Gale Stanley: LGBTQ

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Wednesday, April 23, 2025

CHASING MAGIC by Kira Stone #LGBTQ #Romance @changelingpress

Not In Use (#1)

LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Romance

Date to be Published: April 25, 2025

Publisher: Changeling Press

Love -- and Magic -- find desperate lovers in unlikely places.

Chase: It is a madness that draws Chase to the Louisiana bayou, leaving his sister and his art studio behind. The fact that he longs to strip off his clothes and run naked through the swamp with the wild creatures who live there isn't his first clue that something isn't right with him... but it just might be his last.

A Painter's Price: Jason has studied the Painter for years, but when he finally meets Eric he's not prepared for the powerful erotic feelings the artist provokes in him. His need to touch Erik slowly overrides every other, until there is nothing he can do but surrender, mind, body and soul.

Rythan's Becoming: Rythan knows he must harness his sexual energy and burn through his shell to truly Become an adult. But Becoming also requires the help of his catalysts, a pair of adults he's never met, and water doesn't combine easily with fire and air. Can Rythan pass the final test and meet his Destiny?

Excerpt from A Painter's Price

This is one fine orgy. The self-congratulatory thought filtered through Erik's lust-fueled mind as he licked expensive red wine off the impressive cock bobbing before his lips. Who his mystery lover was, Erik couldn't say. He had a nice meaty shaft, though. Not terribly long, but wide enough to split a man open. Erik's sphincter spasmed just from imagining the feel of that thick cock sliding into him.

Salty-sweet pre-cum hit his tongue. He gave his lover's ass a slap to bring forth another drop. Nectar of the gods, as far as Erik was concerned. Every man tasted different, and yet he loved them all.

"Oh, fuck me," the man whimpered around his mouthful of Erik's cock.

"Not this time."

The spirit was willing, but the body grew weak. He'd been going at it, in one form or another, for several days now. The need for a long, uninterrupted sleep gnawed at him. He was hard pressed to keep his eyes open. Silently promising to make it up to his lover later, if he remembered, Erik sucked in earnest.

His lover attempted to return the attention. Erik winced as teeth caught his sensitive skin. All the more reason to end this quickly, he decided. At the moment, this man needed more education than he had the patience for.

His lover bucked and groaned under him. It didn't take long to coax him into orgasm. Seed spilled across Erik's tongue in a honey-sweet river. He drank down every last drop, feeling it was his due for the hard work he'd put in.

Under his guidance, the man continued to pleasure him with hand and mouth. Finally a weak orgasm rolled through Erik in quiet surrender, proving he'd been right about his need for a lengthy respite. He might have stayed awake long enough to mumble a word of praise before he lost himself in the warm, dark embrace of sleep.

* * *

A cool breeze ripped through the room some time later. The long brocade curtains surrounding the bed writhed, and the firelight flickered as though it were about to die in its wake. That alone would not have disturbed Erik from his well-earned slumber. No, a great booming voice startled him out of a deep sleep.

"Since you love your art above all else, I hereby sentence you to an eternity of creation."

"What?" Fear trickled through the horrible hangover clouding Erik's brain. Though he couldn't yet see the shadowy figure standing beside the bed through his bloodshot eyes, he recognized the voice. The king's mage was not pleased, and that was never a good thing.

"For the rest of your life, you will produce some of the finest art ever created."

Well, that didn't sound so bad. Painting was, after all, his passion. "Errrr… thank you."

A sneer entered the mage's voice as he continued. "Your creative energies will be your only sustenance. You will not eat or drink or sleep. You will not be troubled by mortal weaknesses except on the one night a year when the price of being the greatest painter alive must be paid to me, a fragment of your inner spirit to be given to a vessel of my choosing. You will exist solely to create… until your soul is empty."

Now that last bit seemed a little extreme. Honestly, Erik didn't know what good his soul was doing for him, but he didn't think it would be wise to go around without one. "Is that really necessary? Painting is all I'm good at anyway."

"Painting… and debauchery. The king has lost all patience with the discord you create among his court with your callous, self-indulgent behavior. Could you not even leave the livestock alone?" the mage muttered with disgust.

"That wasn't me," Erik protested as he tried to extract himself from the tangle of limbs pinning him down. A small corner of his brain wondered again who the bed belonged to, how long he'd been in it, and if his host's largess would hold out until he had a bite of bread and cheese, maybe another mug of wine.

"Not in body, perhaps, but the act was done with your encouragement. You sow depravity into the souls of the good people of this land, leaving a trail of broken marriages and broken hearts behind. The king will have no more of this debauchery!"

"I hardly think all the consequences of the court's questionable behavior can be blamed on me." Erik looked around for his clothes, a little intimidated to be talking to the king's mage without a stitch on. However, every garment he found smelled rank with spent passion. He flipped the bed curtain over his lap instead. "I enjoy a good party. What soul doesn't? That's human nature, not a crime."

"The evidence is quite plain, and the king has rendered his judgment. He left it to me to determine your punishment. After a fortnight of observation, I see the only way to change your ways is to give you exactly what you desire."

Warning bells clamored in his head, but Erik couldn't puzzle out exactly what about that statement troubled him. "Would the king be satisfied if I left the city for a few weeks?" Surely he could convince one of the rich lords in the outlying districts to keep him sheltered and fed for a month.

"Your departure might satisfy him, but it will not satisfy me. From this day forth, you will breathe art, dine on creative passion, and survive as long as your depraved, artistic soul can sustain you." The mage's robes rippled as if an angry fall wind had whirled around him. "As I will it, so mote it be," the mage intoned with an earth-shaking power.

And, just like that, Erik's life transformed.

About the Author

Kira Stone has been around the block…the writer’s block, that is.

From vamps and witches to historical heroes, from futuristic scientists to paranormal corporate executives, from Canadian werewolves to off-world shifters, Kira has written about them all. Manlove has sparked hot and heavy in many of her plots, but Kira also finds a lucky lady to keep the sexy heroes company from time to time. While Scotland remains her favorite place in the world, Kira is constantly in search of new adventures to add to the creative primordial ooze where her best stories are born.

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Wednesday, April 16, 2025

Earth's Passion by Emily Carrington #LGBTQ #DarkFantasy @changelingpress

LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Steamy

Date Published: April 18, 2025

As their need for each other grows, so does the danger.

Kailee and Tom are falling for each other, but their secrets continue to come between them. Kailee’s afraid to show her physical scars, while Tom dreads his lover will discover the power those he still calls Master and Mistress hold over him.

Dragon and werewolf must join together in every way to defeat those who would dominate Tom and kill Kailee.

EXCERPT

Kailee had been lying next to Tom for close to twenty minutes. Her new dragon lover was fast asleep, and she knew she should be resting too. Instead, she was filled with joy and an incautious sense of promise that she hadn’t felt in years.

Tom rolled over, draping his arm over her waist. Kailee wriggled a little as the urge to pee made itself known. A deeper craving drew at her also.

“Are you okay?” Tom mumbled. Then he stiffened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He pulled his arm off her.

She turned over, snuggling in close. “I like it when you touch me. I just… I need to get up and use the bathroom.” It was true, but her ulterior motive was to take so long that he fell back to sleep, and she could go outside.

“I’ll wait up for you,” he said, slurring his words a little.

Kailee kissed his temple. “Go to sleep. I’ll be back in a moment.”

His eyes were already closed. As she watched, he lost the tension in his limbs and the worry lines on his face smoothed out. He began to snore.

She waited another five minutes, to make sure he was well and truly under. He’d had a sucky, hard life and she thought he hadn’t probably slept well for large parts of it. Knowing he was safe here, that she would protect him, made her smile.

She got up, padding to the bathroom after putting on the clothes she’d worn before they made love. Once in the bathroom, she unzipped her jeans. As much as she felt one hundred percent female most of the time, she still enjoyed the simple pleasure of peeing while standing up.

When she was finished, she flushed, zipped up, and washed her hands. Then, moving silently, not wanting to wake anyone up because this pack already knew everyone else’s business as it was, she went to the mudroom, put on her boots, and made her way out of the back door into the gloriously dark night. It was a waxing crescent moon tonight, about four days from the first quarter, and with so little light coming from that celestial orb, the darkness was close as a passionate lover, full of kindness. Like Tom.

She wrapped her arms around her chest, which was flat without the boobs she usually wore. That felt a little awkward but for this one moment, she was able to dismiss the feeling. She’d needed to embrace herself for pure joy’s sake. She’d been so very alone for damn near half her life, relying on gentleness and understanding from those who were either hired professionals or simply much older than she was and thus not quite as in touch with their wolflinghood as she could have wished. Maybe it was foolish to assume someone closer to her own age would have “gotten it,” her experiences and suffering. Still, because Tom understood, and only after so short a time, she thought the idea had slight merit.

Wanting to make some sort of noise to express herself, she began to sing. It was a simple song in Werewelsh, her first language. She’d grown up surrounded by the language developed by werewolves for their own kind, and although other people spoke it now, it remained mostly shared among the ones who had to change at the full moon. Werewolves largely did, though, and she was, first and foremost, a wolf.

She translated in her head as she sang, loving the poetry even though it didn’t rhyme in English.

Moon of darkness, moon of light,

Moon of power and strength.

Moon of my heart, full and wise,

Be with me tonight.

Probably, she thought as her joy crested but didn’t recede, I’m being foolish. He hasn’t even said he loves me.

That was true but what made her heart sing was a simple truth, not complicated by whether Tom wanted to be her mate or not. “In all honesty,” she whispered to the night that seemed to be listening, “I never thought anyone could see past my scars and love me anyway.”

All right, so he hadn’t actually seen her physical scars, her dead name carved into her chest with a silver knife and made to stay because of silver powder. She hadn’t been quite that brave. Still, Tom knew she had a reputation, that she’d killed, and he hadn’t pulled away. Wasn’t that worthy of ecstasy?

She closed her eyes and resumed her singing. Now she sang a song of how the sky so loved the moon that he bid her to cross from one edge to the other so he might admire her beauty. The moon’s response Kailee sang too, reveling in the way the moon demanded something in return: to see the stars scattered before her like diamonds.

Once again, her joy crested until it filled her chest. She broke out in a light sweat. That was when she became aware that the exhilaration she felt wasn’t hers alone.

Wary because she’d been influenced by outsider forces before, although less directly or psychically, she mounted her defenses and scanned the area with her telepathy, seeking the source of the external, pushy force.

At first, she felt nothing and no one. Widening her circle of ability, she fumbled in the darkness of the in-between that existed in the psychic world. Reaching, reaching, she felt a half-familiar mind.

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Wednesday, February 19, 2025

Earth's Craving by Emily Carrington #LGBTQ @changelingpress

LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Steamy

Date Published: February 21, 2025

When werewolf and dragon meet, will their need for each other defeat all their well-intentioned plans?

Tom, a land dragon, is so large he’s earned the nickname “Earth.” His dragon herd takes advantage of him until he’s sold to a pair of basilisks. Unfortunately for them, Tom’s mating plans don’t include repopulating the basilisk species. Time to make his escape…

Kailee, psychic disaster and frightened “rehabilitated” werewolf, is new to adulting, but she’s been through enough to make her a force to be reckoned with. Transgender, she is burdened with not one, but three psychic abilities. The overabundance of power tends to make her a little off-balance…

Will Kailee be able to protect Tom from those hunting him? Can Tom learn to trust? Or will their need for each other defeat all their well-intentioned plans?

EXCERPT

Tom fled through the forest, staying low to the ground, or as low as a person who stood over six feet could manage without crawling. He needed to keep his feet because --

He flashed back to when the matriarch had cut off his left foot to keep him from escaping again. It had grown back, of course. He was a dragon. Still, it had hurt, and he sometimes woke in the middle of the night with phantom pain reminding him how he’d suffered.

He didn’t have a very good sense of direction, but it was a sunny day, early in the morning, and the sun came up in the east. So, just as long as he kept the sun on his left, he’d assumed he’d be generally heading south. Out of Canada. He’d grown up here but all he knew about the country where he’d been imprisoned was that it was north of the United States.

He was grateful his shedding was over for another six months. His escape would have been impossible while he was struggling through the twice-a-year loss of his scales.

He heard other dragons flying above him and huddled against a tree, hoping the darkness of his skin would blend with the shadows. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a late December winter when the temperatures around Nova Scotia lingered just above freezing most days. He wouldn’t freeze to death… probably. As long as he kept moving, he’d be all right. Just now, though, stillness was required. He shut his eyes, fearing that his anxiety had turned his irises yellow-green. They might be spotted by someone with a searchlight.

He wondered briefly if the female dragons had employed some of their males to help. Most of the males were treated better than he was, although not equal to the females. The large majority would do as they were told because they weren’t required to stand stud all year, just when the females wanted them.

Probably most of the other male dragons were grateful for his existence. He was an anomaly, but one that the females liked. Bigger and stronger than any other dragon he’d ever met, he’d been conditioned since birth. He’d been born larger and the hopes for his future progeny had been high. Hell, they were still high even though only about one third of the dragons he sired were of greater size when they were born. He’d only been at this enslavement stud service for a year and a half, so none of his children were more than a year old.

It was as if, when the dragons and werewolves had split off from their basilisk parentage, they’d been cursed to all stand at the exact same height in either human guise or scaly form. Five feet, ten inches was the height of almost every other dragon he’d heard of when they walked on two feet. With their talons and tails, they stood eight feet tall.

Tom was six-two sometimes, and others, he was ten feet tall. Being larger than most dragons should have been an advantage. Having increased strength could have helped if there weren’t so many damn males and females alike ready to take him down.

The sounds overhead faded and he hesitated, not wanting to leave his hiding place. Yet, what good would it do him to stay here? They’d send out hunters on foot if necessary.

So, biting his lips almost hard enough to draw blood, he crept away from the tree and started running again. He skirted around a meadow and kept going, adrenaline making him thirsty even as it lent his muscles endurance.

The sun had been up for an hour before he judged it safe to stop and drink. He’d been hearing a river nearby for about the last ten minutes and that burbling, overly cheery sound made him long for water.

He broke from the game trail he’d been following and found an offshoot that led in the correct direction. When he came upon the river, he was relieved to see a rocky bank where he could get right down close to the water and drink his fill.

He crawled to the edge of the river, listening hard. He heard nothing except the twittering of birds and the chittering of squirrels. Well, and the rushing of the water, of course. It was a deep stream, not quite the river he’d been envisioning based on the amount of noise it was making. He slipped his hands into the icy cold water.

Hands seized him roughly by his hair.

Without thought, he shifted to his scaly form to lose that grip. His clothes, rags now, fell away as he tried for the sky.

Three dragons, brown and orange, like him, male, like him, each two feet smaller, crashed into him. From below came a howl of triumph and something sharp sliced through his wing’s membrane.

He screamed as he fell.

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Tuesday, December 10, 2024

Teaser Tuesday: Trust is Sacred by Emily Carington #LGBTQ #DarkFantasy @changelingpress

(Medically Necessary 3)

LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Steamy

Date Published: December 13, 2024

Publisher: Changeling Press

Without trust, nothing is sacred. Not even long-held beliefs.

Oliver’s terrible secret is eating both himself and his would-be mate alive. He and Amir have been apart for three months, and absence indeed makes the heart grow fonder. Unfortunately, there’s terror, pain, and deceit lying between them.

Amir thinks purging and confession are medically necessary for spiritual and physical well-being. Oliver will stop at almost nothing to hide his scars.

Can these two be mated in truth or will Oliver’s past and Amir’s unstated fears push them away before the werewolves’ most sacred holiday, Winter Solstice?

Excerpt

August

In a very real sense, Oliver’s heart hadn’t ached this way in years. It was a mixture of longing and a sweet promise of eventual homecoming. He’d just sent his lover away on an airplane, back to New York. Amir would gather together his staff, choose a new doctor to take over his practice, and then be back down here to live with Oliver.

To become Oliver’s mate.

Werewolves didn’t have spouses. Except when they did. They also didn’t have Life Dancers. That was a psychic vampire thing, knowledge Oliver had gained over the last month. Wolves had mates, a name for their beloved, the person with whom they wanted to spend the rest of their lives.

He’d had a mate before. This time would be different. He’d protect his mate. He’d keep him safe, no matter the cost, and he wouldn’t allow his nightmares to drive them apart. To shove his lover toward the singular choice of suicide.

He pulled up in front of Llosgia Maxine’s house, where his heart told him he belonged. Granted, she hadn’t exactly accepted her title of alpha, or the duties commensurate with that status change. She would, though. He had faith. Well, mostly he had faith. Sometimes he worried that Tilthos Charles’s words would come true and Llosgia Maxine would choose to take up no title at all.

Except, of course, she’d already claimed Director of Werewolf Watch for herself. Maybe she couldn’t take on that responsibility and…

The front door opened and Tilthos Charles stepped out, looking even stronger than he had the night before, when he’d arrived at Llosgia Maxine’s and asked for a place for himself and his lover to sleep. Now, in the dimness of false dawn, the alpha above all alphas shouldn’t have been able to use his limited vision to see more than a car approaching. However, that didn’t seem to be the case because he smiled and waved as if he knew exactly who was arriving.

Oliver considered driving away. He didn’t want to hear the political answer as to why the Kreisha pack was still allowed to exist after all the shit three of its members had pulled. Geoffrey Huntington, Noah Travers, and Josiah Cobb had plotted to drive Tilthos Charles mad. They had made it so hearing his rightful title had caused him physical and psychic pain. They’d forced him to attack his lover, Luis. Now, though, surely Tilthos Charles was coming to tell him they’d been forgiven for some fucked-up political reason that boiled down to the alpha above all alphas… what? Didn’t want to kill? That might just be it.

The alpha above all alphas’ soft voice was in his head suddenly. Open the door, Oliver.

Oliver unlocked the doors. He waited for the alpha above all alphas to sit beside him, or order him to get out of the car, denying him his escape.

He acknowledged his expectations had no basis in reality, especially because everything he’d seen of Tilthos Charles when the leader was in his right mind was favorable. Still, he didn’t actually know how Tilthos Charles governed. He was only assuming, based on the one alpha he knew, that Tilthos Charles might have allowed power to go to his head.

“So uncharitable,” the alpha above all alphas said after opening the door. He sat in the passenger seat, folded his white cane, the symbol of his visual impairment, and then buckled himself in. “Feel free to drive if it will make you less edgy.”

“You’re reading my every thought?” Oliver asked. He’d assumed his shields were better than that.

“Not quite. You’re not projecting everything, I don’t think, but you’re very unhappy with me and that carries just fine.”

Oliver relocked the doors and pulled out of the driveway. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere that you can drive and listen without getting us in an accident would be good.”

Oliver grunted.

To his amazement, the leader of most of the world’s werewolves on this side of the Atlantic laughed. “You sound like Luis when he’s unhappy. Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

Oliver couldn’t bring himself to accuse the alpha above all alphas of any wrongdoing. Instead, he asked, “What happened to the six wolves who attacked you?”

“Huntington, Travers, and Cobb have been placed with different packs, separated by quite a bit of geography. Their new alphas reassure me their movements will be closely observed.”

Oliver turned off Llosgia Maxine’s street and just headed south, away from Washington, DC. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drive in heavy traffic and listen. “Why are they still alive?”

“I’m not in the habit of killing every single wolf who’s tried a coup. There would be considerably fewer wolves in the world if I exacted that sort of revenge. They’re being watched by three alphas I trust implicitly and I’m sure these bastards will show their true colors again. And unlike in baseball, they only get two chances.” He turned his head away from Oliver. “They’re not the only ones I’m watching. Kreisha Alexander let this go on right under his nose. At best, the very best, that makes him not perceptive enough.”

He faced Oliver again. “I’m asking you to keep me informed if he does anything inappropriate, dangerous, or careless. I don’t order you because I don’t want to step on your agency that way.”

“Please order me,” Oliver blurted.

That got him a raised eyebrow.

“Kreisha Alexander is in the habit of ordering his wolves not to share things, good or bad, outside the pack. If I have your order first, and because you outrank him, I’ll be able to tattletale.” He grimaced. “That came out more bitter than I anticipated or meant. I’m sorry.”

Tilthos Charles seemed to have caught onto another part of his speech, however, because he said, “Is there anything you’re forbidden to share with me?” There was a growl in his voice.

About the Author

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Wednesday, November 6, 2024

TERROR by J. Hali Steele #LGBTQ #MotorcycleClub @changelingpress

(Scorned Devil’s MC)

LGBTQ, Motorcycle Club, M/M

Date Published: November 8, 2024

Terror: Once, he had been Terrance Holton, a young gay man who learned to shove what he is so deep inside himself, he almost forgot. He grew up to be Terror and he is the Vice President of one of the baddest outlaw motorcycle clubs in Pennsylvania. The consequence of denying who he really is turns Terror into a threat to everyone around him, and eventually lands Terror in jail. There he connects with a beautiful older man who teaches Terror to love who he is.

Tinman: Timothy Jacoby gave years of his life to leading a motorcycle club that no longer exists. He did anything for his MC and his brothers, never hiding who he was. Then Tinman got arrested and sent to prison, where he serves ten years. When Tinman meets a younger biker who hides his gayness from the crew he rides with, he vows to keep Terror safe, but he hides his own past as a biker. Unable to forget their blistering encounters, the minute Tinman is released, he’s hellbent on finding Terror again. This time he’ll keep his prize.

Both men’s secrets are about to collide, and they just might blow the Scorned Devils MC to smithereens.

EXCERPT

Terror

Goddamn Dread and his fuck-the-world attitude. Defying every norm, the man flaunted his desire for other men. Took them without a care for what anyone thought. Yet he was still the most respected Scorned Devils MC club member, the MC club’s sergeant at arms, and other MCs feared him as if he were some kind of hero with super powers or some shit.

Back then, Terror had detested Dread -- mostly for causing his own dormant childhood feelings to resurface.

Now Terror was returning home from prison feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Having heard from Cat, a man Terror had introduced to biker culture and the Scorned Devils MC days before his release, he was aware of the showdown between Cat and Dread. He’d told Cat to pack up and return to Kansas. Terror didn’t even go home to get his bike. He had bigger plans. He couldn’t wait to see the man who’d taken up so much space in Terror’s head while he’d been locked up for nearly three years. Terror had berated Dread mercilessly about being gay. Treated him even worse whenever Terror heard about Dread screwing any man who would have him.

When he’d been arrested, Battle Graves, their MC president, had been the one to show up to bail Terror out. He’d turned down Bat’s offer of legal representation. The bastard Terror had beaten to within an inch of his life? Shit, he’d do that again if he had to. No reason to fight the charges and have his brothers find out what went down in that motel room in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

At that time, Terror hadn’t been ready to come out.

He’d been named Terrance Holton by his drugged-out single mom, who’d simply vanished one night. Wading through the foster care system at a young age, Terror had realized he might be gay. Afraid and beat down, he’d buried Terrance deep in his psyche. Deep enough to almost forget the boy existed.

As he grew older, nothing scared the man he became -- an angry-as-hell bastard who cared for no one. Made everyone call him Terror. If they didn’t, he whipped their asses.

He came to embrace one thing -- an old motorcycle he’d stolen from the shed behind his last foster home. It was never reported because that motherfucker would never talk to anyone again.

That motorcycle… the speed, his disdain for the law, it led to Terror’s prospecting with the Scorned Devils MC.

Meeting the club’s sergeant at arms changed everything.

Now he was back. And he was ready to show his true colors.

Would his brothers and other clubs receive Terror the same way?

* * *

Standing in the newly built loft of Hell’s Lair, the place Scorned Devils called home, Terror looked down at Dread, who had moved from the room used for meetings to sit in a chair outside the door. Dread’s preference had always been big, hairy bastards. What would he think about Terror’s fuller, muscular body? A body he’d worked on every day in the prison gym…

The blond hair he used to wear short was now in a ponytail. He tossed it over his shoulder and stroked his beard. Another noticeable change. He’d grown a full beard.

Damn, Dread was still a fine motherfucker.

Strangely, it wasn’t Dread’s green eyes that scorched a path through Terror’s mind. Another face emerged in his thoughts as he finger-combed his beard. A man who, much like Dread, never gave a fuck what others believed about him. A prisoner who ran the cell block Terror had occupied for the last three years.

Rattled Terror to imagine blue eyes he’d assumed he’d forget. Blue eyes that had looked up at him many nights when Terror plundered the man’s sweet asshole.

I. Am. Gay.

Glad he hadn’t given his virginal asshole to anyone, Terror shoved old memories away as he walked down the steps to confront the one person who could have him any way he desired.

With a look, Terror chased the other members out and sent Battle to the office before he confronted Dread. “You and me need to talk.”

About the Author

A former MC associate, J. Hali Steele loves anything with wheels, including motorcycles, classic automobiles, and race cars. A retired winning ex-quarter mile drag racer, J. Hali often angles to get her butt back in the driver’s seat!

J. Hali is a multi-published, best-selling author of romance in Contemporary MC, ReligErotica, Paranormal, Fantasy, and LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters, and angels collide – and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap and a cup of her favorite beverage of the moment.

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Wednesday, October 9, 2024

Trust is Fraught by Emily Carrington #LGBTQ #DarkFantasy #InterracialRomance

LGBTQ, Dark Fantasy, Interracial Romance

Date Published: October 11, 2024

From insisting on a bed for their first time to protecting Amir from everything, Oliver is stepping all over Amir’s last nerve. It’s almost too bad the submissive wolf wants dominant Oliver in the worst way.

Amir’s frustration with Oliver doesn’t cancel out his attraction to the other wolf. As they fall deeper into the dangers of the psychic world in an effort to rescue their leader, their love may be the only thing keeping them sane.

As the leader of the werewolves sinks further into insanity, Amir and Oliver are pushed to their limits to find out what’s causing his decline. Once they discover the truth, it’s another struggle, this one against prejudice and time, to rescue the alpha above all alphas.

EXCERPT

It was full dark when Oliver jerked awake. He sat up, smelling his own sweat and the aftermath of sex.

He flashed back to the most traumatic time he’d woken to the stench of spent jizz. Geoffrey, the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been standing over him, cum dripping from his rapidly shrinking cock.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed, fully expecting to find himself surrounded by the enemy. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he picked out the shadowy form of a lampshade. He reached out, almost knocking the lamp over in his need to shed light on the situation. When the bulb glowed, he took a quick look around the room, feeling the urge to ensure he was alone and safe. He didn’t quite dare to rise to his feet because his legs felt like they’d turned to water.

He missed Kenneth Jeremiah in the worst way all of a sudden, and he was unable to hide from the truth, that he missed his lover not for Kenneth Jeremiah’s own sake but because his lover had kept the nightmares at bay. Ever since being attacked, which had been two months before Kenneth Jeremiah died, the nightmares had been threatening. But he hadn’t actually dreamed of what happened until after his beloved was dead. Kenneth Jeremiah had possessed a rare empathic gift, one that allowed him to soothe others’ minds.

Sort of like Amir, he thought, but his terror kept him dwelling on the past.

He was alone in the downstairs bedroom of the house he rented in Washington, D.C.’s Northwest quarter. Why the hell did it smell of sex? And why didn’t his ass hurt?

Oliver’s gorge rose. He swallowed against the need to throw up. Gradually, his stomach settled and new information came to his nose. Yes, it was his own jizz he smelled on the air, but it was mixed with another male’s. The aroma didn’t spark a flashback but seemed to wrap around him, comforting him.

Amir’s scent surrounded him.

He’d had sex, all right, except it had really been making love. There was no fear or rage clouding the healthy leavings of two werewolves who cared for each other. They hadn’t gone all the way. Oliver had refused to claim Amir’s virgin body while they were so spun up from the events of the last few days and when Oliver himself had been so desperate for sexual contact that he hadn’t been sure he could be as gentle as was needed. They’d had oral sex, and now that his head was clearing, he realized he could taste Amir’s salty spend on his tongue. He licked his lips, found a little more of the heavenly liquid at one corner, and closed his eyes to savor it.

His cock stirred, although only a little as he fully realized he was alone in the bedroom. Where had Amir gone? Had he woken as Oliver had, frightened, and escaped into the house at large, or to the world beyond these walls? What if Oliver’s nightmare had been prophetic rather than a misplaced response to his joy?

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He flopped back onto the bed. Cursing softly, he performed a quick self-analysis, looking for sore spots or other indicators he’d been drugged. He detected nothing. Likewise, he felt no alien presence in his mind. His psychic shields were up and strong.

Still, his legs trembled. Clutching his knees, he tried to get a handle on his fear.

It hadn’t been all that long since he’d dreamed of the gang rape Geoffrey Huntington had led. Maybe only three weeks. Still, he was shocked every time it recurred. Hadn’t going through it once been enough? Apparently not for his traumatized body. Oliver could have bested three out of the four werewolves who raped him during that long five hours, but he’d surrendered to their brutality to save Kenneth Jeremiah. When the attack had begun, he’d expected to find Travers and Cobb involved because they were closer to him in rank, both being lower gammas. But the three besides Geoffrey, who was the beta of the Kreisha pack, had been Carl, Matthias, and Scott, all very low-ranked wolves, although not quite submissive. He’d always thought their ranks were why they’d participated. Geoffrey might have forced them.

Thinking about that night, all alone in the midst of raving beasts, wasn’t going to steady his legs. He needed to get himself under control so he could go looking for Amir and ensure his new lover was safe.

He forced himself to lie down on the bed. He inhaled Amir’s scent rising from his pillow, an aroma made of sweat and excitement and just a touch of disinfectant because Amir was a physician. Oliver breathed in and out, counting the seconds for each inhale and exhale. He added three seconds of holding his breath between these two acts and slowly his heartbeat stopped racing out of control. Amir’s joy and release held a comfort that Oliver hadn’t found since before the gang rape.

He sat up before that thought could take hold. He focused on the bedroom door, which was ajar. He did another quick sweep of the room, this time with nose fully engaged. He didn’t detect any blood or stench of fear. Amir must have left the room of his own volition.

With this idea in his head, Oliver was finally able to rise. He tugged on the pants he’d been wearing and started for the hallway. Following Amir’s scent, he went into the bathroom across the way, where Amir had apparently washed up because the tang of citrus soap hung in the air. Had he come out here naked?

Needing to solve that mystery because Amir walking anywhere potentially public without his clothes didn’t seem like the doctor of magical creatures at all. Back in the bedroom, however, Oliver saw all of Amir’s articles of clothing were still there.

Concern reared its ugly head again and he trotted from the room. He stopped by the front door, but Amir hadn’t come this way. He trailed the scent of soap to the stairs, and that was where it changed. The addition of fur’s rich aroma told Oliver Amir had slipped from human guise to lupine seeming before he went up the staircase to the second floor.

His night vision had fully adjusted to the dimness, and he climbed the stairs silently, keeping his ears open for Amir or their mutual patient.

Maybe that was it, he thought as he put his foot on the third step. Their mutual patient, Tilthos Charles, the alpha above all alphas in the Americas and Canada, was ill. Amir had managed to rule out any poisons or physical cause for Tilthos Charles’s growing madness, leaving it to Oliver to figure out the psychic cause. Oliver hadn’t yet solved the mystery beyond the realization Tilthos Charles was being forced to share his mind with five or six other werewolves who meant him harm.

Maybe Tilthos Charles was the reason Amir had left the bedroom and not because he’d endured a terrible dream. Oliver purposely made a little noise on the stairs to warn those up on the second floor that he was coming. He couldn’t quite make himself call out or even whisper. His throat had tightened, now with nervousness. What had he been thinking, making love to Amir when they had a patient to look after?

He reached the landing between the first and second floors and paused. Above him, out of sight because of the construction of the house, he heard a very quiet growl.

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