones and the tread of booted feet sounded. That couldn’t be comfortable with how stiff the man must be.

“Excuse me, I was speaking to you.” The words were clipped. The good gentleman was upset. How delightful.

James shifted on his stool to face Noah, which might have been a mistake because Noah, despite his lips being pulled into their perpetual scowl, was very fetching when viewed close up. There was a slight scar, hardly visible, that faintly marred his lush lower lip—an old hurt James wouldn’t mind kissing better. If such a thing wouldn’t earn him a home in the gutters of London.

He cleared his throat. “It was more of a pronouncement, actually. And I knew where I was, so I continued about my business. Far be it for me to intrude on your admiration of leafless trees.”

Noah’s delectable mouth fell open. “You, sir, are impertinent.”

“So I’ve been told many times.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Morse is an author of contemporary and historical romance novels. She lives in New Mexico with her high school sweetheart and too many Chihuahuas. She can be found binging Netflix shows or reading steamy novels when she isn't hard at work writing a happily ever after.

 

Release Blitz: Plague and Ash by Sita Bethel #LGBTQ #paranormalromance #zombies @ninestarpress @GoIndiMarketing

 

Title: Plague and Ash

Author: Sita Bethel

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/21/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 69300

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, Magic, magic users, interspecies, mythical creatures, zombies, undead, plague, farming, hurt/comfort, illness, disease

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Description

Sarah only went to Oreburn University of Incantations so her parents would stop asking her when she’d settle down. However, after a strange plague decimates her hometown, Sarah finds herself fleeing with the undead chasing her.

As she escapes, she meets Brighid, a half orc noble, and together, they must reach Oreburn before the undead can overrun the city. Sarah discovers a decay sorcerer created the original curse, and only a wizard powerful enough to destroy him can end the plague.

But now they have to find that wizard.

Excerpt

Plague and Ash
Sita Bethel © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Something woke me. I blinked at the morning light peeking through the curtains and cutting rectangles onto the ceiling. Only a corner of the quilt draped over my legs while the rest twisted beside me. I must’ve been thrashing in my sleep again. I hadn’t slept well since I’d come home for harvest break, too worried. After slinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I tucked them into my house shoes to avoid the chilly wooden floor. I heard Mama coughing in the kitchen. The acrid smoke smacked me in the face as soon as I left my room. I waved my hand around my nose.

“Mama?”

“Burned the damn sausage. Did the smoke wake you?” Mama scraped four burnt discs out of her cast iron skillet and into the scrap bowl, but I was sure Buttermilk wouldn’t touch them.

“The coughing,” I admitted.

“Don’t worry, Sarah. It’s the smoke, nothing else. Pops and I have been drinking elderberry juice, and once we’ve harvested all the crops, we’ll hole up through the winter and wait for this to blow over.”

“Biscuits.” I rushed to the oven, using a dish rag to pull out the tin pan before they burned with the sausage.

“Sorry, my mind’s elsewhere.”

“I can help you and Pops harvest if you’re worried.”

“No. We done told you to stay inside with your brothers.”

“The only reason I came home from the School was to help with the harvest, so let me help.”

“Oh, you came home to work? And here I thought you’d want to see your family.”

“Of course I do.” I shoved my fists against my hips. “And help. Why won’t you let me be useful? The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can all spend more time together.”

“Sarah.” Mama plopped her rump onto a nearby stool and rested her elbows on her knees. “We didn’t want you to worry, but…”

“Who’s sick?” Frowning, I crossed my arms over my chest. The towel dangled in my hand.

“Aunt Flora.” Mama turned away. The gas lights made her gray streak flash and made the wrinkles around her mouth deep as weathered cracks splitting wood. “The baby’s got the Fever too.”

“Mama.” I dropped the towel. Crouching low, I roped my arms around her.

“You stay inside, all right?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’ll…be all right. I’m sure. Will you re-cook the sausage for me? I need to help your father.”

“Go on.” I pulled a pack of butcher paper out of the ice box and set it on the counter.

“We’ll be home late.” Mama pulled me close to kiss my temple and then walked out the door.

I warshed my hands in the deep, enamel sink. It was only October, but the morning water rushing over my hands was frigid. Hissing, I grabbed another towel and dried them before shaping the ground meat into patties and getting them in a hot skillet. The view from the kitchen window was burnished, sun all orange and fiery as it struck the mist clinging to the yard. Buttermilk crept along the fence line, stalking a field mouse. I hoped she caught it because otherwise it’d be burnt sausage for her.

A shadow slipped through the cluster of pecan trees near the road. At least I thought one did, but when I squinted, I only saw a fat old squirrel cursing at something hiding in the branches above him. I snorted, shook my head, and flipped the sausages. As they browned, I fetched a jar of sorghum molasses and set it on the table with the butter dish. We grew sorghum grain, but Mama always kept enough sweet sorghum in the garden to make syrup for us.

Abel was the first to stumble out of his room. His hair sprayed around his head in dark brown wisps. They took after Mama, but I had Pops’s copper highlights. Last semester, the other girls at the School convinced me to lighten my hair with peroxide, but instead of summer-kissed and sunny, it turned a brassy off-orange, and once my roots grew out, I had Billy take his clippers to it. Now it was a shaggy mess, and I couldn’t wait until it was long enough to pull away from my face.

“Where’s Mama?” Abel asked.

“She went to help Pops. There’s sausage in the skillet.”

“Why does it smell of smoke?”

“Mama burnt the sausage, but I cooked more.” I fixed my own plate and sat on the stool next to the stove, balancing the plate on my lap.

“Did she swear?”

“Yup.”

“Only time I ever hear Mama swear is in the kitchen.”

Abel was right, so I offered a distracted laugh, but I was focused on dipping my biscuit into my sorghum syrup and not his chatter. Abel pulled last night’s sweet tea from the ice box, sat at the table, and shoved his breakfast into his mouth. He chugged half a mason jar’s worth of tea before sighing and setting the glass onto the table.

“I’m gonna go to the pond and get some catfish for dinner.”

“No, you ain’t.” I snorted. We’ve had this conversation damn near every day for three heckin’ weeks.

“I swear I won’t talk to nobody, so let me go.”

“No, you ain’t going. I promised Mama we’d stay inside.”

“Sarah, I’m fourteen. I can handle myself.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Was I this stubborn when I argued with Mama? With three of us giving her sass, no wonder she had a gray streak cutting through her hair like a skunk stripe.

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Meet the Author

Hey there, readers. It’s me, ya boi, Sita Bethel. And this is a biography where I tell you all the boring facts about my life- like how I have a degree in writing, and how my two cats, Odin and Anpu, will one day rule this land as your feline overlords. Enough of that same old, same old. Here’s the real dirt. Sita Bethel likes to wrap up like a burrito with a weighted blanket. They host coloring parties as a personal eff-you to anxiety, and read everything from trash British sensationalist novels like The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins to literary masterpieces like The Color Purple by Alice Walker. Had enough of Sita Bethel yet? If not, check out @sita_bethel on Twitter, or sitabethelfiction on Facebook, or even www.sitabethel.com.

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