“I want no promises from you—now” – #MFRWHooks #AlphaHero #BDSM #FirstNovel

For today’s MFRW Book Hooks hop, I decided to go back to my very first novel, Raw Silk, and share the heroine’s first meeting with the hero. Originally published by Black Lace in 1999, the book was initially marketed as erotica for women. It’s gone through four editions since, becoming more romance-focused with each one. When I wrote it, though, I knew nothing about the romance genre or tropes. I was drawing from personal experience to create the story of a woman’s journey to a deeper understanding of her sexual self, including her submissive tendencies.

The funny thing is, this is one of the very few of my books which has an alpha hero. Despite my lack of romance background, Gregory Marshall is the classic romance Dom. Maybe there’s something about the archetype that transcends genre.

In any case, my hook today is the scene where Kate first encounters the challenging and seductive giant who will ultimately become her Master.

Enjoy!

Blurb

In a foreign land, a woman discovers exotic new realms of the senses…

When software engineer Kate O’Neill leaves her lover David to take a job in Thailand, she becomes sexually involved with two very different men—a handsome and debauched member of the Thai aristocracy, and the charismatic proprietor of a sex bar.

Each touches her in a different way; each teaches her different things about her body and her heart.

Then David comes to Bangkok, and Kate realizes that, finally, she must choose one of the three men who all desire her.

 

The Hook

She turned her attention back to the information on her computer monitor, willing herself to pay attention to her work. As she focused on code scrolling down her screen, other thoughts faded into the background.

She was so intent on her tasks that she did not hear Malawee approach. She started at the Thai woman’s respectful voice.

“Miss Katherine, Mr. Edward asked me to see if you were available. He’s meeting with a client, and would like you to join him.”

“Of course,” said Kate, stifling a surge of frustration. She turned on her screen saver, and followed Malawee to the conference room.

She knocked then opened the door. Harrison sat at the far end of the polished table, a look of annoyance on his face. Sitting beside him was a man of unusual appearance—disquieting, she thought then questioned the source of her reaction.

The man was European or American. He dressed casually, entirely in black—black shirt with a stand-up collar, tight black jeans. He had long, straight hair, also black, pulled back in a ponytail with an ornate silver barrette. Kate thought she saw a flash of silver at his throat. His long fingers, clasped before him on the table, were similarly adorned with silver rings.

Strong planes shaped his tanned face—broad forehead, high cheekbones, resolute chin. His mouth, at the moment, framed a smile, but Kate thought that she caught a twist of irony in his expression.

As she entered, he turned his attention to her, and she saw his eyes—shocking, unexpected blue, under heavy black brows. Intense, piercing, and completely without restraint, any sense of politeness or etiquette. He continued to hold her gaze with his for an awkward moment. Then Edward broke in, clearing his throat.

“Ah, Katherine. Thank you for taking the time to join us. We need your technical expertise.”

“Of course,” she said softly, seating herself several chairs away from the man in black. She was aware that he was still staring at her, and still smiling.

“Katherine, this is Gregory Marshall, one of our clients.” The man in black rose and bowed, a polite gesture, yet somehow unconvincing. Kate saw that he was very tall, well over six feet. “Mr. Marshall, Katherine O’Neill, our new director of software development.”

“My pleasure,” said the man, perfectly civilly. So why did she feel he was mocking her?

“Mr. Marshall is the proprietor of one of the foremost establishments in Patpong.”

“The red-light district?” she blurted out then nearly bit her tongue in embarrassment.

“The entertainment district,” countered the man in black smoothly. “The Grotto is just a go-go bar, offering the same types of entertainment available in many places in the city. However, I am trying to make it more distinctive, more creative, more—interesting. That’s where DigiThai comes in.”

“Yes,” her boss cut in, trying to recapture the conversational initiative. “Six months ago we designed and installed a custom multimedia system for Mr. Marshall’s bar, The Grotto. Video-walls and cameras, a simulated aquarium with computer-graphic inhabitants, acoustically-driven digital kaleidoscopes—very elaborate.”

“And very successful,” said Gregory Marshall, with a broad smile that bared his straight, white teeth. “I’m very happy with your work. It’s just that now I want to go further.”

“Mr. Marshall has some novel ideas, but, as I have been telling him, they are barely feasible, technically. And certainly not for the money that we have been discussing.”

Always attracted by a technical challenge, Kate found herself interested. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Marshall?” she asked, in her most professional tone of voice.

“Well, now…” The man’s voice was melodious, controlled, expressive. The voice of an actor. He riveted her with his gaze again. She stared back at him, proudly, rebelliously, not willing to be cowed. Eventually, he continued his sentence, without looking away from her.

“Three-dimensional imagery is what I am looking for. Something like the holograms one sees in science fiction movies. My girls are already fantastic, but I’d like to project more fantastic images still, images from people’s dreams and nightmares, mysterious, evocative, disturbing, erotic. Furthermore, I would like to somehow link these images to the music, so that my customers will see, projected before their eyes, reflections or echoes of the emotions aroused by the beat and the melody.”

Kate was silent for a moment. As she gathered her thoughts, Gregory Marshall watched her attentively. Finally, she spoke, choosing her words carefully.

“Three-dimensional imagery on a two-dimensional screen has now become inexpensive and commonplace. Projected 3-D, though, still requires costly hardware, and custom software— the sort of thing available only to Disney or Spielberg.”

She paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “I do have some familiarity with this area, though. I did some related research when I was in grad school.”

“Would you be willing to work on this for me?” interrupted Marshall, clearly excited. “I believe that I can make you understand exactly what I want.” He paused dramatically. “What do you say, Kate?”

Part of her bristled at the liberties he took, using her name so familiarly on such short acquaintance. Part of her warmed in response to that very familiarity, the tone of persuasive intimacy.

However, she had to admit she was eager for the opportunity to pursue her ideas on the problem. She’d had to put her 3-D project aside after defending her thesis. Employers in the U.S. were seeking more practical innovations.

As for the chance to work for Gregory Marshall—well, that notion filled her with equal measures of excitement and dread. He was an arrogant bastard, that much was clear. The way he looked at her—without a shred of respect, as though she was some sort of peon, his to command! Yet at the same time, that challenging gaze made her pulse race and, yes, her pussy a bit damp. Despite his brashness and poor manners, she found him somehow intriguing.

Not that she’d let him know that, of course.

“That decision is for Mr. Harrison to make.” Kate responded as coolly as she could manage. “If the two of you can resolve the financial issues, I’d be very happy to continue my research in this area. However, we can’t promise you success. The work is in too early a stage for that.”

“I want no promises from you—now,” said the man in black softly. “And I am patient.” His sapphire eyes bored into her, as though he’d read her mind. Confusion, anger, arousal and fear washed through her in alternating waves. Under Marshall’s relentless scrutiny, she felt slightly faint.

Review Quotes

“This is by far one of the best erotic novels that I have read and it fully deserves every one of the five ribbons I am giving it! But it does make me wonder what the characters could do with them.” ~ Maree Schuler, Romance Junkies (Five Ribbons).

“[Kate’s] character grows and she comes to realize her inner needs along with her deep sexual desires. Lisabet Sarai has a flair for sexy, sensuous romance with an edgy feel. I cannot wait to read more by this talented author.” ~ Dawnie, Fallen Angels Reviews (Five Angels).

“The Bangkok setting is fascinating and adds to the overall feeling of opulent sensuality. Lisabet Sarai deftly shows the country without ever letting the descriptions take over the story. Good BDSM novels are voyages of self-discovery, and Raw Silk is a journey you’ll enjoy taking.” ~ Kathleen Bradean, Erotica Revealed

“...this is one SIZZLING read (the ending was incredible) and should not be put on the back burner of your ‘to read list.” ~ Alyssa, Amazon review (Five stars)

Buy Links (Ebook and Print)

Kinky Literature

http://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/361-raw-silk-/

Amazon US

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01AUSE5NE/

Amazon UK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01AUSE5NE/

Barnes & Noble

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/raw-silk-lisabet-sarai/1102328201?ean=9781786510051

Totally Bound

https://www.totallybound.com/raw-silk

Kobo

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/raw-silk-8

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28603390-raw-silk

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Exploring Grayality: Cloverleaf, Montana – #LGBTQIA #Romance #Transgender #Montana @CareyPW2

 

By Carey PW (Guest Blogger)

I would love to claim roots in Montana. But there’s none. Like my characters Oakley and Pate, I am a Georgian.

I moved to Montana in 2015 after living in China for three years. My husband and I didn’t want to move back to the east coast because we wanted a new experience. One day, he became fascinated with a small town in North Dakota. Sensing his intrigue, I applied for jobs all around the northwest. In July 2015, I landed a job in a small town in Eastern Montana.

I always loved winters. I was supposedly born during a rare snowstorm in Georgia; thus, winter seems to be in my blood. But the weather wasn’t the only thing that grew on me. Driving up through Montana the first day was exactly like Pate’s first impressions. No rest stops in sight. It was just miles of fields. I admit. It intimidated me at first. I definitely questioned my decision.

But there’s lots of things that I love about Montana. First, no traffic. While some may feel that driving forty-five miles to the grocery store is excessive, it’s not when I can drive there in forty minutes, especially when it can easily take forty minutes to drive across cities. Fewer people, no long lines, and the general laid-back feeling is easy to get used to. After living in Beijing and Shanghai, it was all very refreshing.

I considered other locations when choosing the setting for Grayality. But it just felt more authentic to write about what is in front of me. Plus, it added a nice “fish out of water” trope to the story: two Georgian suburbanites move to rural Montana. However, as someone who came out as a transgender person and transitioned here in my small Montanan town, I was appalled by the lack of resources and in one case, discrimination. So, I decided to set the story here to share the struggles of being transgender in this kind of setting.

Cloverleaf is not a real town. It mimics my town, but it is different. Inspired by Stephen King who set many of his stories in Castle Rock, I wanted to follow that same theme. So, I created a fictional Montana town that I can repeat as a setting for all my future works. Not to mention that the world could use more stories from Montana.

I chose the name Cloverleaf because it is a metaphor for being in a crossroad in one’s life. Pate and Oakley are young and still figuring themselves out, making it a coming-of-age story. The cloverleaf represents the various paths that they can take in this journey, but the point is that they must choose.

I also know that small rural towns can be misunderstood. While small towns have challenges, I want Cloverleaf to reflect those problems while also showing that there are accepting people in these communities. I hope that my future works in Cloverleaf build on this representation.

Blurb

Love knows no gender.

Pate Boone, a twenty-six-year-old transgender man, embarks on a new adventure when his childhood best friend, and yes, ex-lover, Oakley Ogden, convinces him to escape their hometown in hopes for something new.

They land in Cloverleaf, a tiny rural town in Montana, so that Oakley can care for his granny who is battling breast cancer. She pressures the two young men to enroll in a nearby college. Pate immediately becomes enthralled with Maybelle, a young, vivacious freshman to whom he fears revealing his transgender identity. Still, he finds it impossible to resist Maybelle, even after he meets her ex, Bullet, a large, violent man determined to keep Pate away from “his girl.”

But there are others who accept Pate immediately, like Stormy. An outdoorsy, rugged freshman, Stormy warns Pate away from Maybelle and Bullet, but Pate’s too infatuated to heed these warnings.

Oakley tries to support his friend’s new love but finds himself entangled in his own emotional calamity when he unintentionally falls for Jody, a gay and ostentatiously confident drag queen. This new relationship awakens deep internal conflicts in Oakley as he struggles to accept his bisexuality, lashing out at Pate and causing friction between him and Jody.

Oakley must decide if he can overcome his insecurities so he doesn’t lose the love of his life. And Pate must discover if the love between him and Maybelle is strong enough for her to accept him as a transgender man, or if she will break his heart.

Excerpt

Pate held up his hand to stop me. “You didn’t pull away when he held your hand. Even he noticed that. You didn’t pull away from his kiss. You think he’s never hit on straight guys before? I think he’d know by now that straight guys pull away—”

“And gay guys don’t?” I asked.

“They don’t if they are interested. Oakley, sexuality is not either/or. Maybe you have some attraction to him. Maybe not toward just any man, but toward him.”

I had been so busy trying to analyze my repulsion toward guys that it had never dawned on me to consider what made Jody attractive to me. His emerald-green eyes alone were enough to mesmerize anyone. His skin was silky and soft like a woman. His frame was small and delicate. But thinking on it, it wasn’t so much those physical traits as it was his confidence and free spirit. I had never seen a girl perform and light up a room as if she owned it the way Jody had dominated the club in Billings. When he realized that I thought he was a girl when I made the date, his response was calm. He didn’t get offended or even embarrassed. Jody was going to keep being Jody. I hadn’t found that certainty for myself yet.

“It wouldn’t mean anything different than me preferring to stay a feminine guy,” Pate replied, shrugging his shoulder. “It’s not about girl or boy. It’s about the feminine and the masculine that’s in all of us.”

About the Author

Carey PW (he/they) is a debut author, college instructor, and mental health counselor. Carey is currently completing his next manuscript, Acing the Game.

Carey lives in Montana, and identifies as nonbinary, transmasculine (AFAB) and panromantic asexual. Due to the lack of resources in rural communities, Carey has discovered that writing about his lived experiences is a therapeutic outlet for him and hopes that his readers relate to his own personal struggles and triumphs shared through his characters’ narratives. Carey is particularly interested in exploring relationship conflicts around sexuality and gender differences. He has also worked as a high school writing instructor and college writing instructor, earning a B.A. in English Literature, a M.Ed. in English Education, and Ph.D. in Social Foundations of Education all from the University of Georgia. In 2020, Carey earned his second M.Ed. in Counselor Education and works as a licensed clinical professional counselor, LCPC. He has a strong passion for working with the unique mental health issues of the LGBTQIA+ community.

Readers can learn more about Carey from his blog, www.careypw.com. When he is not writing, Carey is busy training for marathons, parenting his six cats, sharing his culinary talents on social media, serving on the board for the nonprofit Center for Studies of the Person (CSP) and learning photography.

Carey PW loves to hear from readers. You can find his contact information, website and author biography at http://www.pride-publishing.com.

Other links

Author Blog: www.careypw.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/careypatrickwertz/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CareyPW2

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kerri.p.singer/

One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $50 Amazon/BN.com gift card.

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A clarion call – #SciFi #Mystery #ClimateChange

Blurb

Sarah and JanetM, are a human/Artificial Intelligence pair who do private investigations in the near future where our climate crisis has hit and hit hard. A man with a long dark history tries to hire them but is then killed. His family hires the team to find who killed this man with a thousand enemies in a land with a million problems.

The United Nations IPCC report, “Climate Change 2022, Impacts, Adaption and Vulnerability contains:

C5.3 Enhancing knowledge

A wide range of … processes … can deepen climate knowledge and sharing, including … using the arts … (high confidence).

This can only be read as a clarion call for writers to produce the works that will help our people cope.

Excerpt

“I think we still have time for a few questions and answers,” said the chairperson, “You will find a microphone over to the side. Please say who your question is for.”

Most of the audience were still there and people quickly queued up.

“Question time, question time, question time,” sang JanetM in Sarah’s ear.

“This one is for Sarah. Why did you not take the case when you were first asked?”

“It was clear to me that Mr. Winestead had a hidden agenda,” said Sarah. “The story he gave me struck me as a complete fabrication. To work for someone you have to have some level of trust. We had not established that trust. He really did think he was in danger and was interviewing investigators to choose one to have available if he were attacked. Had he said that clearly, then things might have turned out quite differently, but that was not the story he chose to tell. He was a paranoid man who had made detailed plans all his life and he was making another, just in case something bad happened.”

“This one is for you both. How do you like being a human/AI pair?”

“We are way past liking,” said Sarah. “We now are who we are and who we are is who you see. I would not change our relationship for the world, but that does not matter, we cannot go back in time, and I would not if I could.

About the Author

After an extensive career at NASA as an Instrument Engineer, Tom Riley started a people-based space program, The Big Moon Dig, compatible with the needs of our climate crisis. Our climate crisis clearly must now come first, and that effort needed positive stories of people in action.

Buy Links

https://www.iuniverse.com/en/bookstore/bookdetails/843643-a-climate-of-revenge

https://www.amazon.com/Climate-Revenge-JanetM-Mystery-Writers/dp/1663242135/ref=sr_1_1

Tom Riley will be awarding a PDF file of Writer's Guide to Our Climate Crisis (International) to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

 

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Charity Sunday: On the border – #Refugees #HumanRights #CharitySunday #Giveaway

Welcome to another Charity Sunday blog hop. One day per month, I and a handful of fellow authors make an small effort to spread our blessings to the rest of the world. Each blogger participating in the Charity Sunday hop chooses a worthy cause to showcase, then commits to donating a certain amount to that charity for each comment received on the post.

We also give you an excerpt from one of your stories, to thank you for visiting ... and of course, to tempt you to read more of our work!

My charity this month is the Refugee Health Alliance. This non-profit organization provides a wide range of assistance to refugees stranded at the U.S.-Mexico border, enmeshed in the vicious web of U.S. immigration regulations. Stuck in a no-man’s land where they can neither enter the country nor go back to their homes, these individuals are forced to live in sometimes horrific conditions.

The RFA provides a wide range of services to these people: not just primary and reproductive health care but also mental health services, hygiene and laundry services, potable water including public water fountains, natural medicine, medical-legal services and documentation, hot meals and clean clothing. I really admire their inclusive, integrated approach.

So, I will donate two dollars to RFA for every comment I receive on this post. You can comment throughout the next month, until the next Charity Sunday.

Meanwhile, as promised, here is a juicy excerpt from my recent release Incognito: Secret Lives, Forbidden Loves (which has nothing at all to do with refugees). This book has two parallel plot lines, one set in present-day Beacon Hill and the other in the Victorian period. This bit is from the secret Victorian diary discovered by the modern heroine, who happens to be a doctoral student in literature.

And just to thank for coming by today, I’ll give away an ebook copy of this erotic romance novel to one randomly selected commenter.

June 12, 1886

I scarcely know how to commence this account of my adventures and my sins. Indeed, I do not fully understand why I feel compelled to commit these things to writing. Clearly, my purpose is not to review and relive these experiences in the future, for in twenty minutes’ time these sentences will be invisible even to me. Perhaps in the years ahead, I will trail my fingers across the empty parchment, colored like flesh, and the memories will come alive without the words, coaxed from the pages by my touch like flames bursting from cold embers.

I have a secret life, another self, and that secret has become a burden that I clutch to myself, and yet would be relieved of. So, like the Japanese who write their deepest desires on slips of rice paper and then burn them, I write of secret joys and yearnings, and send that writing into oblivion.

Let me begin again. My name is Beatrice. The world sees me as poised, prosperous, respectable, wife of one of Boston’s leading merchants and industrialists, mother of two sweet children, lady of a fine brick house on fashionable Mount Vernon Street, with Viennese crystal chandeliers, Chinese porcelain, French velvet draperies, and Italian marble fireplaces. I devote myself to the education of my dear Daniel and Louisa, the management of my household, works of charity, cultural afternoons. In sum, the many and sundry details of maintaining oneself in proper society.

Though I have borne two children, I am still considered beautiful. Indeed, with my golden locks, fair skin, sapphire eyes and rosy lips, I am often compared to an angel. How little they know, those who so describe me. For in truth, I am depraved, wanton, and lecherous, so lost that I do not even regret my fall.

My husband is a kind, intelligent, and honorable man, for whom I have the deepest regard and affection. He treats me with the utmost consideration and respect; he rarely comes to my bed and when he does, he is profuse with apologies for his unfortunate lust. Alas, he hardly knows or understands me. I understand him to a much greater extent, enough to know that I must lie still and silent under him, not move or cry out as his manhood dances inside me. Everyone knows that for proper women, the rites of the flesh are a trial that must be endured; men are subject to carnal weakness, and women’s lot is to be the passive receptacle of their spending. This is what my husband believes. Knowing he believes this takes the fire from the moment, and makes it easier for me to play my frigid, compliant role.

I know better, though.

Today, I walked in Louisburg Square with Daniel, Louisa, and their nurse. The weather was glorious, sky of limpid blue sown with fluffy clouds, new leaves dancing in the breeze. My parasol raised against the sun, I did not see him until he was almost upon us.

He was of medium height, sumptuously attired, as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I. His mouth had a fullness that I liked, the look of someone who savors the sweet things in life, and a readiness to smile. As he swept off his hat and bowed, I noticed his hands, with long delicate fingers clad in beige kid gloves.

“Good afternoon, Madame,” he said courteously. “I trust that you and your children are enjoying this fine weather.”

Meanwhile, his eyes were sending me a different, more intimate message, which would have been lost on someone who was not sensitized to such things. There were no words in this message, only images, emotions, sensation, a quickening of breath, a heat, a tightening.

I am perpetually amazed at how we recognize each other, those of us who live beyond the pale of propriety. Is it some primal scent that we exude? Some subtle clue in posture or expression? Could it in fact be some spiritual connection, a mingling of thoughts in the ether? The mechanism is obscure to me, but I know the phenomenon only too well. I have sat in a concert hall with two hundred elegantly dressed, respectable members of proper society and found my eyes drawn to a single face in the balcony, a set of eyes that knew me, saw through my finery to the hungry flesh beneath.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” I said, my voice low and modest. “It is indeed fine, especially for so early in the season.”

“Of course, that may indicate that it will become hot sooner than usual.” The gentleman’s eyes sparkled with humor at his little private joke. Hot indeed, I thought to myself, adjusting my expression to signal some slight disapproval.

“I do not believe that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, Sir,” I said.

“Forgive me for my lack of courtesy.” He reached into his waistcoat, withdrew a card and wrote something upon it. “Here is my card.”

“Thank you.” I examined the card. It was not, in fact, a visiting card, but a blank upon which he had inscribed the following few words:

Ten O’clock this evening

No. __ Beacon Street

With respect and hope,

Charles Burnside

His name was unknown to me. Clearly he must be one of the many visitors to our prosperous city. I gave him my most luminous smile. “Perhaps we will meet again, Sir.”

“I do hope so, Madame. Adieu for now.”

I swept past him, my silks rustling, my heart pounding deliciously.

My husband was away this evening, as he so often is, visiting his mills in Lowell or consulting with his agents in New York. I would never risk one of my encounters if he were at home. He is a pillar of Boston society, universally admired and esteemed. He has even been urged to stand for the Legislature in the next election. Never would I allow the slightest hint of scandal to tarnish his good name. I am scrupulously careful in my dark liaisons. Even these private words will vanish shortly, so that there should be no evidence of my shameful behavior.

Tonight, however, I was free to pursue my desires. After the children had been put to bed and their nurse was on guard at their side, my maid Pauline assisted me in my preparations. Pauline is the only soul who knows my secrets. I trust that she will take them with her to her grave. She is French, and experienced in the ways of the world. She does not condemn me for listening to the siren call of the flesh, though she sometimes regards me with a strange light in her eyes.

I chose my costume with care, a rich but somber dress of midnight blue poult de soie, with a cashmere mantle to match. I wished to appear proper, remote, and infinitely desirable. My hair shone like spun gold in contrast with the dark fabric, and my eyes had depths like the ocean. I donned my hat and veiled my face, then followed Pauline out the back door and into the alley where the hansom carriage she had summoned awaited me.

The address he provided proved to be a small townhouse facing the Common, with fine leaded glass windows. A sour-faced domestic answered the bell, took my wrap, and led me to the drawing room, which was furnished with indifferent taste.

My fair-haired Charles leapt up as I entered, his face glowing.

“You’ve come, Madame! I hardly dared hope.”

“I could scarcely refuse such an enigmatic invitation,” I said, holding out my gloved hand. He bent to touch it to his lips, then stopped himself. “If you will permit me,” he said with a shy smile. Then without waiting for my reply, he stripped the glove off my fingers and planted a delicate kiss on my bare palm.

This first exquisite touch sent shivers through my body and left me slightly faint. Already I was melting in the rising flames of my own desire. A sigh escaped me. In any case my companion already knew how he had aroused me. His youthful eyes sparkled as he perceived my flushed cheeks and the rise and fall of my breath.

“My apologies for the appointments here,” he said after a long moment, punctuated by the beat of my heart. “I am renting these lodgings while I have business in Boston. Can I offer you some tea, Madame? Or perhaps a glass of wine?”

“A sip of sherry would be delightful,” I answered, struggling to control my voice. “I find that my throat is a bit dry.”

“It will be my privilege,” he said. He went over to the sideboard and returned after a moment with two crystal goblets brimming with golden liquid.

“To chance meetings,” he said, raising his glass to his lips.

“To pleasure,” I countered boldly, looking deep into his eyes. They were the same clear blue of today’s sky, and equally full of promise. Between my thighs I felt the heat of the coming summer.

 

In case you’d like to purchase a copy of Incognito, you’ll find all the buy links at https://www.lisabetsarai.com/incognitobook.html

Don’t forget to leave a comment. And please do follow the links to visit the other authors participating this Charity Sunday.

Thank you!

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To track a monster – #MMRomance #Fantasy #GenderBending @ATLanderWrites

Book Description

Heroes aren’t real, and neither is love…right?

Conall, a snarky and cynical Irish goatherd, just wants a boring life—no quests, no heroes and definitely no curses. That all falls apart when a chance encounter with a Fomori sorcerer leaves him trapped in the body of a female wolfhound.

Arlen, a kind and noble hunter of the Tuatha de Danann, is tracking his most dangerous target yet, but his skills are not enough. To track this magical monster, he needs someone touched by its power…someone like Conall.

They strike a deal—to hunt their mutual enemy while Arlen bends the curse as much as he can. Now a hound by day and a human by night, Conall’s heart and instincts draw him to his handsome rescuer. When he goes into heat, it starts a tempest of passion and emotion that will either bring them together or tear them apart.

Can these two unlikely companions overcome an ancient evil, or will their story end in tragedy?

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of animal slaughter, violence and injury. There is a cursed main character and mentions of breeding the shapeshifted MC.

Excerpt

Conall had definitely gotten fucked last night. Fucked and drunk. There was an unpleasant ache in his head, along with the lovely ache in his ass. He waited for his uncle’s shouting to pierce through his hangover, but it didn’t come.

That was nice. The bed was also nice, a warm nest of blankets with a firm mattress—a breathing, human mattress. That explained the ‘fucked’ part of last night, as well as the lack of yelling—he had to be in someone else’s house.

Or someone else’s tent, as Conall saw when he opened his eyes. The previous night came flooding back to him, and he grinned at the memory. The local lord had thrown a feast to honor some victorious mercenaries, and someone had remembered Conall’s skillful blow jobs. After that, there had been mead and song and some fun manhandling by a big fellow with delightful stamina.

Then memory gave way to realization. There was light filtering in through the tent-flap, the gray light of a misty dawn.

“Fuck!” Conall cursed. He should’ve been up an hour ago.

“Whazzat?” his bedmate groaned. “Stop yelling. It’s too early.”

”Goatherd’s hours,” Conall said, though he privately agreed. “Where’d you throw my clothes?”

“Why would you want clothes?” the man asked, rolling over. A hot erection nudged against Conall’s hip, making his resolve waver. “A few more minutes can’t hurt…”

“I-I have to get to work,” Conall said, fighting down his suicidal libido. After what had happened last night, he knew it wouldn’t be just ‘a few minutes’. “If I’m any later, my uncle will butcher me—”

“Your uncle, whoever he is, doesn’t scare me,” the man said breezily.

“Good for you,” Conall said. He spotted his robe and reached out of the blankets to grab it. “He’s not going to beat your ass.”

“Don’t worry about your pretty little ass,” the mercenary said with casual confidence and a pat on Conall’s rump. “I’ll keep him away from it.”

“I’m sure you will.” Conall scoffed—he’d heard that line a thousand times. “Right up until you ride off for the next war and leave me to his tender mercies.”

Conall ducked back under the covers to avoid the morning chill and did his best to wrestle the robe on without elbowing his large bedmate. It didn’t work—Conall was tall and gangly and the mercenary took up too much space. He almost jabbed the man in the face before a massive hand caught his arm.

“Why would I leave such a great piece of ass in a place like this?” the mercenary asked, like Conall was speaking nonsense. “You’ll come with me. When I’m rich and famous, you can stay in my big bed all day!”

He grinned like an optimistic idiot, and actually winked at Conall.

“So you’re going to be the next Cú Chulainn?” Conall asked dryly. “Make your name fighting and die horribly before you’re thirty?”

“Life’s short,” the man said, “but people will tell my legend forever. You’ll be in the stories too—‘the great hero’s honey-treat’.”

Conall couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. The big lummox blinked at him in confusion, but didn’t resist when Conall tugged his arm free.

“Good luck with that,” Conall said, rolling out of the nest of blankets. The sharp chill of an Irish morning bit into his feet, and he grabbed his boots as fast as possible. “I’ll keep an ear out when the bards come through.”

The man blinked again, tilted his head as though trying to think, then shrugged. “Your loss.”

“Yep,” Conall said, and crawled out of the low tent.

It wasn’t until he felt cold air on his face that he rolled his eyes. Did the man really expect him to run off with a stranger after one good fuck and some grandiose promises? He couldn’t toss a rock without hitting a would-be hero in this part of Munster, and for every one that won cattle and glory, there were a thousand failures. Conall had survived twenty-five boring, safe years and fully intended to keep that streak going.

The mercenary camp was outside the hill fort and on the opposite side from the village, so Conall had to run. It was second nature by now—dodging between buildings, livestock and townsfolk.

He braided his shoulder-length hair as he went, pulling the black strands out of his face and tying them with a leather thong. A few of his regular bedmates threw out catcalls, and he grinned back.

At last, he came to his uncle’s house. It was built from stone, perfectly round and larger than many. The goat pen was out back, but Conall’s sling, staff and any chance at breakfast were inside. He had to run the gauntlet if he wanted to get them before his uncle caught him, but he’d been getting faster and his uncle slower every day.

He darted in and grabbed his weapons without even needing to look, then went for the cook-fire that a servant girl was sleepily poking.

“Hey!” she cried as he swiped three small flatbreads straight off the griddle. One went into his mouth and the other two into a fold of his cloak, the light burns worth each second of speed.

“There you are, you son of a bitch!” his uncle yelled, but Conall was already out of the door.

“Son of your sister,” Conall muttered around his breakfast. He’d weather the inevitable storm after he took the goats out to pasture. It was almost boring—he could practically recite his uncle’s rant from memory.

Just another typical day in the life of Conall mac Cormac…

Buy Links

The Hunt God's Hound by AT Lander

Book 3 in the Of Gods and Men series - https://www.firstforromance.com/series/of-gods-and-men

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Read Lisabet’s Review: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2022/07/review-tuesday-hunt-gods-hound-by-t.html

About the Author

AT Lander - https://www.firstforromance.com/index.php?route=product/author/info&author_id=11782

AT Lander has loved stories, both the reading and the telling, since she was a child. Born in upstate New York to an English professor and a former librarian, she now lives in the queerest part of Massachusetts. She never leaves home without a knitting project or a pencil, and she’s never met a cat she doesn’t like.

She has worked as an history museum guide, a professional storyteller, and an actress, sharing tales of what was, what could have been, and what can only be imagined. World mythology is her driving passion, as what better way to understand a people than through the tales they tell?

Follow AT Lander on Twitter and Facebook.

Author Links

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ATLanderWrites

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