Thursday, 30 October 2014

Claiming him could mean danger. Assassin by Nicola Cameron M/M @EvernightPub

Oh WOW! Just WOW! Don't you just love this cover? Read on to find out more about these delicious men.

By Nicola Cameron

Publisher: Evernight Publishing


While hunting raiders, Duncan Shea and other members of the New Black Watch run into a deadly ambush. Injured and alone, Duncan stumbles across a grounded shuttle carrying an Alphan warrior named Taric and a mysterious Xyran named Zhan. The handsome aliens agree to help Duncan, but he quickly learns they also have a plan of their own -- to claim him as their mate.

Forced to hide their bond from their respective governments, Taric and Zhan never expect to find their third bondmate while on an unauthorized mission to stop a vicious Xyran slave master. Neither of them can resist the urge to claim Duncan, but will their new mate help them catch their old foe, or turn them over to Earth -- and Alphan -- justice?



Duncan stepped back as the airlock hatch rose, revealing a huge golden Alphan warrior in a black uniform. A brief memory flickered across his mind, an afternoon with a tall, broadly built watchman who had tumbled him laughing into a bed of leaves before fucking him senseless. The sex had left him with a distinct appreciation for men built on the alien’s scale.
“Greetings, human,” the Alphan said, golden eyes staring at him curiously. “Are you in need of aid?”
The low, rumbling voice knocked him out of the memory. “Uh, yeah. I mean, yessir,” Duncan said, wondering if he should salute or what. “Name’s Duncan Shea. I’m with the New Black Watch.” He showed his right arm, where a band of green and blue tartan had been clumsily sewn. At the alien’s puzzled look he added, “It’s a guard unit. We were tracking some thieves when we got ambushed about five klicks from here.”
The alien glanced at the woods behind him. “You are alone?”
Duncan grimaced. “My men are dead. Bastards planted some kind of mine in the woods.” Like an alien’s gonna know what a mine is. “You step on it, it blows up,” he clarified. “You heard anything about that, sir?”
The Alphan’s eyebrows rose. “About … mines?”
“Or thieves, sir. Local ones.”
The alien shook his head. “I know nothing about local criminals, Watchman Shea. Nor do I know anything about human explosive devices.”
Duncan sagged. Even if the Alphan was lying, there was no way he could prove it. And forcing his way on board an alien ship, even if it wasn’t hiding outlaws on board, was suicide. “All right, thank you.” With a weary tip of his hat, he turned to go.
“Wait,” the alien ordered. “You were injured in this explosion.”
It was a statement, not a question. Duncan shrugged, then winced as his cold, tight muscles cramped with the motion. “Got banged up a little, yeah.”
This time the Alphan glanced up at the gunmetal sky and the cold rain pouring down. “This weather is not safe or healthy for an injured human. Board my ship and I shall assist you.”
It was Duncan’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “‘Scuse me?”
“Did I use your language incorrectly?” The Alphan switched to a loud, slow tone. “Board … my … ship … and—”
Duncan shook his head. “I got that. I meant, why are you gonna help me?”
The alien smiled. It made his craggy, handsome face more human, somehow. “My race signed a treaty with yours to offer assistance when and where we could. As such, it is my duty as an Alphan warrior to assist an injured human warrior.”
“Oh.” That did line up with what he’d heard about the gold aliens and their sense of honor. “Well, sir, in the case, I’d be pleased to get out of the rain for a spell.”
The Alphan stepped back, and Duncan climbed into the airlock, pulling off his hat and swallowing a moan as the warm air hit his cold, wet skin. “Oh, that feels good.”
“I imagine it does.” The Alphan towered over him by a good six inches, and a pair of pointed black horns on his forehead added another inch of height. Duncan couldn’t help checking out the thickly muscled body straining the seams of its uniform. While he was in good shape, he suspected that the Alphan could crush him like a bug.
Or throw you down and fuck you silly, part of his mind suggested.
He shivered pleasantly at the thought. “Um, do you—”
“What a sodden creature,” another voice said sourly. “Do we let it drip dry, or do we wring it out?”


Nicola Cameron is an expatriate Chicagoan who has lived in England, Canada, Holland, and Sweden, and keeps a confusing amalgamation of languages in her head as a result. Currently located in the clavicle of Texas, she has finally mastered the proper use of "y'all," much to her Chicago family's dismay.

Despite a healthy interest in sex since puberty, it wasn't until 2012 that Nicola decided to try writing about it. As it turned out, the skills she picked up during her SF writing career transferred rather nicely to erotic romance. When not writing, she wrangles cats, smooches her husband, makes dolls of dubious and questionable identity, and thanks almighty Cthulhu that she doesn’t have to work for a major telecommunications company any more (because there’s BDSM, and then there’s just plain torture...).
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Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Do you Judge a book by its cover? @LDBlakely #mm

Here's another new release that looks yummy!

Judging A Book By Its Cover by L.D. Blakeley


Agonizingly shy Emory North has his life mapped out for him: finish his business degree, go to work for his father, and one day take over as CEO of North Star Publishing. More at home amongst stacks of books, Emory has little to no interest in his lot as ‘North Jr.’, but has never had the courage to follow his true passion—writing.
Brash and ballsy Bryce Palmer, editor-in-chief of ECLIPSE magazine is known for bedding and discarding PAs like yesterday’s newspaper. He’s up against a serious deadline and down two staff members. And the last thing he has time for is babysitting the spoiled rich son of a CEO. But when Pierce Barclay North insists now is the time for his heir apparent to get his feet wet in the company waters, Palmer's hands are tied.
But looks can be deceiving. And, sometimes, passion can spark in the most unlikely of places...


By 6:30 Monday morning, Emory sat at his desk nursing a steaming hot cup of strong, black coffee. It was far earlier than he should rightfully be at the office. But his internal monologue was making him crazy and he’d hoped work might, at least, distract him from the situation. Torn between anger — at Bryce for his wrongful intrusion — and mortification — also directed at Bryce (but more at himself) for that stolen kiss — Emory was fit to be tied. Did he confront Bryce about the email and risk his ire? Or should he avoid both subjects entirely? Emory knew his father would give him some variation of the I Assumed As Much speech, if Bryce were to fire him. Would he, though? Would Bryce fire him for last night’s indiscretion? He’d seemed well enough into it at first. So maybe Emory could call him out on the manuscript without risk of being upbraided like a child for the kiss — or worse, fired.
Before he had time to become completely unhinged with his thoughts, they were interrupted with the arrival of their main source of strife.
“Morning,” was all Bryce muttered as he breezed past Emory’s desk and into his office.
Seriously? That’s it? Emory was at a complete loss. Now what? Act like nothing out of the ordinary happened Friday and he hadn’t spent the entire weekend fretting? March into Bryce’s office and demand an explanation for the email? Before he was able to decide one way or the other, his phone lit up — Bryce’s extension.
“Emory speaking,” he finally managed after picking up the phone and hesitantly clearing his throat.
“I should hope so — I did dial your number.”
“Oh, um.”
Bryce sighed and Emory was positive there had been an accompanying eye roll. “Are we back to nervous monosyllables again?”
“No, I…” Emory heard Bryce chuckle before he could manage to spit out the rest of his sentence.
“Would you please come into my office, Emory?” This was it. He was about to be tossed out on his ass and onto a pile of jilted former PAs… and he hadn’t even managed more than a drunken kiss!
“You wanted to see me?” Emory stood in the doorway of Bryce’s office, not entirely sure what to do or say. A million things came to mind: curse the man out for taking his story; apologize for his behaviour after the gala; kiss him one more time just to see if it was as scorching hot as he remembered. He chose none of the above and timidly avoided eye contact.
“Would you please come in?” Bryce appeared to be finishing up an email, his fingers flying across his keyboard. “Shut the door behind you and have a seat.”
Emory did as he was told and sat facing Bryce. Before he could change his mind, he managed to muster up more temerity than he’d ever thought possible, and spat out “I’msorryaboutFridaynight,” as though it were all one single word.
“Sorry about… what, exactly?” Emory was surprised to see a smile on Bryce’s handsome face.
“The wine?” Emory started worrying at his thumbnail once again.
“I didn’t mind the wine, to be quite honest. Made you much more… conversational.” And didn’t that sound laced with… undertones. Emory could feel his face burning.
“But that wasn’t what I wanted to discuss.” And there it was. Emory braced himself. 


A pragmatist with a romantic soul & a dirty mind, L.D. is a fan of horror movies, hot sex, and Happily Ever Afters. Easily distracted by shiny things, she’s a slightly neurotic, highly ambitious dreamer who enjoys dabbling in photography & pretending she can carry a tune. 
In another life, L.D. was a newspaper reporter, an entertainment & music writer, travel writer, website content editor, and a marketing shill. Now she prefers to spend her time writing hot, steamy fiction (with a healthy dose of romance) about intriguing, sexy men. Of course, whether these pretty boys end up between the sheets with other gorgeous lads or up against a wall with a spicy and spirited heroine, all depends on which direction her imagination takes her on any given day.
Although she dreams of living some place isolated with an endless supply of wine and an infinite number of titles on her eReader, she currently lives in down-town Toronto with her husband and their rock star cat.

You can find her online pretty much everywhere: Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Goodreads, her blog, and her official website.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Boss Overboard @Claire_Gillian_ #newrelease

So what if your assistant is not who you think he is? How would you treat him then? This is what Lydia Johnston has to face when things don't go as ship shape as she first thought.

Interested? Here's more:


An all expenses paid, trans-Atlantic cruise has romance written all over it...unless you’re the poor sap who has to inspect the toilets and time the cafeteria lines. As if secret-shopping her company's failing cruise ship isn't bad enough, Lydia Johnson is forced to bring along a "top talent" new hire as her assistant. With a heart barely healed from her ex-fiancĂ©’s deceit, she's in no mood to train a man who might cheat her out of an overdue promotion.

Paul Thomas may be new to J.P. Theriot Enterprises, but he certainly knows his way around cruise ships. The Cajun charmer also isn't shy about pursuing his desires, including his wary, but oh-so-sexy-when-she lets-her-hair-down manager. He's shared more about himself with Lydia than any other woman...except who he really is--J.P. Theriot.


Paul chuckled softly. "He sure noticed you."

Lydia's brows lifted. "Oh? In what way?"

Paul shrugged. "He saw you were with me and was wondering if you were taken."

"And you said what?"

"Peter thinks you and I just met on this cruise, that we're part of some singles package."

Lydia crossed her arms. "We're starting to have way too many stories."

"And not a single one of them has you as my lesbian BFF."

She raised a finger smiling. "Mark thinks we met at a book club and are platonic friends."

"Thank goodness of all the people on this ship, he's the one person who doesn't think you're mine. You do know you can't go off or be seen alone with him, don't you? As you yourself said, we're here to work and not have fun chatting up blondes, and I assumed that applied to both sexes, bottle and natural blondes, and so should you."

"Oh puh-lease. I am not interested in Mark Williams. He's a friendly guy and my next-door neighbor, but that's all. I don't even like blonds, bottle or otherwise."

A grin tugged at the corner of Paul's lips. "What kind of guy do you normally go for?" He stepped into her space. "We both already know you can be tempted by my type."

Lydia scowled and walked off.

He caught up to her. "What? Just stating the obvious."

She increased her speed, but refused to acknowledge him, because dammit he was right.

"You can run but you can't hide from the attraction between us, Lydia. And where are we off to in such a hurry anyway?"

"The art gallery," she tossed back over her shoulder.

"Terrific. One of my favorite spots. There's a nude I want you to see."

She stopped and spun around. "You can't keep talking to me like this."

"I can't talk about a painting or did you think I was talking about something else?" He was the picture of innocence.

Heat crept into her cheeks. She gazed up at him. "Because it's not professional, and we're here to do a job, not hook up!"

Paul frowned and blew out a rush of air through his nose. "This is so ironic, you know. Everyone on this ship already thinks we're hooking up, but we can't because you don't want to look unprofessional. Did you forget the part that looking overly professional runs counter to being a good secret shopper?"

Lydia swiveled her head to either side as if scanning for eavesdroppers. "Keep your voice down." She did another scan. "It's not about looking professional or unprofessional. It's about being professional. They are two different matters entirely."

"What if I said I would quit?"

Lydia's lips parted in a soft gasp.

Buy Links:

Author Bio:

Claire Gillian is the pen name for a number-crunching executive by day and a darkly romantic curmudgeon by night. She also writes fifty shades naughtier stuff under the pen name of Lila Shaw (but please don’t tell her mother) and young adult fiction as Iris St. Clair.  No matter which name she uses, Claire is happiest penning romance drenched in humor with a dash of intrigue and loads of spice. Claire lives in the boggy Pacific NW with her husband and two teen-aged sons.

Claire loves to hear from and connect with readers:

Friday, 24 October 2014

No Adulation #FFF @MichaelaRhua

Welcome to Flasher Fiction Friday. 

Each writer always has a different take on the picture, but can something meaningful be crafted in 100 words? Well that is always the challenge. Here is mine so you be the judge.

No Adulation.

The show was over. The audience gone. She wiped the last of the stage makeup off and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Who are you? Your face is familiar, like a memory stuck in time. I used to know you, before all this. She scanned the room, flowers, cards and champagne; gifts of adulations. The door creaked opened slowly and he came closer. A tug of the strings loosened her corset and her dress begins its slow slide down to the floor.
Now would begin another performance. There would be no adulation. Only the brand of ownership.

Why not hop along to the other blogs to discover what they have in store for you.