By Erastes (Guest Blogger)
M/M historical erotic romance from Lethe Press
Hello, and thank you Lisabet for giving me the chance to talk about my book. Mere Mortals is a gay Gothic Romance set in the mysterious Norfolk Broads in 1847. I knew I wanted to a Gothic with the theme that this book holds (can’t say much, for spoiling!) and I started the book starting it on Dartmoor. However, places like Dartmoor and Exmoor and the like have been done to death and I felt I was retreading familiar ground—and I couldn’t recall any one book set on the Norfolk Broads which are every bit as mysterious, beautiful and deadly as any moor. Plus, I live on the Norfolk Broads, whereas travelling to Dartmoor to research was a day’s travel, so it was an easy fix to change the location. I hope you like the book, if you try it, do let me know, either way!
Orphaned Crispin Thorne has been taken as ward by Philip Smallwood, a man he's never met, and is transplanted from his private school to Smallwood's house on an island on the beautiful but cold and remote Horsey Mere in Norfolk. Upon his arrival, he finds that he's not the only young man given a fresh start. Myles Graham, and Jude Middleton are there before him, and as their benefactor is away, they soon form alliances and friendships, as they speculate on why they’ve been given this new life. Who is Philip Smallwood? Why has he given them such a fabulous new life? What secrets does the house hold and what is it that the Doctor seems to know?
“Goodnight, Jude,” I said again, but I was stayed by his hand catching mine, stopping me from opening the door. I turned to him, and found his face quite serious, his eyes large as if asking a question I’d already answered, days before. In a heartbeat he was close, then closer still and there was nothing but Jude, his scent, the butterfly whisper of his hair against my cheek as he buried his mouth against my neck.
Tingles ran down my spine, delicious shivers that I remember from when Arch used to whisper wickedness into my ear. I laughed softly, tipping my head to one side to give his mouth more space, for there was not much, with my cravat as it was. He pressed his body harder against mine, his arousal obvious and meeting mine with firm determination. I wrapped my arms around his waist, and let them slide down, seeking the curve of his lower back, that subtle curve some men possessed, and which always drew my attention, especially in the fashions of the day.
He groaned as my hands slid beneath his coat tails and he raised his head, his lips damp in the candlelight. His lips opened even as I bent towards him and the kiss was sweeter than the one I remembered. There was something beautifully yielding about him, and it was new, so new to me, for Arch had been all heat and muscle. With Jude I had time to taste, to feel and to explore as he waited, patiently, for me to find him out.
“Jude,” I said, pulling back.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.” His hands fumbled with my trouser buttons, and there was nothing I could do to stop him, nor did I want to. “Not yet.”
I claimed his mouth again, as he opened my buttons and took me into his hand. The fear of our situation melted as all thoughts of where or even who I was vanished for the moment. I found myself making noises I’d never made before, small desperate cries of pleasure, which only spurred Jude on, I could feel him smiling against my mouth, and when he broke away himself, he whispered my name, sounding like yes, and now and thank you all at the same time. After a year of being untouched, there was no way I was going to last long and I knew it, as warmth and pressure built and burst almost before I had time to really enjoy it. I felt a cool cloth against the sensitive top of my member; the thoughtful man had anticipated my emission (although, really, he hardly needed to have any mind reading abilities).
I huffed through my nose in an embarrassed fashion, and looked away. “I’m sorry…”
In response he kissed my cheek. “Don’t be absurd, dear, that was rather the point, was it not? And after all, this is a new suit of clothes. The kerchief I can wash out, or at the very least Paul will think nothing of a cloth in this state. But I would not want to leave a stain on this lovely suit that would need to sponged out. Questions might be asked below stairs, if so.” He stepped back, letting me button myself up. “I think it’s best to avoid that, don’t you?”
Bio: ERASTES is the penname of female author of gay historical fiction. Author of eight novels and over 20 short stories, Erastes is a Lambda award finalist and keen lover of history. She began writing full-time after leaving the legal profession finding it stranger than any fiction. Find out more at her blog www.erastes.com or follow her on facebook, goodreads, livejournal or and twitter.