|
NEW RELEASE 
Book Title: A Touch of Maple Author and Publisher: Amy Aislin Cover Artist: Morningstar Ashley Designs Release Date: May 30, 2025 Tense/POV: past tense, third person, alternating POV Genres: Contemporary M/M Romance Tropes: Rival’s brother, small town, hockey, divided loyalties, found family Heat Rating: 2 flames Length: 56 000 words It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliff-hanger. Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK Audiobook also Available 
Blurb After being traded numerous times over the course of his pro hockey career, all Bellamy Jordan wants is a place where he belongs. Burlington, Vermont, home of the Vermont Trailblazers, his newest team, might just be that place. The bonus: he’s within spitting distance of the grandparents who raised him. The drawback: his long-time rival’s gorgeous brother—who he can’t get out of his mind—also lives nearby. With the highest percentage of LGBTQIA+ residents in Vermont, Maplewood is a town where everyone belongs. And with festivals year-round, there’s always something fun happening! This multi-author, low-angst queer series features ten standalone romances—each set against the backdrop of a different festival. Come for the celebrations, stay for the happily-ever-afters! Excerpt Inhaling a slow breath, Jason rounded the table to face Bellamy. He held two half gallon jugs of maple syrup in the crook of one arm that Jason hadn’t noticed from the back. “Hi.” Bellamy jolted, clearly off in his own world, and met his gaze. Confusion crossed his face as he shoved his hood back and looked around. “Where’d the lady go?” “Sheila? She’s gone home for the evening. You get me.” “But I was going to ask her how to get more of these.” Bellamy held up a bracelet made of green, white, and red beads. “How many more?” “Uh…” Bellamy picked two similar ones off the rack and said, “Twenty? No wait. Like, forty? No, twenty. Definitely twenty.” What did he need twenty bracelets for? Christmas-themed ones no less. In March. Jason rotated the rack. “These won’t do?” “No, it has to be these colors.” “Okay, well…” Jason scratched his cheek. Why was he finding it adorable that Bellamy wanted twenty beaded bracelets? “I can ask Sheila to get in touch with the maker tomorrow. Can’t guarantee they’ll have enough beads in those colors for another twenty bracelets, though.” Bellamy shrugged. “It’s cool. I’ll start with these.” “And the maple syrup?” Jason asked, leading Bellamy to the cash desk. “Are those for your grandparents? Guessing you didn’t drive an hour out of your way for something you can find easily enough in Burlington.” “My grandparents,” Bellamy repeated tonelessly, avoiding Jason’s gaze. “Sure. Yup. This is for them. They love to buy local.” “Most people do around these parts. Vermont’s philosophy might as well be buy local, shop small.” “Hm. So what’s the deal with these bracelets?” “They’re made by a local artisan,” Jason told him as he rang up Bellamy’s products. “Everything in here is.” “Yeah?” A smile pulled those pouty lips upward. “Cool. Do you have any keychains with the Trailblazers’ logo? Little ones, like those maple syrup-shaped ones over there?” “The ones you said were unimaginative?” Jason snapped, despite telling himself he didn’t care. The smile fell off Bellamy’s face. “What?” “The other day when you were here with your friend.” Jason scanned the second maple syrup jug and plopped it onto the counter with a loud thunk. “You said it was unimaginative. I heard you.” “I didn’t…” Bellamy’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean… I just wanted to…” He trailed off, and his entire body seemed to wilt. “Never mind. What do I owe you?” Well, fuck. Now Jason felt bad, and he couldn’t say why. “We used to have keychains in the shape of the Trailblazers’ jersey,” he found himself saying. Bellamy’s gaze flew to his, eyes wide with surprise. “We haven’t had any since the beginning of the hockey season, but I can get in touch with the artist. If she’s okay with me passing on her contact info, I can send it your way if you want to commission something.” “Just give me her social media handle and I’ll look her up,” Bellamy said, his phone already in his hand. “She’s not on social media. Here.” Jason flipped over one of the shop’s business cards and slid it across the counter along with a pen. “Give me your number.” Bellamy began to scribble it down, then peered up at Jason a little mistrustfully. “You’re not going to sell it, are you?” “Who would want it?” Jason quipped, gratified when Bellamy laughed. No, not gratified. He was—oh, fuck it all. Jason inspected the top half of Bellamy he could see—his bottom half was blocked by the counter—while Bellamy wasn’t looking. For a hockey player, he wasn’t overly big, though Jason supposed that wasn’t saying much. These days, there were a lot of smaller players. Not that Bellamy was small, not in the usual sense. He was just leanly muscled rather than bulky. His black winter coat was open over a plain blue sweater, a well-worn scarf dangled around his neck, and his hair flopped over one eye as he wrote his number on the back of the business card. What was that on his scarf? Were those…? “Here.” Bellamy slid the business card back toward Jason. “I appreciate it.” “I like your scarf.” Instant scowl. “Don’t be a dick.” Jason blinked at the vehemence. “I’m…not? I like it. The little embroidered dragons are cute.” It took a moment for Bellamy’s frown to reverse itself. When it did, a slight furrow remained between his eyebrows. “Thank you,” he said tentatively, like he was waiting for the punchline. “My grandma made it for me.” About the Author Amy’s lived with her head in the clouds since she first picked up a book as a child, and being fluent in two languages means she’s read a lot of books! She first picked up a pen on a rainy day in fourth grade when her class had to stay inside for recess. Tales of treasure hunts with her classmates eventually morphed into love stories between men, and she’s been writing ever since. She writes evenings and weekends—or whenever she isn’t at her full-time day job saving the planet at Canada’s largest environmental non-profit. An unapologetic introvert, Amy reads too much and socializes too little, with no regrets. She loves connecting with readers. Join her Facebook Group to stay up-to-date on upcoming releases and for access to early teasers, find her on Instagram, or sign up for her infrequent newsletter. Social Media Links Blog/Website | Facebook | Instagram Newsletter Sign-up | Facebook Group Giveaway Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win a signed paperback of A Touch of Maple http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/c8c1c64130/ 
0 Comments
 When they left the elevator, Colt stumbled, and Mal grabbed him around the waist to steady him. Colt put one hand on Mal’s chest and smiled, sending warmth spreading through him from where Colt’s hand rested. Mal’s room was closer to the elevator, and Colt leaned against the door, searching his pockets. “I think I lost my keycard.” Mal swiped his own card through the door lock. When it opened, Colt fell backward into the room. He would have landed flat on his ass had Mal not darted forward, grabbing him again. “You sorta like taking hold of me so I don’t fall,” Colt murmured and leaned in close enough their lips almost touched. “You’re sorta uncoordinated.” Mal skimmed his lips over Colt’s cheek. Winding one arm around Mal, Colt inched closer. “I’m drunk. That doesn’t count.” He licked so lightly over Mal’s ear it made Mal shudder. Mal kicked the door shut, then turned Colt so he was trapped against it by Mal’s presence. Colt hauled Mal closer and dipped his head so he could kiss Mal’s neck and trail his lips over Mal’s jaw. In response Mal ran one hand through Colt’s hair to a little above his neck, then cupped the back of Colt’s head and kissed him, slowly and gently at first. But it didn’t take long before they both sent their hands roaming over each other. Sweet kisses very quickly turned to ravenous ones. Mal held Colt securely against him and moved, pressing his knee into Colt’s groin. Colt moaned, then yelped into Mal’s mouth. His body jerked, and he fisted his hands in Mal’s shirt while his hips stuttered. He broke their kiss and started babbling, “Oh God, I’m… I didn’t… that’s never…. I’m sorry….” “Sh, sh, I want this too.” That’s when Mal realized his knee was warm and wet and getting wetter. “Oh.” He held Colt until his body stopped quivering. “It’s okay. Colt. Don’t be sorry.” Mal stepped back one pace and held Colt by his shoulders. Colt let go of Mal and covered his face with one hand. “That’s…. I’m so embarrassed.” He reached back for the door handle. “I need to….” “You already did.” Colt stared at Mal for a second, then snickered. “I guess I did.” “You can’t go out there like that. It happens to everyone at some point.” Mal stopped and shrugged. “I consider it a compliment. I barely touched you, and then you….” He gestured with both hands to his own crotch. Colt groaned again, but not with pleasure this time. He skirted around Mal and flopped backward onto Mal’s bed, covering his face with one hand again. “It’s okay,” Mal repeated. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face and over his head a few times, then went to the closet and pulled a T-shirt and sweatpants out for Colt. When he returned, Colt was snoring softly. To say Colt’s dark hair was disheveled was an understatement. His lips had a bit of a pucker to them, and his shirt was rucked up, exposing his belly button. Mal leaned down and pulled off Colt’s shoes and socks. Next he unbuttoned and unzipped Colt’s pants, grabbed the hem, and tugged them off. Everything in Colt’s pockets fell to the floor. Tossing the pants closer to the closet, Mal collected the items. Keys, phone, wallet, and… keycard. He held the card between two fingers and turned to look at Colt, sound asleep in Mal’s bed. Shaking his head, he put all the items on the table. Then he concentrated on wrestling Colt out of his underwear and shirt. It was hard—pun intended—to stop himself from trying to rouse Colt. His chest had a dusting of dark hair that trickled down to his belly button. He was lean, and his ribs moved with every breath. Colt’s chest had a nice shape as it tapered to his waist. The hair between his legs was as dark and pleasing as that on his head, though curlier—thick and plush. He had to wipe Colt clean quickly; he couldn’t keep looking at that body and sweet face and touching Colt’s smooth skin without doing something that would be seriously embarrassing. Once finished, he gathered their clothes, put them in the hotel hamper, and left them in the hall to be collected and dry-cleaned. Lastly he tucked Colt under the blankets. A quick shower with a little extra soap and some special attention to his cock, and Mal could relax and sleep. He retrieved the extra bedding from the closet and arranged it in the huge armchair in the corner, clicked off the light, and settled in for the night.  Whiskey and Moonshine is available in eBook, paperback and through Kindle Unlimited.     Randy was working on another slice of pizza and waved at Linden in a “go on” motion with his free hand. “Suspect number two seems to have dropped off the face of the earth a few weeks ago. And I’ve got a third person who might possibly be of interest—not sure if he should be considered a suspect or not—but he’s become impossible to find,” Linden said. “What do you know about them?” Randy asked. “Not much other than their names and a few public and easily available facts. I have a niggling feeling they’re all somehow related.” “And why the flight, and where are you going?” “My most likely suspect at this point lives in Wyoming,” Linden said flatly. “Remember me mentioning a Tyler McCall?” It didn’t take Randy long to digest that bit of information before he grinned. “Ah-hah. A reason not only for the FBI to talk to him, but you in particular. Let me guess—a certain guy you met earlier this year in that same area? One blue eye, one green eye, messy blond hair? No, I don’t recall you mentioning him.” Randy made a “lips flapping” gesture with one hand. “Ass,” Linden said. “But yes, I’m flying to Wyoming to talk to him. It’s possible he could’ve hopped on a plane, done the deed, and been home for dinner—crossing state lines in the process.” He smiled and shrugged. “I’ve met him, and that slight familiarity might lull the man into a false sense of security and cause him to slip up and say or do something incriminating in my presence.” “Which we’re hoping doesn’t happen,” Randy added and Linden nodded. “Is he the type to commit murder?” “I don’t think so. I didn’t spend that much time with him, but I really don’t think so.” If that were indeed the case, Linden would do everything in his power to prove his suspect innocent. “But at the moment, I have more questions than answers, not enough leads, and no theory that makes much sense.” “Serial killers prefer a certain type of victim, and don’t usually like to cross state lines in pursuit of their next fix,” Randy pontificated. “They tend to stick to an area of comfort, right?” Linden nodded. “And one confirmed victim doesn’t make a series.” “Crime of passion?” “I thought of that, but those are usually spontaneous and messy. In this instance the act itself was methodical. This death was premeditated,” Linden said. “So back to assisted suicide?”      Ian preferred not to use the override. In truth, repercussions, discipline--punishment—were things Ian normally looked forward to, and if the mood struck him, he would linger in his car until the lock engaged. Tonight, this was not the case. His home was his sanctuary, and he wanted to get inside. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt before fishing his phone from his suit jacket and called Taren. “Murdoch.” “The door is locked,” Ian blurted out. Taren drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Hold on.” Ian heard Taren moving and then he said in a muffled voice, “I have to take this; it’s Ian.” Someone asked if Ian was all right, and Taren’s response was, “Yes, I think so.” A minute later Taren asked, “Are you okay? Was there an emergency at work?” “N-no. Emergency, I mean.” “Ian,” Taren spoke slowly, drawing Ian’s name out. “Boy. Are you okay?” Being called ‘boy’ immediately dropped Ian into his sub role. “Yes. No. Maybe. Sir.” Read a variety of snippets in the Rainbow Snippets Facebook group!  Force Majeure is available in eBook and through Kindle Unlimited.
Andy Siege has a new queer magical realism romance out (bi male, intersex female): Don't Let Me Drown. Traumatised by his experiences as a war photographer, Aaron is drowning in guilt and tranquilisers. On a new assignment to document the civil conflict in the African country of Miberia, he is paralysed by the belief that terrible things only happen so that he can capture them on camera. When he meets Mary, a young woman in danger because she is intersex, he’s convinced that if he can just save her, it will redeem him for all the other deaths he’s witnessed. So begins a race to the border, one step ahead of the rebel army. But as love grows between them and the country is submerged in innocent blood, Aaron comes to understand that he’s not saving Mary. She’s saving him. Amidst the horrors of war, can Aaron rediscover hope? Warnings: Violence, Drug Abuse, Depression, Explicit Sex About the Series: Unusual stories about racially diverse, neurodivergent characters of marginalised orientations and gender alignments. Enter bizarre, thought-provoking new worlds in these speculative novellas that explore deeply relevant themes in an irreverent way. These are stand-alone novellas and can be read in any order. Get It On AmazonExcerpt CHAPTER ONE I’m chilling at the bottom of a swimming pool. Being down here, deep underwater, feels amazing. I can’t hold my breath forever though. I wish I could, or that maybe I would drown. Unfortunately, that’s not how human beings work, and eventually my stupid survival instincts will force me to resurface. Did you know that crocodiles can hold their breath for up to an hour? I’m behaving like an idiot and I should be embarrassed. I’m an adult and I need to get out and get dressed. I have responsibilities and a job to do. I’m an award-winning photographer, for fuck’s sake. I worked hard to get where I am. I haven’t taken a photograph since Greece. The last picture I took was of a drowned toddler in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, curled up on the beach with shallow waves lapping at his little body. The boy and his entire family tried to come over to Europe by motorboat, but a storm flipped them over and they all died. The toddler’s father, mother, and two sisters lay washed up further down the sandbank, with bloated bellies and wide-open eyes. The Aegean Sea is beautiful at sunrise. I must have taken a thousand photographs with my most expensive Ceica Camera, but only that one specific picture was broadcast around the world. You’ve probably seen it in a newspaper or on TV. In the photograph, the little boy in the Mickey Mouse shirt looks like he’s sleeping, except that his lips are just a bit too blue, and his face is too relaxed. Also, a child wouldn’t be sleeping right in the surf as the sun rises over the Aegean. My lungs start to burn and there is a kind of pressure building inside my brain, pushing me to resurface out of the swimming pool. I manage to hold my breath for a few more seconds while I rise, and then I pop my head out of the water and gasp. Soft reggae tunes float through the air, and I smell curry and wood smoke from the buffet by the bar. I’m alone at the pool, apart from one high-class prostitute who is reclining in a pool chair, sipping water through a straw. The African country of Miberia is at war, so the Western tourists and professionals have all left the country. The only foreigners still here are diplomats, weapons dealers, and journalists like me. I’m staying at the Crystal Hotel, which is a Chinese style high rise, painted blue and with bluish window glass. Even though it’s almost happy hour, and the buffet is extravagant, there’s no one at the bar. I arrived this morning, and the only other guests I saw at lunch were a pair of sketchy looking Asian businessmen. I was supposed to take a taxi to the outskirts of the city today, to start photographing refugees, but I didn’t. The problem I have right now is a complex state of artistic paralysis. I haven’t taken a picture in many months. You see, people think that I’m good at taking photographs, but the truth is that every good picture I’ve ever taken mystifies me. When I got that major award for the picture of the drowned toddler, I pretended to know what I did to deserve it. But actually, I don’t know what I did, and I fear that I’ll never take a picture that good ever again. I swim to the edge of the pool and then hoist myself up and out. I have a towel and a papaya vodka cocktail waiting for me on a rickety iron table. I dry myself off and down the drink, while doing a casual sweep of my surroundings. The walls around the hotel courtyard are tall and topped with razor wire. I wonder if they added the razor wire because of the war outside or if it has always been there. I hear a gunshot off in the distance. Somewhere in the city, someone may have just lost their life, and I wasn’t there to take the picture. I believe in fate. I believe that things happen for a reason. But that poses an ethical problem. You see, I’m a war photographer, so when I take a picture of something horrible, I ask myself if that horrible thing happened just so that I could take a picture of it. Do you follow? I ask myself if the act of me taking a photograph caused the drowning of that little boy in the Mickey Mouse shirt. The obvious answer is no, but hear me out. That little boy’s death, together with my camera, sparked a global conversation about refugees. Fate? The high-class prostitute on the other side of the pool just winked at me. I don’t find her particularly sexy. I haven’t found anyone sexy in a long time, actually. My libido seems to have died with that toddler in Greece. I can still appreciate the aesthetics of a beautiful person, healthy skin, good teeth, an outgoing personality, but I just can’t get a boner anymore. I shake my head at the prostitute so that she gets it. There’s a war going on in Miberia. A complex, brutal, bloody beast of a war, and I’m here to take pictures. So now I ask myself, does my presence here mean that bad things will happen just so that I can photograph them? If that’s true, then it might be better if I just stay at the Crystal Hotel, if I don’t venture out into the city, out into the countryside where entire villages are getting butchered. Maybe my presence out there will cause more atrocities to happen. That’s a crippling thought. I make my way over to the buffet by the bar. There’s roasted chicken and rice that smells like curry and cinnamon. I load my plate with the exotic food and take a seat at a small table. The chow is delicious, probably because the ingredients are much fresher than anything from the supermarket back in Canada. I feel a little shitty though, because I know that while I’m pigging out, about thirty percent of the population of Miberia is starving. There isn’t anything I can do about that, of course, plus I’m hungry. The two Asian businessmen who I saw at lunch come in through the gate. They’re tall, with unremarkable haircuts, intelligent eyes, and pot bellies. I wonder what category of war profiteer they fall under. Are they weapons salesmen, diplomats, military advisors, diamond miners? They both nod at me, although they don’t smile. I spent some time in the Ukraine during the Russian invasion and I noticed that men who mean business don’t smile a lot. I’m actually a quarter black, although I pass as white. Most people think I’m Greek or Italian on account of my black hair and slight natural tan. The truth is, though, that my granddad on my mom’s side was Miberian. That’s one of the reasons why I took this assignment. I wanted to get to know the country that my ancestors are from. I even know the name of my tribe, the Mzuru, who live in the northern jungles of Miberia. I don’t know a lot about them, except that they worship crocodiles and have six fingers on their left hands. So do I. The medical term for this condition is “polydactyly”, which means “many fingers” in Greek. Most people who have this condition can’t use the extra finger because it doesn’t have bones in it, but mine is fully functional. It’s located on the little finger side of the hand and it even helps me complete some tasks better than normal people can. For example, I can switch the settings on my camera faster than other photographers are able to. I won’t be able to visit the tribe, of course, because of the war. I would love to hug a long-lost relative right now. When I said earlier that I can’t get a boner, I didn’t mean that I’m completely adverse to affection. I do sometimes wish for physical contact, actually I don’t think any human being can exist without it. They did a study with orphans in Romania who were starved of hugs, cuddles, kisses, etc. Those children became sick and died. So yeah, I too feel like getting a backrub or a peck on the forehead from time to time. Today is one of those days where I wouldn’t mind some affection. Paying a prostitute isn’t my style, and the Asian businessmen at the bar are probably too homophobic to cuddle with me. Actually, homosexuality is illegal in the government-run parts of Miberia, so I’ve got to be a little careful. If I do meet someone to share warmth with, it has got to be a woman. You can literally go to jail here if you are found to be gay. Horrible? Certainly, and it gets worse… you see, in Miberia, you can go to jail if you support gay rights, even if you are straight. That means that there is practically no way for things to get better, because even allies are too afraid to say anything. Whatever, maybe once the war is over, things will change. The high-class prostitute by the pool is the only female at the hotel, and I’m not going to pay someone for love. I guess I’ll have to toughen up and be alone tonight. As I’m thinking this I hear a burst of machine gun fire out in the city. Did someone just die for no reason? Was I supposed to be there to photograph what happened? Should I have been there to give meaning to the loss of life? Or did the bullets miss their mark because I wasn’t there? Did I save a life by refusing to engage with the bloodshed? Author Bio
Andy Siege born as Andreas Madjid Siege in Kenya in 1985 is an award winning film director and author. He is a POC, neurologically diverse, and queer. He has published 11 novels/novellas, and his debut feature film “Beti and Amare” which he wrote and directed was nominated for multiple high profile international film awards. He has a BA in Creative Writing and an MA in Political Science. Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/andreas.siege Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/andysiege/ Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/25963464.Andy_Siege Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B08P1XL2DV 
Wyatt put his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s what con artists do, sweetie.” “Show me all this evidence you found,” Janelle said. They left the barn and went to the house. Wyatt pulled out all the data he’d collected. “Val says this man is Allen Stein.” He pointed to the picture he’d e-mailed Val. “This guy looks familiar to me, like I feel as if I should know him, but I can’t put a name to this face,” Val said. He stood behind them, looking over Janelle’s shoulder. Janelle picked up the photo and studied it. “I have to say the same thing. I know this guy. Do you think Stein and this guy were in it with Charlie?” “I don’t see how they couldn’t be,” Wyatt said. “The only problem is, other than the fact Marcus Paulle co-owned some of his horses, I can’t find a direct link. Yet. None of his horses’ race records fit the pattern, and he doesn’t gamble enough. Stein is probably the guy that keeps the clean image, gives him more chances to find marks. I think they were just getting set up in this area. Shopping jockeys. Stein gets to know some, then picks one or two to work with his scheme. Their pattern was, run their gambling scheme, then drop off the grid for a while, probably when someone was catching on to them. Then they’d show up somewhere else and start over. Allen Stein is the only one with a consistent presence. Personally, I think his job was only to target the horses and jockeys they could use. That’s not what concerns me. It’s what is going on now that worries me the most.” “What did the cops say when you met with them?” Val asked. “They had the pieces, but not all the connections yet. Exactly how Val fit in was a glitch, and that’s one reason they haven’t released your name,” Wyatt said. “One reason?” Val asked. Wyatt shrugged and smiled. “There are people who will confess to anything. It’s pretty standard to hold back some information to confirm confessions.” “So only the people involved would know Val was the real target,” Janelle said. “Yes,” Wyatt said. “Which is why the scare tactics. These guys were thieves, not killers. I’m still missing something.” “Maybe whoever was here wanted to find out how much Val knew?” Janelle suggested. “How would stealing my gas do that?” Val asked. “Flush you out, make you go to the cops, and if the cops in turn went to our killer they could find out if they could continue in this area or would need to move on. Except…?” Wyatt scratched the back of his neck as he spoke. “Except who is doing the killing?” Val asked. “There is one simple way to find out. Let people know I was there when Janelle’s car crashed and that I saw who was there and what happened.” “That’s pretty damn risky and I doubt the police will go for it. I’m very sure I don’t want to agree to that plan,” Wyatt said. “Someone was already here. It’s only a matter of time before they come back or catch up to me somewhere else. At least this way there will be some control over the situation,” Val pointed out. “And whoever it is doesn’t know about my secret weapon.” “What’s that?” Wyatt asked. Val smiled at Wyatt. “You.”      Slight sounds and scents Forge wouldn’t normally notice in this situation assaulted him. He shifted his weight and sighed. No one else seemed to notice. It was annoying and distracting, and he made a mental note to discuss this with Blair. As soon as the elevator door opened, he felt a slight tingling along his spine. Checking the doors as he wandered the hall became unnecessary as the tingling increased. Blair’s office was, in fact, a group of three small offices with a common outer waiting area. Forge slipped into a chair and picked up a magazine. Blair’s door was open and he stood listening to some guy who, if Forge was getting the gist of the conversation, was upset about a grade he’d received for a class project. Forge arched an eyebrow and glanced over the top of his magazine every few seconds while he listened to the exchange. “You didn’t do the project as it was outlined. You failed,” Blair said. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “What I did was brilliant and creative and—” “And not the project you were assigned to complete,” Blair said. His tone was getting harsher. Forge flipped the pages of the magazine, but he wasn’t looking at it. “So, you’re saying, teaching assistant, that my work is brilliant, but you want ordinary?” Forge sort of hated this guy. “No, what I’m saying is sometimes you have to learn to complete the mundane tasks in order to advance to the more innovative ones. It’s called real life. Get used to it,” Blair said. “And, I’m a full professor now.” He wasn’t budging and that sent a warm wave of pride through Forge. To the casual observer, Blair might appear quiet, almost meek, a pushover who wasn’t aware of what was going on around him. Forge had mistakenly thought that at one time. Not anymore. “This is utter bullshit!” Forge gave up any pretext of reading and dropped the magazine to his knees. When he leaned forward and rested his chin against his hands folded together, Blair’s gaze flicked to him, and he shook his head the smallest bit. “It’s my class. I am responsible for creating the syllabus and grading the assignments. You didn’t complete the assigned work. Simple as that.” Blair punctuated his statement with a low growl it was obvious the guy couldn’t hear. “Maybe I should take this up with the department head.” This had gone on long enough. Forge slapped the magazine back into place on the table, stood up, and cleared his throat. The student—and Blair—ignored him. Though from the emotions Blair emitted and his stance, Forge could tell he was concentrating on not rolling his eyes. Blair could roll his eyes like no one else. “You go right ahead,” Blair said. “Make sure you get my name right. It’s Doctor Turner. I completed my course work and earned my degrees. Degrees, plural.” Forge crossed the room and announced, “I believe Dr. Turner and I have an appointment.” He tapped his watch for emphasis. The guy turned and poked Forge’s chest. “I’m not done here, buddy.” Forge put his hands on his hips, pulling back his jacket as he did so. “Hmm.” Blair sucked in a breath only Forge could hear, and he recognized it as that giggle/snicker sort of thing Blair did. The guy looked briefly at the badge and gun now in plain view. He blew out a disgusted breath and gave Forge another poke, saying, “I said I need a few minutes here. This is my life I’m discussing. That’s not a crime.” Forge looked down at the finger against his chest. Blair’s stance relaxed. He turned partially away, clearly trying to conceal the smile threatening to break out and scratched the back of his head. Using his best throaty vampire voice, Forge spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “And I said I have an appointment.” With another tap on his watch, he dropped his fangs a bit and let his eyes change to a solid blue. “Now.” The young man’s eyes grew wide. He stumbled away from Blair and Forge, tripping over a trash can in the process. “What the hell?” Forge twisted around and pursued him. “Here, let me help you.” He took the man’s arm, ushering him along a bit faster. His voice and appearance were normal again. “I… this….” The student hurried into the hall. Blair called after him and pointed. “The department head is down the hall, third door on the right. Big sign that says Department Head.” In the next instant, he put his hand against Forge’s chest. “You can’t do that.” “What?” Forge slipped one arm around Blair’s waist. “No one saw me change or move that fast.” He tugged Blair closer and walked them backward into the office, kicking the door shut behind him. “Though, my badass act works much better without you giggling in the background.” “You can’t—” Blair sucked in a breath and his voice cracked when Forge ran his other hand up Blair’s spine, bent his head and licked Blair’s neck. “—intimidate everyone—” His speech faltered as Forge’s tongue slithered slowly over Blair’s ear. “—who…. Stop! I only have forty-five minutes for lunch, and I’m hungry.” “So am I.” Forge used his fangs to lightly bite the tender flesh under Blair’s jaw. He was rewarded with the reaction he hoped for. Blair moaned and leaned more heavily against him, hips stuttering forward. “We’re men. Forty-five minutes is plenty of time to eat and get a quickie.” Blair squirmed and Forge let his grip be broken. “Be nice to the students, and I’m serious. We can’t do this…that…here.” Forge sighed and leaned to the side to open the door. “It’s my sworn duty as your soulmate to protect you and defend you. That’s rule number one of the vampire code.” Blair let the eye roll loose. It was probably painful to contain it for so long. “There is no vampire code, and I don’t need defending. I was taking care of myself years before I met you and your—” He paused, raised his eyebrows, grinned wickedly, and poked Forge’s chest. “--badge.” Forge waved out the door and stepped to the side so Blair could exit the small office. He stopped and waited for Blair to lock up, then walked beside him to the elevator. “You know what’s going on here, right?” “Five weeks until the anniversary of my dad’s funeral, which means—” “Five weeks and a day until the anniversary of when you were changed. You’ll be contagious,” Forge finished for him and pushed the down button. Blair nodded. “You’re only going to get more intense and worse, aren’t you?” “But that’s why you love me.” Forge let Blair enter the elevator first. They were alone. “For my badge and all.” “Declan is right, you and Lucas spend far too much time together. You’re both incorrigible.” Forge chuckled, and Blair gifted him with another eye roll as they took up their places in the cafeteria line. He put his most charming smile on his face when a girl picked up a tray and joined the line right behind them. “Hello.” Minor irritation skimmed the surface of Blair’s emotions, and Forge felt it prickle his senses. The girl cocked her head and flipped her hair. “Are you new here?” she asked and brushed her hand over Forge’s. Her gaze raked up and down his body. “I’m visiting.” They moved along the line, and he picked up a few dishes. “She’s a student,” Blair whispered. Forge leaned closer to Blair, dropped his voice an octave, and said, “I don’t work here.” He was using what Lucas liked to refer to as “Forge’s fuck me” voice. “Oh,” the girl said. “Even better.” She inched close enough to rub her arm against his. Forge basked in the tidal wave of heat, desire, and jealousy that swirled away from Blair to surround him. Blair grabbed one of the dishes from Forge’s tray and put it back. “Don’t eat the mystery green stuff—it’s not broccoli.” He leaned around Forge, forcing him back a step, and spoke to the girl. “You’re barking up a very wrong tree. He’s gay. He’s mine. And it’s spectacular.” The girl stared at Blair for a few seconds before taking her tray and storming away. Forge shrugged and picked up his tray. “Good luck with school.” “Table,” Blair growled and pointed out the direction. “Over there.” Trailing behind him, Forge feigned innocence. “I distinctly remember you telling me to be nice to the students.” Blair dropped his tray onto a table. “Yeah, be nice. Not use that tone and your—badge—in a way that makes them want to undress and fling themselves at your feet.”    
Vincent Traughber Meis has a new MM romance out: Iguana. And there's a giveaway! Dawson Wozniak moved to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico looking for a change after ending a long-term relationship. Returning to the site where his parents honeymooned, immersing himself in the local culture, and meeting new friends was sure to bring adventure and, hopefully, clarity about both his past and his future. His apartment building’s manager, Ivan, throws a wrench in the plan with his handsome looks, occasional flirting, and forced distance. Just as they are about to test their undeniable curiosity and attraction for each other, a tragedy strikes the building, forcing Dawson and Ivan apart. When it seems there are too many obstacles, Ivan insists they can’t explore their chemistry. Still, he keeps coming back and pulling Dawson in, teasing him with possibility but filling him with doubt. Soon Dawson is consumed with thoughts of Ivan and his mercurial attention, and he can’t help but compare himself to the tragic gay characters in the books he edits. One minute Ivan is playful and laughing, and the next he’s cold and aloof, battling with cultural expectations and familial responsibilities. Dawson gives into the push and pull of this confusing but exhilarating relationship, trying to convince himself he can handle a no-strings-attached situation with a man who is still coming to terms with his sexuality...even if he knows that he would love nothing more than to have Ivan fully, openly, and all to himself. While this confusing relationship may not be the adventure he was expecting, it may just be the adventure that allows Dawson to decide exactly who and where he wants to be. Warnings: COVID, death, drug/alcohol use, possible suicide, mention of rape Universal Buy LinkGiveaway Vincent is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour: Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47326/ Excerpt
A rustling in the dry undergrowth and the crackling of twigs indicated a large-ish animal. It spotted me before I spotted it, but even with its camouflage, it couldn’t hide in the sparse surroundings. The iguana slithered up the embankment to higher ground with its long black and tan striped tail fanning back and forth to aid its escape. It climbed a tree and moved out on a branch that hung over the sidewalk in front of me. I stopped. It stopped. I took a step forward. It crawled out a little further on the branch as if it was a gatekeeper. I had never been that close to an iguana, just ten feet above me, looking fierce with a torso about three feet long and a dewlap of variegated skin fluttering under its throat. A row of spikes ran down the spine, getting shorter as they reached the long tail. I’d been told they were harmless as long as they weren’t threatened. Some people even took them on as unlikely pets, putting them on leashes and charging tourists to take a picture with them. But there was something about the way it stared at me that kept me frozen there on the pavement, wondering if it was safe to walk under its perch on the branch. I stared back. For what seemed a long time, we stared at each other. And then, its scaly eyebrow closed over the black marble pupil in a bed of yellow iris. If we had been playing a game of who blinks first, I had won. I didn’t feel like a winner, though, and the iguana didn’t seem to care as it continued to observe me, blinking as if bored with the relative newcomer on the planet. I nodded, acknowledging I was an invader in its land. Not just as a foreigner but as a human carving into the jungle habitat of the animal. I was in Mexico for a new beginning, walking down the hill to do my shopping, if this beast would let me. Sweat began pooling in the middle of my chest, and I needed to move on. As I passed under the branch, I swear the iguana shrugged and looked away as if it was done with me. I felt dismissed. And then I began to laugh, a laughter of relief and surprise, thrilled with this new experience, one more in a long list that seemed a daily occurrence since I had moved here. The day had begun with clear skies broadcasting hope, the balcony slightly cooler than inside the house as I lingered over my breakfast, feeling the view of the Bay of Banderas from Punta de Mita to Los Arcos like a physical thing that coddled me. We were in the dog days of summer, with the dog-star, Sirius, rising and setting about the same time as the sun. It was the hottest time of the year, and relief only came, I was told by my neighbors, when afternoon showers again pelted the corrugated roofs of the neighborhood down below. Everyone talked of the rains coming late this year. Before the heat and humidity became too oppressive, I planned to walk down the hill to the market and buy food for the next few days when the forecasters insisted the heavy rains would come, ushered in by thunder and lightning. I would get back up the hill before the church bells struck ten in the plaza below. I stepped out of the apartment into the stuffy hall, which smelled of fried onions and spices I couldn’t identify from the apartment across the hall. I summoned the elevator and watched the short countdown from the rooftop to my floor. When the doors opened, Ivan in his company logo polo shirt and jeans stood chewing on one of his fingernails. He dropped his hands and folded them in front of his crotch as he stepped aside and made room. “Buenos días, señor Dawson.” “Hola, Ivan.” I leaned against the back wall and watched his blurry reflection in the shiny metal of the doors. On the next floor, he got off, and as the doors closed, I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding. The tension I felt when near him made no sense. Ivan had been hired a few months before as the day manager who oversaw daily operations in the twelve-unit building curiously named Paradiso, which sounded both presumptuous and unsettling. He handled everything from delivering packages to residents’ doors to coordinating cleanups to keeping the place secure. Everyone found him friendly and efficient. Everyone loved him. Why did I often see him joking and bantering in English and Spanish with other residents when he was all business and cold with me? Why did my packages sometimes go undelivered when everyone else got theirs the same day? Author Bio
Vincent Traughber Meis grew up in Decatur, Illinois and graduated from Tulane University in New Orleans. He has also traveled extensively, and as result of his travels and time abroad he published a number of pieces, mostly travel articles, but also a few poems and book reviews, in publications such as, The Advocate, LA Weekly, In Style, and Our World in the 1980s and 90s. He has published five novels with Fallen Bros Press: Eddie’s Desert Rose (2011), Tio Jorge (2012), and Down in Cuba (2013), Deluge (2016) and Four Calling Burds (2019). Tio Jorge received a Rainbow Award in the category of Bisexual Fiction in 2012.Down in Cuba received two Rainbow Awards in 2013. Deluge won a Rainbow Award in 2016. His sixth novel The Mayor of Oak Street was released in 2021 with NineStar Press and a book of his short stories in 2021. Three more novels have been published with Spectrum Books, First Born Sons (2023), Colton's Terrible Wonderful year (2023) and The Long Journey to You (2024). His stories have been published in several collections, including WITH: New Gay Fiction, and other collections. He lives in San Leandro, California and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Author Website: https://www.vincentmeis.com Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/vincentmeis Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/vincenttraughbermeis Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/vincentmeisauthor Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5755735.Vincent_Meis Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B00J7YZQU4
 Maybe Forge would be able to move fast enough, and maybe Lucas would be able to intercept without getting stabbed himself. Those weren’t odds he was willing to take. The man began backing toward the exit. Lucas put his arms in the air, and Forge sneezed again, staggered to his feet, and doubled over. Lucas still had enough wolf out to bare his teeth. He growled and said, “I’m going to find you. This isn’t over.” The man turned and ran. A moment later, Lucas heard the sound of a motorcycle roaring away into the distance. Read more snippets in the Rainbow Snippets Facebook group. Code Name Jack Rabbit is available in eBook, paperback
and through Kindle Unlimited. NEW RELEASE 
Book Title: Charmed by Destiny (Arcane Havoc, Book 2) Author and Publisher: Jessamyn Kingley Cover Artist: LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations Release Date: May 15, 2025 Genre: MM Fantasy/Paranormal Romance Trope: Fated mates Heat Rating: 3 flames Length: 87 435 words It is not a standalone story, but does not end on a cliffhanger. Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited 
Neither Richard nor Lucas want a relationship despite their attraction, but destiny already has them in her sights. Blurb Richard Marwood has no interest in relationships. After a few awful brushes with intimacy, he refuses to try again. Sex is required for a necromancer to find their soulmate, but Richard doesn’t care. He won’t be disappointed by one more handsome creep. In the ten years since Lucas Wynnter was summoned from the dead as an inspirit, he has aided his necromancer. Together, they have traveled across the country and stayed in countless rundown motels. But they are out of money. Lucas’s summoner learns that the Marwoods assist abandoned inspirits, and he convinces Lucas to apply for a job. Although Lucas doesn’t want to be discarded, he does want to help. He shows up at a Marwood casino and, on his first day, meets Richard. Lucas is attracted to Richard, but he works for him. Plus, Lucas won’t be staying. He is building his savings and plans to reunite with his necromancer. Richard shouldn’t be fascinated by Lucas, but he can’t stop thinking about him. For months they ignore the electricity arcing between them—until Richard’s cousin dares him to take another chance. Should Richard risk humiliation and ask Lucas to spend the night with him? Lucas is charmed by the awkward invitation, but neither man is prepared for destiny to intervene. Once their souls touch, nothing in their lives will ever be the same. Excerpt Richard straightened, and with his pulse pounding in his ears, he headed for Lucas. Am I really doing this? Richard swallowed thickly as Lucas turned and smiled at him. How embarrassing would it be if Lucas told him no? “Hey,” Richard said in an attempt at casualness when he was a few feet from Lucas. “Hey, are you okay?” Lucas asked, his eyebrows furrowing with concern. “Yeah, why?” “I don’t know, your eyes look a little wild and your face is flushed.” “Oh, how weird,” Richard managed and tried not to wince at how his voice cracked on the words. “So, I…um, well, I had a question.” Richard had never propositioned anyone, and he was apparently abysmal at it. Lucas’s expression was a mixture of concern and bemusement. The stupid card was still in Richard’s hand, and he wasn’t sure if he should give it to Lucas or run for his life. “What do you need help with?” “I don’t need help. Okay, maybe that’s not correct. It’s sort of helping, but more like a team thing. I don’t know how to explain it without making it creepy, really. At least not without everyone around us figuring it out, and I’d like to keep things private.” “Okay,” Lucas replied slowly. Richard’s face was on fire, but he’d made it this far. He wasn’t being smooth, and it was definitely awkward. Score two points for my lack of game, he mused distractedly. “I have a card. Um. It’s to my room. Here at the hotel. I was thinking maybe you could use it. I can’t leave yet, but I could meet you up there later.” “Meet you later? I don’t understand.” Humiliation filled Richard, and he shook his head. “Sorry, I should go.” He turned on his heel, and his jaw flexed. But before he could take a step, Lucas said his name. “Richard, please don’t leave.” Forcing himself to face Lucas, Richard looked up at the inspirit. “It’s okay, I was asking you to do something highly inappropriate for two coworkers anyway.” Lucas’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened painfully. To Richard’s shock, he tugged the key from the necromancer’s fingers and quickly pocketed it. “No, I’m a fucking idiot. How the hell didn’t I figure out what you were…anyway, yeah. I’d love to meet you later.” Richard grinned like a fool, and Lucas returned his smile. His dimple deepened, and Richard nearly swooned. It was either because of Lucas’s attractiveness—which was growing with every second—or the adrenalize zipping through Richard at lightning speed. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you then.” “Yeah, I can leave like whenever, right?” “Sure. I have to do some family stuff or whatever, but um, yeah, whatever. It shouldn’t be too messy. You could watch TV. Maybe play on your phone. There’s a bathroom. Well, of course there’s a fucking bathroom. I’m babbling, so I’m gonna go.” Lucas winked. “Okay.” “Okay,” Richard replied. He raced away from the inspirit as if his ass were on fire. Now he had to figure out how to calm down enough to have a normal conversation so no one was clued in to the fact that he’d invited a sexy inspirit to his hotel room. And survive whatever awaited him with Lucas upstairs later. Richard didn’t know if he’d made a smart decision, but it was far from his normal controlled evenings at home. Would he survive his recklessness with his heart and dignity intact? About the Author Jessamyn Kingley has published over forty titles and refuses to pick a favorite among them. With an extraordinary passion for her characters, Jessamyn eagerly crafts new tales and avidly re-reads them whenever her schedule allows. Jessamyn shares a home in Nevada with her husband and their three spoiled cats. When she is not writing or adding new ideas to her thick stack of beloved notebooks, she is gaming with family and friends. Join her Facebook group, Jessamyn's Ruffian's 
|
 Welcome to My World
|
RSS Feed
