Back when I was pregnant with my second child and still slaving as a nurse, I worked with a unit secretary named Cori. Cori was young (maybe twenty-one, tops), gay, and fantastically flamboyant. I don’t think he owned a shirt or tie that wasn’t in the pink-peach-purple spectrum, and he rocked them all. His hair was always perfectly gelled for that careless, messy look that was anything but careless or messy. He had a perfect little body and a gorgeous baby face, and I’m sure he is making some lucky bastard very happy these days.
Cori was opinionated about life and love, and gave romantic advice out like Halloween candy. I wish I could say I got to know him well, but I was an old woman (twenty-nine—sob!), married, pregnant, weeks away from hanging up my stethoscope for fulltime motherhood, and no longer in the go-out-and-party-after-work stage by the time he started on my floor. So, I missed out on most Cori-isms, much to my current chagrin. I’d definitely love to pick his brain now.
I do recall one quick conversation we had with crystalline clarity, though.
Like I said, I was pregnant, and for whatever reason, the topic of baby names came up. Cori asked me what we were planning to name my son. I told him (sorry—can’t divulge) and Cori oooed most exuberantly and told me my unborn baby was going to get crazy-laid with that name. “Oh my God—that is such a hot name!”
Being the person I am, I was happy for this news. Like when the tech performs the ultrasound and tells you your kid has all the expected toes and fingers. Yay! My boy will have loads of sex just because I picked a great name for him!
I laughed and asked Cori if he got laid just because of his name.
Yes, he told me matter-of-factly. Cori with an “i” is original and sexy and a total boost in the booty department. Granted, the way that boy strutted his stuff was probably a bigger factor. He could have been named Reginald and he’d still have been a hot ticket. Of course, Cori did fit him exactly.
I told him I loved the name Cori. That I have a cousin with the same name.
“How does he spell it?” he asked me.
“K-O-R-Y,” I told him.
“Oh, okay. That’s cool. The K makes it hot. C-O-R-Y is lame.”
This Cori with an “i” conversation came rushing back to me when I named my MC in Crossed Hearts. I went with the K, hoping Kory Vansant’s chances of getting laid wouldn’t suffer for my naming or spelling choice. I’m sure his porn involvement didn’t hurt his piece-of-ass percentages either, but he probably wouldn’t have done quite so well for himself as a Reginald. Maybe. ;-)
Thanks so much for having me!
Crossed Hearts by K. Vale
Book one in the Hearts and Scars series
Kory Vansant doesn’t deserve to be alive.
As time sucks him dry of energy, sapping the final ounces of strength from his congenitally enlarged heart, he's forced to end his career as Kory Kent, porn star. Staring down death, he questions his life choices and prays for a miracle. For another chance at life, he vows to change who he is at his core.
His prayers are answered. A perfect heart now beats in his chest, but it comes at a heavy price. The donor is an innocent young man cut down far too prematurely.
And Kory's blemished history is nowhere near an ideal match.
As his debts skyrocket, Kory can’t help but think his resolve to walk the high road is being tested. After he meets the adorable Will Squire at the gravesite they both visit, he’s doubly damned because there’s no way he can keep up his end of the bargain. What happens when a man breaks a deal with a higher power?
Will often prefers the company of the dead to that of the living. Following a bad breakup, he pours himself into his two jobs—funeral director at his uncle’s mortuary and part-time paramedic. He’s drawn ever closer to Kory, as if fate sticks her fickle hand in and pushes them together like two unlikely puzzle pieces. But sometimes history can’t be buried, and maybe divine intervention isn’t always right. Will discovers everyone is imperfect, no matter how pretty the outer package, and opening one’s heart is never easy, but can be oh so worth the pain.
The man scratched the scrub on his chin. “Heart recipient,” he said finally. “I’m Kory—umm…Kory Vansant.” Holding out his hand, he took another step. Will’s fingers were swallowed in warm skin and bone.
“Will Squire.” Again, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the tease of scar tissue jutting from the crotch of Kory’s shirt collar. The urge to reach out and trace a finger over the pink relief of healed tissue was strong. Just like I touched Brandon’s incision. The stark difference between the two—one wound marking the end of a life and the other a salvation—was surreal. Will was nothing but an outsider looking in on a miracle, but somehow he felt he’d come around full circle.
“Want me to get naked so you can see the whole thing?”
Will closed his eyes for a moment and then looked up, his face flaming with a mix of embarrassment and immediate, fierce arousal. “I’m sorry. Totally rude.”
Kory smiled good-naturedly. “No worries. It’s a way to reclaim who I am, or was. Or some crap. I’m not just my medical status, like they keep saying at my support group.”
“No. Of course you’re not.”
He laughed loud and deep, and the warmth in Will’s face drifted down his body. “I’ve adopted it as my little icebreaker whenever people stare,” Kory said.
“Well, ice broken.” Will gulped. Hell, ice melted into a rolling boil.
About the author:
K. Vale writes erotic romance of all stripes, from hot hetero to mouthwatering manlove. Find her MF work published under Kimber Vale. Come for the sex. Stay for the story. Stalk Kimber on Facebook and Twitter @KimberVale, and check her site for updates, new releases, and freebies at http://www.authorkimbervale.com.
Welcome to the book tour for Inhuman Interest. Enjoy the excerpt and don’t forget to enter the rafflecopter giveaway. Eric will award one randomly drawn commenter a signed copy of the book, plus a $25 Amazon gift card (US/Canada only) and a second randomly drawn commenter a signed copy of the book (US/Canada only).
Follow the tour for a better chance of winning. The tour dates can be found here:
Thirteen words in a want-ad turn Tess Cooper’s world upside down after she signs on as a paranormal research assistant to the mysterious Davin Egypt. He reveals a world of grave robbing, clockworks artifacts in blue amber, antique revolvers that fire strange ammo, and powerful forces beyond human comprehension.
As ancient occult energies threaten to destroy her city, Tess must use her journalistic instincts to stay one step ahead of the public works director, Drew Dawson, whose agenda seems bent on destruction rather than maintenance. And possibly murder, but will anyone believe her?
Yeah, right. When garbage trucks fly.
If Tess teams up with the hunky police lieutenant, Kirk Gunther, and the pale, oddball Mr. Egypt, they might be able to save the city in time. That is, if Egypt even wants to. And if Tess overcomes her phobias long enough to do battle in Granddad’s 1983 Subaru Brat.
Things are about to get icky.
I watched Angie wobble away and marched myself toward the stonewalling the cops would give me when I felt the soles of my flats slide. Pinwheeling arms didn’t help me get my footing, and with a tiny cry, I went down.
And down, and down, and down.
Snow slid up my shirt, up my pants, and something less cold but more wet. I thrashed around, succeeding only in getting more snow inside my clothes. Not falling, but sinking. I sank into a deep hole. And then I realized it wasn’t a hole but a grave.
Angie came rushing back, as much as she could rush on her stumpy, little legs. “Tess, what the hell happened? I heard you screaming and—oh, my God.”
I expected her to kneel down and help me out of the loose soil and slush, but instead, she whipped out her camera. The little motor whined as she took about six hundred shots. “I think I got the image for my Christmas cards this year.”
“Ange, help me out of here!” I pushed against the soil with one foot, and felt it sink deeper. I tried with the other one. Then I plunged in up to my neck. My arms found no grip, either. It was like quicksand, even though quicksand doesn’t really exist. I knew that. Worse, a horrible, horrible smell drifted up from below. Decomp, rot, death.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Newspaper founder, bookstore owner, artist, musician, and man-about-town Eric Turowski writes lots of mixed-genre books when he’s not too busy playing laser tag with Tiger the Cat and his fiancée Mimi deep in the Central Valley of California.
Veil of Scars a new release from Evernight publishing
A little bit about Veil of Scars:
Steven is tall, dark and damaged. He doesn't let anyone close, comfortable on the outside of normal life where he can hide his scars behind a wall so high that nothing gets through…except them. Despite a childhood marred with black and blue, he's survived and moved in with his two best friends, Sam and Charlie.
Life should get better, but it was Sam who held him when the dark threatened to swallow him whole, Sam who gave him a place that felt like home, and Sam who knew every scar and every broken place.
And it's all been taken away with Charlie sharing Sam's bed.
Without his former comfort, Steven realizes what's been hiding in the deep corners of his heart, and the truth sinks him like a weight. He’s in love with one or maybe both of his roommates. Navigating unrequited love tears Steven apart and brings him to the precipice, and he has to choose: his feelings or Sam’s…and Charlie’s?
"Charlie coming home from the party, too?" I didn't dare to hope.
“She didn’t go. She’s pulling an all-nighter in the library with a group for a project or something or other." He shrugged.
Maybe I would get a stolen night. One like old times.
We sat there for a while in silence, not quite wrapped up in one another but taking comfort from the other's body heat. I closed my eyes. Even on the sofa a night in his arms was bliss.
"Want to go to bed?" Sam asked, rousing me from the light sleep I had slipped into.
“Yeah, sorry." I got to my feet, cheeks flushing a bit, realizing I’d just fallen into something that wasn’t a reality anymore. In seven months there had been a few stolen nights with my best friend, but living with Charlie had put a stop to how we once were.
His brows fell, and he looked up at me before getting to his feet. I was turning to head to my room when he grabbed me by the hand, lacing his fingers through mine. I stopped, looking up to search his face.
He didn't say a word as he led me to the bed he shared with her. I couldn't help the smile that spread over my lips. The dark gave me the cover I needed to watch him pull the polo off his broad shoulders and cast it aside. I kicked out of my jeans and added my shirt to his on the floor, before crawling into bed.
The assured way he scooted in after me, coming up from behind to wrap his arms around my body, gave me a pain in the middle of my chest I couldn’t explain. I leaned back into his bare skin, and a calm washed over me. Within moments, it was like the nervous bundle of energy that had been wound inside me for months started to dissolve.
He tucked his head in next to my shoulder and whispered, “Goodnight," against my skin.
About J.R. Gray
When not staying up all night writing, J.R Gray can be found basking in the warm glow of the Miami sun, or at the gym where it's half assumed Gray is a permanent resident. A dominant, pilot, and sword fighting enthusiast, Gray finds it hard to be in the passenger seat of any car. Gray frequently interrupts real life, including normal sleep patterns, to jot down nonsense. The bane of Gray's existence are commas, and even though it's been fully acknowledged they are necessary, they continue to baffle and bewilder.
If Gray wasn't writing...well, that's not possible. The build up of untold stories would haunt Gray into an early grave or possibly a mental institution where the tales would end up on the walls in crayon and finger paint.
With her blond tresses and blue eyes, London fabric retailer
Margery “Margie” Tull is used to being admired. When she’s hired to decorate a
riverside manor house though, she suspects ulterior motives.
Lord of the manor Percival Winstanley reveals a long ago
love triangle leading to death and the bewitching of his son and heir Stephen.
Margie’s cousin Shyan is supposed to protect her. But he’s lured away by
Winstanley’s cougarish housekeeper, Mrs. DePlessey, leaving Margie in the
dubious care of servant Kern.
Unsure whom to trust, Margie turns first to artist Raphael
Watts, also working at the house. Meanwhile Stephen hovers in the background
trying to draw her attention to a cottage across the river. Somehow the women
who live there are a portent of Margie’s fate. If only Stephen can convince her
of what lies in store Margie can give new hope to the manor and its heir.
Margie crept from the hall to the library and back
again. It was the strangest thing how people either were not there when they
were wanted or were breathing down your neck and scaring you out of your skin.
There seemed no middle way in this house.
She would have to go upstairs. It was the obvious
place to look. She started climbing steps, feeling like an intruder and unsure
how she would explain why she was snooping around the house if she did find
someone. A snigger told her she was on the right track. Tiptoeing across the
landing and down a passage way, she homed in on the intertwined voices, Shyan’s
wisecracks and Mrs. DePlessey’s purrs of appreciation.
Through the gap between an open bedroom door and
the jamb, Margie watched unobserved. Shyan was standing on a foot stool wearing
only underwear. Evidently measuring requirements had reached the upper thigh. A
crouching Mrs. DePlessey’s glistening nails trailed a tape over the city boy’s
pale flanks. Shyan’s muscles tensed as her fingers neared the straining
material of his briefs.
“Am I tickling?” The question was made to sound
guileless, like a dentist asking “Am I hurting you?”
“Well a bit,” Shyan said. “But it don’t bother
I’ll bet it doesn’t, Margie thought. She was so
mad at him. Had he forgotten why he had come? Not to dally with the
housekeeper, that’s for sure.
The waistband was the next number on Mrs.
DePlessey’s list, and as her arms circumnavigated Shyan’s midriff with the tape
measure she could not refrain from rubbing the bangles on her wrists against
his bare skin. The metal must have been cold, because Shyan jumped slightly at
“Oh, I am sorry. Did I do that?”
You calculating bitch, Margie wanted to shriek.
She’d seen better acting on the soaps.
But there was nothing simulated about Shyan’s
reaction once the tape made contact at the base of his spine. Margie didn’t
have to see below his waistband to know his self-control was on the edge. It
wouldn’t take much to unbalance him.
All it did take was another move in Mrs.
DePlessey’s repertoire of suggestive contact. As her breasts prodded his
stomach, ostensibly so she could complete the tape loop, Shyan’s hands
descended onto her shoulders. Then the tape was forgotten as her lips came up
to meet his. Her clasping arms steadied him on the wobbling stool. They moved
to the bed in an uncoordinated tango, and toppled into a grinding embrace.
Shyan tackled the buttons on her blouse. His hand groped for the bra clip at
her back. He suckled on an inflamed turret of a nipple, with a gusto equal to
Ainsworth’s effort during Margie’s previous spying escapade. Then the couple’s
hands met and, steered by one or the other—or both—glided in unison down the
crevasse between their bodies until they disappeared inside Shyan’s briefs.
Margie was mesmerized. Exasperated as she was by
her cousin’s easy compliance, she couldn’t help being fascinated by this mesh
of desires. That was why it was so startling when Mrs. DePlessey rolled Shyan
to one side and, with a light kiss on the lips, told him, “We must save this.”
Shyan gaped and attempted to insert a hand between
her closed thighs.
“For what?” he asked.
She smiled, not in the provocative way Margie half
expected, but rather as if Shyan hadn’t understood.
“In time,” she said. “In time.”
A. Silenus spent his early years in southern
England and now lives in Arizona. He writes in various genres under different
names. His erotica-oriented material includes
three self-published sets of short stories, Fiends That Go Boink, which
has otherworldly themes, Obsessions and Two Men And A Woman In A Boat.
stories have been published in anthologies, ezines and magazines, including Afternoon
Delight (Cleis), The MILF Anthology (Blue Moon), Wicked Pleasures
(Ravenous Romance), and Forum magazine in the UK.
A chance encounter in a hospital waiting room between twenty-two
year old Will Messina and sixteen year old Josiah Pinkerton ends with a gift of
a stuffed dragon off the hospital gift cart and a memory neither of them can shake.
Five years later, when a lonely, buttoned-up Will ventures
into a gay club, he spots a pale, leather-clad specter with violet eyes tracking
his every move. Will realizes he’s being watched by the grown version of the boy
who’s haunted his thoughts for years.
Joey recognizes Will, but he’s no longer the sweet, brown-eyed
boy worthy of Will’s attention. He’s damaged and defective and lives in a
different world than Will now. When his childhood crush makes his way across
the bar, Joey doesn’t have time to decide whether to be enchanted or dismayed because,
unless he turns and runs, those worlds are about to collide.
Jaycee Edward is no longer seventeen years old but don’t
tell her that. She’s actually a tad older and lives in northeast Ohio with her
handsome husband and one, big gorgeous dog. She has two grown stepdaughters and
is proud to be the ultra-cool Nana to two amazingly incredible grand-teens.
Jaycee loves pistol shooting and is has earned her Bar 7 Sharpshooter status in
the Winchester/NRA Marksmanship Qualification Program and hopes to someday
reach the level of Expert Marksman. She is proud to be the token liberal at her
gun range. Jaycee knows way too much about the inner workings of Walt Disney
World and anything related to One Direction. She’d love to pull you into the
rabbit hole with her. All you have to do is ask. Find her there or contact her through
Elizabeth Noble started telling stories before she actually knew how to write, and her family was very happy when she learned to put words on a page. Those words turned into fan fiction that turned into a genuine love of M/M romance fiction. Being able to share her works with Dreamspinner is really a dream come true. She has a real love for a good mystery complete with murder and twisty plots as well as all things sci-fi, futuristic, and supernatural and a bit of an unnatural interest in a super-volcano in Wyoming.
Elizabeth has three grown children and is now happily owned by an adorable mixed breed canine princess named Rosie, and two cats, Murphy and Yeti. She lives in her native northeast Ohio, the perfect place for gardening, winter and summer sports (go Tribe!). When she's not writing she's working as a veterinary nurse, so don't be surprised to see her men with a pet or three who are a very big part of their lives.
Two of Elizabeth's books have received Honorable Mentions in the Rainbow Awards.
Blurb:Through ten wonderful years Griff Diamond and Clint Bishop weathered good times and bad together. Lately they haven’t spent as much time together as they’d like, and their physical relationship is suffering. Then Clint loses his job at the steel mill. Instead of worrying, he sees it as an opportunity to lean on his steady partner, start his writing career, and rekindle the passion they’ve lost.
But a friendly relationship with another author turns to obsession, putting Clint’s life in danger. Taken against his will to the Jewel Cave system in South Dakota, Clint must rely on the skills he’s learned from Griff to survive.
Fearing the worst, Griff tracks Clint across the country. As a US Marshall, Griff’s always been the man who keeps everyone safe, but he doesn’t know how he and Clint will survive this.
It was time to back away from Dylan, what had been a friendship had definitely shifted to territory uncomfortable to Clint. He didn’t want to hurt Dylan’s feelings. He’d tried sending a few emails telling Dylan some of his pictures weren’t appreciated, but it did no good. The guy was either dense or stubborn.
Unlike some of his other friends, Clint knew nothing about Dylan’s family or the people who lived near him. As far as Clint could tell, Dylan was alone in the world, and his sudden attachment to Clint was starting to feel creepy. So, lately, Clint had been taking longer and longer to answer emails and tried to keep subjects of conversation as neutral as possible or focused on writing projects.
The pictures Clint deleted. Griff would flip if he ever knew about those photos, not that Clint would blame him in the least. He would have loved to share some of his other concerns about Dylan’s wellbeing with Griff, but Clint knew the man would turn Dylan into one of America’s Most Wanted in under a minute.
Such was the hazard of sharing his life with a US Deputy Marshal.
He’d made a vow to himself long ago he’d never use Griff’s job or badge unless there was a solid, valid reason. Someone he’d known for a few years all of a sudden annoying him online was not solid or valid in Clint’s mind. Clint kept reminding himself Dylan was lonely and had no family. He was probably merely one of those people who didn’t get the concept of boundaries. That didn’t make him a criminal, just socially awkward.
Clint nearly jumped out of his skin when someone’s strong arm snaked around his waist and pulled him back against a firm body. Warm breath blew in his ear along with the words, “You left the door unlocked again. I could be the neighborhood whack job here to bludgeon you to death after defiling you.”
“You scared the crap out of me!” Clint yelped, trying to squirm away, but it was useless. “You’re the guy on this street with all the big guns.” Behind him Griff chuckled and used one finger to move Clint’s hair away from his neck. He pressed a soft kiss to the spot. Clint glared down at the dogs. “And you two! You need watchdog lessons.”
Griff gave a little jerk forward with his hips and snickered. “And those big guns are all yours.” He let go of Clint, turned him, and shook him by the shoulders for a second. “Lock the goddamn doors. Even if someone smashes through the storm door, you’ll at least hear them.” He raised his eyebrows and leaned away from Clint, letting him go. “For me. Please. ’Cause the only defiling that goes on in this house is done by me.”
Clint burst out laughing. Griff’s blue-gray eyes twinkled, and the corners crinkled in a way Clint loved when Griff smiled. “Sorry, I’m late,” Griff said. He used his free hand to pet the dogs.