A Tryst of Fate - by HC Brown

Good morning, David.* Ducks for cover* Sorry to interrupt but you did promise to be good today. * raises brows*  

Who the hell left the door unlocked! Heads are gonna roll!

I turn my back for one minute, and a bestselling author wanders in. Without chocolate, I might add....

Okay, today I've left the whip and leather in the dungeon and dropped by to chat about my new time travel release A Tryst of Fate.

Hang on a minute don't all rush off at once.

No chocolate, no floggers, no leather. What'd you expect would happen?

Wait a minute. She brought an excerpt. And a smile. Nice smile. Oh! Raspberry syrup too.

Okay, you can stay. I'll find the leather later. There's some around here somewhere. I know there is because I stole a cute little ensemble out of your car during your last visit.

Well, HC, you have the floor, the syrup, and apparently, my staff's undivided attention.

This story is not my usual fare but it is a hot and very sexy m/m romance.  My Muse butted in the day I started to write Time to Live for the Timeless Desire Collection. I'd just finished Lord & Master and the Georgian era wouldn't leave my mind. I had a fit of the giggles thinking what would happen if a gorgeous American  say six-five , built like a linebacker and gay would cope if he was sent back in time to London in 1775.  My mind suddenly filled with the image of my hero, Colt Daniels, millionaire art dealer.  I gave him a kick butt personality but his Achilles heel was an obsession with a portrait of the delicious Lord Alexander Swift. I added a dash of conflict and misadventure and I had my story.

Tomorrow I'm holding a release party on my blog with giveaways including a copy of A Tryst of Fate. So do drop by and join the fun. http://www.hcbrownauthoroferoticromance.blogspot.com/

I hope you will enjoy my new release from Silver Publishing, A Tryst of Fate.

Blurb:

After inheriting a Georgian house in Berkley Square, London, Colt Daniels, millionaire art dealer, finds himself obsessed by a portrait of the home's former owner, Lord Alexander Swift.

During a conversation with author, Jake Williams, Colt discovers Lord Swift and his cousin had mysteriously disappeared from the cellar one evening, shortly after Alexander's illicit affair with the rogue, David Fitzhugh. Jake reveals Colt bears a remarkable resemblance to Fitzhugh.

Colt decides to investigate Alexander's strange disappearance and ventures into his cellar late one night to look for a secret passageway. When his flashlight fails, Colt finds himself transported back in time to 1775 and there he comes face to face with the man of his dreams— Lord Alexander Swift.

Watch the book trailer here:

 http://youtu.be/mXBJiwPw-dE

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Colt Daniels lifted his bidder's card. "Thirty thousand."

"The bid is thirty thousand pounds. Come now, ladies and gentlemen, this portrait of Lord Alexander Swift by Benjamin West is dated 1775 and is in extraordinarily fine condition." The auctioneer at Sotheby's surveyed the silent crowd with a critical gaze.

Taking a casual pose, Colt flicked his gaze to the opposing bidder. The man in the slick Italian business suit met his gaze with a slow smile. Colt lifted his chin and stared at the painting. From the moment he had laid eyes on the portrait of the handsome young man in the Sotheby's catalogue, he had wanted to buy the painting. Lord Alexander Swift's troubled gaze held a distant loneliness, as if reaching out to Colt across the centuries.

A strange twist of fate had brought him to London in the form of an inheritance on his thirtieth birthday… A distant relative had bequeathed him the townhouse once owned by Lord Swift in Berkeley Square. Over the past year, he had restored the house to its former glory and now he required this painting to complete the task. During the years Lord Swift had owned the property, the painting had hung at the top of the stairs, facing the front door. For some unexplained reason, Colt had a compelling desire to finish the house by restoring the painting to its original position, in time for the anniversary of Alexander's death on June fourth.

"Forty thousand." The man in the suit lifted his bidder's card.

Colt sighed. With his fortune to back him and the prestige of being the owner of some of the most famous galleries around the world, he rarely had people bid against him for very long. They should know better. If Colt Daniels wanted a painting, Colt Daniels would go to any price to secure a purchase. He cleared his throat. "Seventy thousand pounds." He shot the opposing bidder a cold stare.

After the usual pause, the hammer came down and Colt moved to the clerk to settle the account. "Have it shipped to 42 Berkeley Square, Mayfair." He turned and strolled back to the painting to gaze at Alexander.

Warmth pooled around Colt's heart. He reached out to touch the man's pale cheeks, tracing a finger over the long blond curls, tied back in a queue. The young man appeared to be about eighteen in the portrait, slight of build with delicate features, yet Colt's research revealed West had completed the portrait on Swift's twenty-fifth birthday, the day he had inherited great wealth and lands from his father. Colt rubbed his chin. One would think His Lordship should be overjoyed on such an occasion, and yet Alexander's blue gaze followed him with heart-wrenching sadness.

"West has captured the essence of his subject, don't you think?"

Colt turned to see Business Suit gazing at him with a friendly smile. "Essence?"

"My name is Jake Williams. You may have heard of me?" replied Business Suit in a cultured Boston accent.

"Can't say that I have, sorry."

"Ah—so you don't know about the letters." Jake Williams inclined his head toward the portrait. "The love letters between Alexander and the Honorable David Fitzhugh. In a time when the crime of sodomy held the death penalty, to write love letters to a man… my God, can you imagine the implications?"

Colt straightened his shoulders. "You have these letters?"

"I most certainly do! Copies of the original documents are in my book, The Gay Lords." Jake took a card from his jacket and gave it to Colt. "I know you're restoring Alexander's house; perhaps we could meet over lunch and I'll give you the details I didn't put into print."

In truth, Colt craved information about Alexander. Living in the young lord's house and seeing each room as if through Alexander's eyes, Swift had become his obsession. With a laugh, he met Jake's hazel eyes. "I'm free now."

"Great, how about having lunch at The Square? It's a great restaurant." Jake smiled. "We can walk from here."

"Sure." Colt followed him out of the foyer into the busy street and they turned in the direction of Bruton Street. "So how did you come by the letters?"

"I bought them, along with a few other sundry items, at an auction—in Boston, of all places!" Jake fell into step beside Colt. "At first I thought they were written by a woman until I researched the names. Most of them begin with 'my love' or 'my dearest', so until I took note of the addressee… well, what a bombshell."

"How did the letters end up in the States?"

"I believe, due to the anti-sodomite movement at the time, Fitzhugh took flight to America." Jake sighed. "Of course, there is no proof he fled England under suspicion of sodomy. Nothing I researched points to him having a gay lover during his life. I do know he joined the colonists in the War of Independence and died in Boston in 1790." He stopped outside a bookstore. "Look, I'll grab a copy of my book. You must see the portrait of David Fitzhugh."

Colt stared into the shop window, his gaze not focusing on any item. His mind reeled. Even in this enlightened world, homophobia caused misery and distrust. He reflected on his own youth. Sure, he had taken his share of beatings from the local thugs, but now at six-five and built like a linebacker, no one crossed him. On the contrary, the beatings and the snide remarks, had made him more resolute to succeed in everything he did. He respected love in all forms. Gay, straight—who the fuck cared as long as that wonderful connection happened between two consenting adults? He almost felt sorry for people who could not see love if it hit them smack in the face. So many refused to recognize or understand that the sweet love between two men, or women for that matter, held the same deep emotion as straight love. Anger welled from deep inside fueled by the oppression he knew Alexander would have endured during his life. Those twisted sons-of-bitches would not have understood how cruel they were to deny the freedom to express love without prejudice.

 In Alexander's time, for a gentleman to touch a man's arm or cast a suggestive look could lead to prosecution for sodomy, a hanging offense. God knows, in those days they used the sodomy accusation to destroy many people's lives.

"You gotta see this." Jake thrust a book into Colt's hand. "Kinda spooky, don't you think?"

Colt gazed down at the glossy illustration. A trickle of ice slid down his spine. The portrait of the Honorable David Fitzhugh depicted a tall, muscular man with dark flowing hair—and the royal blue eyes that stared back at him were his own.

Buy link: https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/coming-soon-c-2/a-tryst-of-fate-ebook-p-744

Find H.C. Brown on the web.

Web: www.hcbrown-author.com

Blog: http://www.hcbrownauthoroferoticromance.blogspot.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/hcbrownauthor

Nether Regions - by Jadette Paige

Jadette's contribution to the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue line was released today by Noble Romance Publishing. I hope you enjoy this excerpt from a really good story.


Blurb:

In the age of Amazons, fighting spirit and a courageous heart revealed a warrior’s true strength. Threso proved her prowess a decade earlier, in an epic battle against invading Spartans. Now, as she enjoys the continued peace, she looks forward to a possible future with her young recruit, Kreousa. But the gods lay a challenge to discover who has the strongest warrior spirits: Amazons or Spartans.  Because the gods have a wicked sense of humor, the Spartans are undead. To make matters worse, they have chosen the unseasoned Kreousa to accompany Threso. Will Threso lose the one woman who has instilled a song of love in her?

Buy Link
Jadette's Blog

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Threso leaned back on her hands while she soaked her tired feet in the pool under the small waterfall. Her naked body still glistened from the quick swim she'd taken to wash off the sweat. Mist floated in the hot summer air, soothing her skin with a light, cool touch.

The run through the hills had revealed that her new apprentice, Kreousa, was in prime condition. The past two days' drills with sword and spear had revealed the same, along with an admirable ability to move in time with the senior trainer's drumbeat, but nothing tested a trainee's endurance like a run that began at dawn and lasted into the afternoon.

Kreousa lay not far away. Threso let her gaze wander to the reclining figure. Thick, red hair, streaked with blonde strands, spilled about the young woman's slender shoulders and away from her face, revealing the gentle curve of her ear. Lithe legs stretched straight, then bent at the knees, and the taut belly muscles moved up and down in a controlled rhythm. Her breasts, though small, were firm. Threso's mouth watered to taste one of the peach tinted, pebbled nipples.

Kreousa had arrived in the city scant days ago, to train and learn a warrior's art. Threso had not foreseen an immediate attachment forming between them, much less the nagging distraction of lust. Simply put, she wanted the young warrior. But she hesitated to act on her desires.

While she had at times been assigned to school a student in the gentler arts, such was not the case with this one. And the queen preferred the new recruits to couple with others of their own generation, to instill stronger fighting bonds among them.

But seeing Kreousa like this brought to mind the type of future she dreamed of, enjoying their hard-won peace with the right woman.

Here in this secluded spot, a stopping point on the return to the city of Mytilene, magic surrounded them. The waterfall played a peaceful, soothing melody solely for their ears. Even the low chirps of the birds overhead added to the serenity of the moment.

Plucking several blades of grass, she tossed them at Kreousa's bare breast, hoping to distract her wayward thoughts. But the grass clung to the younger woman's damp skin, raising a sudden desire to take back the grass as an excuse to touch that beautiful, golden skin.

"Are you not exhausted?" Kreousa's sudden question cut across the peace surrounding them. Kreousa looked over, her lips curving in a smile as she brushed the grass from her breast.

The young woman's gut growled with hunger. Threso stifled a grin; the young ones were always hungry, and denial of that hunger was part of their training. But those blue eyes seemed to shine with another hunger, which perhaps need not be denied.

Threso's heart thudded in a faster rhythm. "Do I look so aged? A morning run is nothing but a child's playtime. And you? Has this jaunt tired you so much that you cannot even sit upright?"

Low laughter came from Kreousa. The slightly raspy tones added to Threso's need to taste her.
Rising so that she, too, leaned on her hands, Kreousa licked moisture beading above her plump lips. "If you were to say it was time to learn of the more sensual aspects of a warrior's life, I would somehow find the strength to act accordingly."

"Truly?" The teasing was close enough to impertinence. "Come hence and display your meager knowledge, so I might judge your worthiness."

Kreousa sat straight and slanted a wicked grin at her. "Oh, ho, is this a challenge, my teacher?"

Impertinent indeed. Yet impertinence could be a delicious spice. Threso tilted her head in assent. The heat of anticipation traveled over her skin as she pulled her feet from the cool water. She waited until Kreousa had crawled nearer before she braced up on her hands and knees.

How long had she held back her desire to touch, and to feel this woman's touch? Only two days? The need had budded the first time she'd heard the young woman's voice, and bloomed the first day they'd worked together, wrestling in the sandpit, straining muscle to muscle, sweat-slicked skin to sweat-slicked skin. But the need was deep-rooted, like a lifetime without fulfillment.

She stared into Kreousa's clear eyes. The scent of grass and water filled the air about them. Soft wind swayed the trees, dancing in the leaves, throwing spots of moving shade and shadow. "Have you ever visited a woman's nether regions?"

Kreousa's throat worked. She shook her head.

Threso half smiled. She let her gaze wander over Kreousa's breasts to stop on the hard nipples. "But you have played with yourself. Sliding your fingers across the bud there, yes?"

A pink tongue swept over Kreousa's bottom lip. Yes, she was ready and willing.

Threso blew out a soft breath. "I want you to explore my hidden bud of pleasure."

Trembling so slightly the movement showed only in her braids, Kreousa hesitated. Then she nodded.

"But . . . ." Threso sat amidst the softer grasses. She spread her legs wide so the young warrior had a full view of what lay between them. "You are student. Remember that."

Moments drifted by as she allowed Kreousa to look at what awaited her.

Once Kreousa lifted her gaze to meet hers, Threso continued, her own breathing slow and shallow with expectancy.

"You may touch me with your fingers only to spread my nether lips. Your tongue and lips are all that is allowed to caress what lies between."

Without hesitation, Kreousa nodded.

"Then, shall we begin?"

The moment had arrived. She would for the first time experience the touch of a woman she desired, rather than one she must educate for the benefit of another.

Reclining with her hands resting loose in the grass at her side, she kept her knees bent and legs spread. She didn't watch as Kreousa drew near. The suspense of waiting added to her spiraling need. Anticipation beat against her chest as she awaited the first touch.

It came gently, sweetly. She grasped handfuls of grass and bit down on her bottom lip. Pleasure throbbed deep in her core as Kreousa spread her nether lips.

Her first tongue-swipe arched Threso's back. Oh, the wonder! Desire flooded her pussy.
Kreousa's tongue was a magical tool sent down by the Goddess Cybele. The young Amazon swept a second lingering touch over the tiny button between Threso's legs. Erotic heat pulsed deep in her pelvis.

"Ah, so good. Again, faster, followed by a slow lick," she managed to pant instructions.

A soft pinch to her left nipple along with the slight suction on her pussy brought Threso's hips back to the ground.

"Uhh, yes. Just so." She tried to control her speech, but with the intoxicating ecstasy throbbing near completion, she had difficulty keeping her breathing even. She concentrated on the water falling over the jagged stone wall to drop into the grotto below, holding the climax at bay. I am a warrior. I can control—Aah!

Misty, shining droplets turned to diamonds raining over their bodies, and sparkled in dazzling undulations. As if water could catch fire. Could become tiny sparks of sunlight. Desperate joy burned through her. By the goddess!

Threso relaxed slowly, the tension draining from her body. She sighed, stretching in the cool grass along the edges of the rocky outcrop overlooking the small pool. Kreousa crawled and rested her head on Threso's belly.

The swollen languor of her release stayed with her, and she drew comfort knowing Kreousa felt at ease to lie upon her.

At this moment, the young warrior belonged to her. With a lazy move, Threso threaded her fingers through the loose red strands of Kreousa's hair. The goddess not only blessed the young woman with a fluent tongue but with shining beauty, as well.

Releasing a chuckle, Threso brushed a kiss on Kreousa's brow. "You've drained me, kitten."

She glanced at the lowering sun. "It is time for us to return. The ceremony will begin shortly, and our queen would look with disfavor if we are late."

"But she would understand, wouldn't she?"

The queen would understand all too much, and might separate them.

She patted Kreousa's head, scratched behind one ear. "Rise, Kitten. We must return."

Kreousa smiled shyly as she leaned closer.

"Tonight, my sweet, your turn will come."

A low giggle escaped the young woman. She nodded and came to her feet.

Laughing, Threso slung her bow and quiver over her shoulders, and stood. Side by side, they started toward home, the city of Mytilene.

"Run with me," Threso called, and broke into an easy lope along the trail.

Naked but for the sword-belt, and the bow and quiver across her back, Threso thrilled with the rush of air across her skin, the sheer joy of the run, and knowing the footsteps behind her were Kreousa's. Life was good; peace was good; yet she was still young enough to fight and die for queen and goddess.

The path narrowed and steepened. She half slid down one section, then jumped the last few feet. She landed on her feet and stopped. Apriate, the Queen's General, was running up the flat strip of the path toward them.

The older woman hailed them.

Threso saluted, though she made no effort to hide her grin. "Hail, Apriate. What brings you so far out?"

"Looking for you. The celebrations are about to begin and your mother was worried." Apriate nodded at Kreousa before facing Threso. "She promised me some almond loaves if I came to hurry you along."

"She has a way of tempting people." Threso very well believed her mother had manipulated the older warrior. Of course, almond bread would be merely the excuse, but a well-trained warrior knew when to exercise discretion. "Let us go then. I would hate to delay you from receiving your payment."

Apriate laughed and motioned for them to lead the way.

Threso sprinted ahead, enjoying the fresh wind against her face. The trees and vines along the path blocked the view to the city. The way opened up wider as they drew nearer to the city's high gates.

No guards stood on the threshold.

She halted and reached for her blade, drawing it out. Holding the blade up, she motioned for Kreousa and Apriate to stop.

She glanced at the other two warriors. Both held their weapons in hand, ready for whatever they might find.

Threso led the way. She ran, bent over, until she reached the wall surrounding the city. A few strides from the gate, she slowed. She brushed against the rough stone, her eyes and ears and even her nose alert for any cues, until she reached the opening. Easing forward, she took in the interior of the marketplace beyond. Nothing stirred. The unnatural silence weighed upon her.
Slipping the gap, she worked her way through the empty streets.

Surely the harvest ceremony had not already started. If so, her caution was making them even tardier, but she'd rather be careful than walk into an ambush.
Cybele, Blessed Goddess, be with our warriors.

She repeated the plea over and over as she covered distance to the spot where she was sure the queen would have gathered everyone. In times of crisis, all residents knew to go to the Petra stone, which rested deep within the confines of their great temple of Panagia.

After a final turn, the massive stones of the temple came into view. There, before the columns, stood the residents of Mylitene. They were frozen in stone, their faces lifted to the heaven above.
Threso stopped, and motioned the others to hold position behind her. Had everyone become an unliving stone? Everyone in sight. Rage surged through her. By the Great Goddess! Who and what had done this? She spoke softly. "Do not look up. The people have become stone, frozen by something in the sky. Whatever did this might still be there. We must look no higher than the temple."

"You remain here, young one," Apriate told Kreousa.

"I am a warrior also! I will fight."

"You are yet a virgin to battle. Errors will be made. We will not risk your life." Only the care with which Apriate enunciated gave sign of her irritation.

Threso gestured for silence. "Let her be. She will fight with us. If the goddess so decides, then she will die with us."

With such magic in play, they seemed destined to fight against the heavens themselves, which did not bode well for them.

America! Get Your Priorities in Order.

Last month, sixty-six year old John Baker's funeral wasn't televised across the nation. Nor did celebrities line up to perform in his honor. But then, he never won a Grammy. His only awards were the Medal of Honor, Silver Star, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart.

Original News Article

Dead Means Dead - by JS Wayne

The next offering in the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue was released today.

JS Wayne's "Dead Means Dead" is a mix of fun, chills, and thrills. Give it a look.

Blurb:

Louise is having a bad day: studying for exams, play rehearsals under a director she can't stand, and ill-fitting shoes. Surely, there's a limit to what a girl has to put up with!

But her day improves when she meets the pretty, new stagehand, Angie. An instant attraction leads to a sexy sojourn in Louise's dressing room. The rest of her day seems almost tolerable, until the director barges in on their interlude and collapses—before reviving to attack Louise. Angie fights him off, and the girls flee to the safety of the quad. Soon they learn their fallen assailant is only the first wave of a terrifying outbreak.

Their best hope to stay alive is to stay together. As they explore each other's bodies and learn the deepest secrets of their hearts, Louise and Angie discover that each has found something in the other's arms they never knew they wanted.

But they have to survive first.

There oughta be a law: dead means dead . . . .

Buy Link

JS's Web SIte

Excerpt

I did the damn rehearsal in ill-fitting shoes and “nice girl” clothes that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in the real world, hoping all the while the director’s headache was actually the first symptom of a horrible venereal disease. I couldn’t wait to get back to my dressing room and kick these shoes off.


After an all-night cram session getting ready for midterms, Iwas not in the mood to look relentlessly happy as Janet in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I had a headache of my own, and I’d smoked a pack and half of cigarettes during my obsessive studying. So my sinuses were throbbing and my eyeballs were pounding when David finally clapped his hands that last time.


“Cut. Let’s knock off for the day, folks. We’ll come back tomorrow.”


I turned my wrist over to glance at my watch and got the only pleasant surprise I’d had all day.


Practice had wrapped up early. Das Direktor Der Fuhrer Das Schweinhund Scheisskopf wasn’t feeling well, he was whining to anyone who’d listen about how much his head hurt. Even though I privately thought he was a crybaby, I was glad to call it a day. I walked offstage with a groan at the stupid shoes he’d decided I just had to wear. It wasn’t even a dress rehearsal, but David said, “Louise, I want you to really feel the character. Really get into the character’s shoes.”


I wasn’t surprised David needed to stop practice. He was notorious for spending the night before midterms drinking and screwing any girl who’d open her legs. He’d often bragged about how he could talk down the asking prices of the hookers who worked the area around campus, claiming that achievement as proof of his prowess with women. I took it as proof he was only slightly less desperate than the hookers.


As I shuffled offstage, I muttered every vile name I could think of to call him, then set my mind on threading through the backstage minefield to my dressing room, my chair, and my own clothes.


On the way, a girl buttonholed me. “I’m Angie. I just transferred here.”


I gulped. While I didn’t want to be rude, having my feet in vices didn’t make me particularly friendly. All the same, I turned my head and gave her a long once-over.


I’d noticed her backstage earlier.  She was cute. Not like “Aww, look at the puppy” cute, but “Girl, I will fuck you till your eyes pop out” cute.


She was exactly my type, wearing form-fitting, artfully torn blue jeans, a plaid shirt three sizes too big, and square-toed black boots with three-inch heels. If the easy sway of her tits under the red tartan print was any indication, she hadn’t bothered with a bra. She had pale skin with a sprinkling of freckles across the top of her chest and a heart-shaped face topped off with a pixieish cap of blonde hair. She’d dyed the tips a vibrant purple, which complemented her cornflower-blue eyes.


“I hate to be rude, but if you wanna talk, you’ve gotta walk.” Without another word, I started off toward the dressing room.


She paused for a moment and then hurried after me, her boots rapping against the hard wood of the backstage floorboards. “So you’re Louise, right?”


I grumbled something that might have sounded affirmative, maybe.


“I’m the new stagehand.”


“That’s cool.” In my own ears, I sounded like a perfect bitch, and I moaned inwardly. If a girl was as rude to me as I must have seemed to Angie, I wouldn’t give her a second glance before telling her to go to hell.


I stopped and held up a hand. Angie halted beside me, giving a quizzical look. I reached down and ripped off my left shoe, fighting back an orgasmic groan at the feeling of freedom. The right shoe quickly followed, and I straightened with both of them dangling from my hand. Wiggling my toes, I gave a deep sigh of relief.


“I’m sorry, Angie. These shoes were killing my feet. I didn’t mean to come off bitchy. I’m mad at Das Herr Direktor, not you.”


“Oh . . . no! You didn’t. I mean, well, you did, but I didn’t think you meant anything by it.” She waffled, her skin turning bright pink from the opening of her shirt all the way up to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you later—“


She turned away.


I grabbed her shoulder. “No, Angie, please don’t leave. I’m sorry, okay?”

Live Bait - by BL Bonita

i

At Second Paradise Resort, love and lust are put to the test.

Connie is desperate to re-spark the flames of her twenty-year marriage, and takes her husband, Jack, to a couple's retreat. But he's more interested in fishing the nearby river than pleasing his wife. Is it time to give up and just coast through the marriage, or will Connie pull out her best lure and hook him for good?

EXCERPT:

Connie squirmed. Her panties were soaked, her heart pounded, and, if the bastard sitting next to her kept going on in vivid detail about orgies and key parties, she might come then and there, right on that damn plastic chair.

She glanced around the counseling room, her face aflame. Wide eyes and animated grins filled her vision. Yes, they had all come to this resort to work out their marriage issues, but did they really need to hear the explicit details of other people banging?

A group of about thirty people sat in the counseling room, situated in the main lodge of Second Paradise Resort. Gathered in a half-circle around the resort counselor, the couples were trying to recapture or mend the passion in their relationships. Apparently, accomplishing that required a fee of fifteen-hundred dollars per couple and a week-long stay at the resort, located on a private bay along the shores of Lake Michigan.

After reading about the resort in a pamphlet given to her by a co-worker, she'd begged Jack to go, even threatened to leave him if he didn't. In the end, all it took to convince him to come was for reading the one paragraph stating the resort had the best trout fishing in Michigan.

She and Jack and the other participants had spent four days talking about their issues and getting to know the other couples.  In another three days, the retreat would come to an end. Something drastic needed to happen between now and then or the whole trip would turn into a horrible waste of money and time.

Of all the fucking . . . . Connie glanced in Jack's direction and glared at him. Jack, of course, didn't even look her way.

Well, at least the scenery was beautiful.

The resort was situated on a rocky embankment by the lake, and every window in the counseling room offered a picturesque view of sprawling white pines and dark blue waters beyond. The Second Paradise package also offered complimentary guided or unguided adventures—kayaking, fishing, hiking, and horseback riding. Each chalet had its own hot tub and sauna, and the guests could visit the masseuse whenever they desired.

Connie desired sex. Hard, uninhibited, dirty sex with her husband. That's it. Nothing challenging about that, except her husband, Jack, had become a prude with age. She'd be lucky to get laid above the covers once a month. But maybe it wasn't all his fault. She looked down at her lap and frowned, thinking that perhaps she was being too hard on him. Maybe she should be more insistent, demanding—exactly the kind of woman she didn't want to be. Men called women like that "nags." 

" . . . yeah, Isabelle likes to take two at the same time. I like to watch and stroke it."  The way the guy drawled the words made her skin tingle and her face burn with a blush.

Good lord. What's with this guy?

Connie cleared her throat and focused forward. She noticed Isabelle's gaze downcast and felt sorry for the poor woman. No wonder she didn't sit beside her man.

But why did he have to sit next to me? She'd never been so turned on in her life, but she'd never admit that to anyone. Hearing him speak so casually about his sexual escapades made her body heat and pulse with expectation. Her mind raced with naughty images while Jack sat mutely on her other side, his face crimson. He hadn't uttered a word since the couples were called for their session nearly an hour ago.

Unable to stop herself, she gazed down at her husband's crotch, knowing what lay beneath the safety of his well-worn jeans. When she looked up to his face, his dark gray gaze penetrated hers, making her feel a little dirty.

She wanted to drag him into a closet and get it on.

Buy Link

BL's Web Site

Warriors' Woman - by Evanne Lorraine

Book one in the Seduction Mission series.

After a pandemic decimated the world’s population, life became a deadly game of survival, and Minka, a wary contestant. An ordinary woman caught in an extraordinary situation, she battles weather, feral gangs and dangerous armored men. While she appreciates the help of three sinfully sexy mech warriors, she’s not buying into their time-travel delusion.

Letting Minka continue her journey without their protection is unacceptable to the triad. But once in the safety of a remote cabin, their plan to simply win her cooperation backfires when the warriors fall into bed with her…and into love. Stranded in a hazardous past with Minka, they turn their powers to winning her heart with irresistible erotic pleasure.

Their safe haven doesn’t last long and the triad is forced to move Minka to their intended location. Although each man has special talents vital to her rescue, in the end their success depends on her willingness to accept the men as her own.

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Excerpt:

An Excerpt From: WARRIORS’ WOMAN

Copyright © EVANNE LORRAINE, 2012

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Minka struggled to lift her eyelids. Maybe they’d frozen shut. Winter in Wyoming was cold enough to freeze anything. Dimly, she realized someone carried her. He was warm and solid against her side and she was too tired to protest. She burrowed into his chest and recognized her personal transport—the intense one. He’d saved her life.

In no immediate danger, she drifted in and out of awareness secure his arms. She pictured her rescuers. The new group dressed like ski bums. Their clothes fit the weather better than the dude ranch visitors’ wardrobe choices, but not by much. These guys moved like predators, but something not quite normal nibbled on the edge of her conscious thought. Exactly what bothered her, besides their general hunkiness, and the delusional issue, she wasn’t sure.

She inhaled the delicious scent of the man carrying her, a sexy blend of woods, spice and clean, musky male. He smelled as good as he looked and that was saying a lot, because he fit her personal ideal of masculine beauty. Tall, muscular and powerful, the man was also graceful, brave and honorable. Or so she hoped. Then he had that whole dark and brooding thing going on she found so irresistible.

Of course, if she’d designed him he would have been incredibly hot for her. But in what passed for real life since the horrific pandemic, she still wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired men’s fantasies.

Sexy guy number one had arrived in the nick of time to save her. He’d shown up with his friends, sexy guy number two and sexy guy number three in the same kind of prototype vehicle as the first three men. Any resemblance between the two groups began with their rides, continued with their future trip delusions, and ended with their extra-intimidating size. The first guys had been attractive, as long as she didn’t look into their flat eyes, but they’d been stone-cold killers, definitely not turn-on material. The new hotties, with glints of arousal in their dark gazes, were a lot harder to resist. Their obvious interest sent sparks zinging to erogenous zones she’d thought dormant.

Where had these guys come from, hunk central? All three of them were hot enough to start their own fantasy show. They were also bossy—the one carrying her much more so than the other two. He was definitely the head jerk in charge.

To be honest, at least in the privacy of her own thoughts, his bossiness was more than a little hot. His Neanderthal approach was a tiny bit over the top. Although having three gorgeous guys dashing to her rescue and taking care of every little thing, like her inconvenient broken wrist and Nigel’s temporary death, made her feel all girly and mushy. A new experience for her. Even before the contagion, she’d been more the handsome hunk’s gal-pal type, never the princess.

She loved kids and in a perfect world would’ve had a large family. This world was about as far from perfect as possible. Even when there’d been millions of men to choose from, the few times she’d tried sex had been huge disappointments.

In her experience, men made terrific friends. She’d always been more tomboy than siren. Until a few hours ago, her sex drive had been missing in a long spell of non-action. Now after meeting three reality-challenged time travelers, her hormones decided to make up for lost time and kick into high gear.

Of course the men weren’t from the future, but they seemed sincere in their delusion.

Hey, she could overlook a minor issue or two. Since the pandemic, who was all that tightly wrapped? She talked to her cat. They believed in time travel. A bit of future tripping never hurt anyone and neither did her imagining something sexy happening between the four of them.

Whoa, three guys and her? Was that even possible? And they were big. Very big…all over? How would it feel to be totally filled, stretched and utterly satisfied?

Her eyelids weighed five pounds apiece. She let the darkness claim her again with a smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

Zapocalypse – The Midnight Special by D. Dye

Who knew that two lesbians stranded in some hick-ass town deep in the swamps of southern Georgia would become local legends, heroes in their own right? Gina and Ginger sure as hell didn’t.

But that’s exactly what they became on the night of The Midnight Special.

Battling redneck hypocrites on a nightly basis at the diner was bad, but battling those same inbreds turned zombie was a whole different breed of stupid. Yet with their iPods jacked up and blasting Creedence Clearwater Revival, that’s just what they’re doing: kicking some serious zombie ass!

With half the town looking out their backdoors and the other half dreading that bad moon a'rising, Gina realizes she and Ginger have been thrust into a fight for the town as well as their lives.

Excerpt:

Zapocalypse – The Midnight Special

By D. Dye

Ginger and I had feuded with our neighbors for what felt like eons, though it's only been the few months we've lived here. Why here, in this fine-ass (pfft!) municipality of Ewahitchka, Georgia? Because when Ginger threw the dart at our dorm's big wall-map, the damned thing landed here. And, on the Monday after graduation, so did we.

We'd packed up our beloved collection of the best damned horror movies of all time. Movies like The Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Birds, Friday the Thirteenth and of course, The Night of the Living Dead. The real one, the one that was black and white and still raised chill bumps.

When we rolled into town, the first thing I’d said was, “They're coming for you Gingerrr!”

 She slapped my shoulder. But the town had that feel. That great-grandparents' hometown kinda feel. Everything was so dated. Stale. Like it had died a long time ago.

But we'd planned financially for x number of miles and were running on fumes. Until we'd worked a few months and stashed more traveling money, our options were limited.

The two brutes in the apartment above the one next door were named Butch and Sundance. Really. I pictured their dads getting drunk together during a Western movie marathon. These two backwoods rednecks couldn't grasp our need to see the country first hand; they bragged—leering—they'd never needed to even cross the county line to find what they wanted. Nope, they were bred and born here, were related to every other body in town, and knew who was knocked up before the doctor did.

When Ginger and I moved in, those boneheads immediately set about trying to get in our pants. On our second night in our new place, they'd brought over a case of Old Milwaukee, their beer bellies, and way too much hope, judging from the pack of condoms sticking out of the front pocket of Butch's overalls.

We didn't even open the door.

A few days later, snickering together at what their faces must look like, Ginger and I lounged on our semi-private patio in our skimpiest bikinis and took our own sweet time massaging in one another's tanning lotion. Of course, we ended up in a heated make-out session. When I stripped off Ginger's suit and the men got a good look at her tawny muff, they probably drooled enough to fill a hot tub in the landlady's apartment beneath.

Knowing we had a jealous audience was secretly really turning me on. The fact that Ginger was mine, and those two bohemians could only watch—fuck yeah, that got me wet. Ginger winked and spread those silken thighs wide as she thrust her perky, rose-colored nips skyward.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They're wrong. That picture was worth a million!

When I slowly encircled said nip with the tip of my tongue, rolling the little perfection to firmness, I heard multiple moans. Count Ginger's as one and I could guess where the others came from. But when I began gently nipping the taut buds and caught Ginger's heady scent, any thoughts of others just vanished.

Hell, I was squeezing my own thighs together in harmony with Ginger's gyrating hips. While I made oral love to her ample tits, I walked my fingers down her belly, then farther still through her perfectly coiffed thatch. The ginger-hued hairs glistened like magic under the falling sun.

Creedence Clearwater Revival's Pagan Baby was softly playing as the late-summer wind caressed my own bared skin.

Could life get any better than this?

Just as I started kissing my way down Ginger's lithe body, a huge bubbling-wet belch erupted, stopping me dead in my tracks.

Disgust iced my hot fantasy of being watched while I fucked Ginger. I looked up to see Butch on his balcony, wiping his mouth with a meaty forearm and flipping a chicken bone into the golden sky. Beside him, Sundance gaped at us, his beer-bottle nudging his mouth like an eager brown cock.

We flipped them off and huffed inside, but not before Ginger shot off something along the lines of pinkie-pricked inbreds.

Ever since, the guys had worked hard to make our lives hell. First by accidentally backing over our garbage can. Then by deflating our tires, which we couldn't prove. But we knew it was them.

But the real kicker? As much as those two inbred assholes might hate the notion of living next door to two lesbians, it sure as fuck didn't stop them from peeping on us any chance they got. The pervs.

Of course, half the town shot us the side-eye whenever our shifts at the diner coincided, as if thinking we would just break out and start getting jiggy right on the spot. We'd kinda figured when we moved into this shotgun town we might end up the center of attention for a bit.

Between Ginger's bright red hair and my own blonde-streaked black, we'd always stood out in a crowd. Mainly Ginger, with her curvaceous body, bright hair, green eyes, and snappy attitude, versus my borderline Goth look and rather snarly attitude, or so everyone kept telling me. Personally, I called it truthful, and if people couldn't take that and called me snarly, it wasn't my damn problem.

Geesh.

Ginger liked to call it our chance to educate the less fashion-fortunate. It was more than that. It was our challenge to their attitude that as Ewahitchka went, so went the world.

Such was life anywhere, I supposed. Some dickhead would always be ready to cause trouble. Experiencing this gorgeous countryside was worth dodging a few snipes here and there.

* * * * *

The diner's bell jangled, goosing my nerves and oh, did I have a headache building. The all-night movie-and-sex marathon had been fun, but damn was I paying for it now. I’d gotten off yesterday and gone home to find Ginger curled up on the sofa and waiting for me with two cold ones, a large bowl of popcorn and three of the latest horror releases. Color me stupid, but curling up with Ginger while escaping into the world of trolls, banshees and vampires, had seemed like heaven on earth.  Feeling like hell the next day—today—hadn’t even crossed my mind.

 Raucous admiration broke out all around. I glanced over my shoulder, although I didn't need to; the catcalls told me it was Ginger, arriving to start her shift.

If we hadn't been desperate for work, we would have been right back out the door the second we'd laid eyes on the skimpy uniforms—Daisy Duke shorts and white, low-cut, eyelet-lace blouses paired with outlandish red cowboy boots. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and this job paid the bills. Barely. Truthfully, the way Ginger filled hers out, and the fact I got to watch her working in it . . . well, that almost made the sleaze-to-please uniform worthwhile.

The fact that Ginger wore her sheerest bra tonight only added to her appeal; I could just make out her areolas. Her tips would be good tonight. I could scarcely take my eyes off the mouthwatering visuals.

As if she sensed the intense scrutiny, Ginger blushed. Because I knew her contours so well, though, I saw the slight shadows where her nipples hardened.

I shook my head, trying to clear the images of the previous evening from my mind. Of Ginger sprawled out across our bed, spread eagle like the most bountiful of buffets. Her trimmed mound and glistening labia just beckoned to be orally adored, and oh, how I had adored. I knew I could never get enough of Ginger's unique scent or taste, like spiced honey, sweet with a hint of the exotic.

My nipples knotted painfully. Um, yeah, now was so not the time to remember last night. I focused a moment on Alice, the other waitress, who was a font of wisdom to anyone unfortunate enough to get trapped into listening to it.

On weekdays, when the factory kept workers until eight at night, the blue-haired crowd predominated and the wolf-whistles weren't so bad. On weekends, Bob opened the back room, where the pool tables were, and the diner became more of a bar. A few beers made these good ole boys belligerent and brazen. As Alice put it, all the good sense their mommas had beaten into them up and flew the coop.

"Hey, baby, how's the evening going?" Ginger asked while marrying the ketchups.

"Typical shit, new night." I shot back a few Tylenol, praying it would relieve the monster headache gathering weight at my temples.

Two infernal chimes alerted me that my orders were up. Ginger's slap on my ass, however, brought about a smug smile as I sauntered over to collect the food. Ginger knew how to wring a smile out of me, no matter what.

Man, but how did I ever got so lucky as to find Ginger? I would never know, but I thanked the karma gods for looking out for me every day.

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