Make Like Mountains New Release Blitz

Title:  Make Like Mountains

Series: Liquid Onyx, Book Two

Author: BL Jones

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/30/2023

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 130800

Genre: Science Fiction, Fantasy, humour, family-drama, gay, bisexual, pansexual, superhero, crime gang, magic, PTSD, slow burn, friends to lovers

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Description

Four months ago, Rexley Nova exploded into Danger City, fought some villains, saved some people, and became the vigilante known by the media as ‘Wrath’.
Alongside the superpowered friends he grew up with and Danger’s resident hero, Polaris, Rex is doing his best to protect the city and save the world on the regular, while also attempting to curb some of his more violent tendencies and figure out what the villainous group of Mages he’s been fighting are up to.
Through all this, Rex has to contend with his feelings for two men; Damon, a dangerous and aloof superhero, the one person who understands what being a vigilante means to Rex, and Jamie, his best friend’s older brother who he’s felt an intense connection with almost his entire life.
Rex battles violent superhumans, saves snarky children, gets himself a sidekick, deals with his extremely weird family, goes on a disastrous date, and continues to fistfight his own anxiety. #Traumaisthenewblack.

Excerpt

Make Like Mountains
BL Jones © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Mia
I would like to believe every bad choice I’ve made was rooted in altruism, through the pursuit of discovery. Even if I was wrong more often than I was right. Even if my bad choices led to so much suffering. Even if my regret is endless and true and as raw now as it was over fifteen years ago.
In the beginning, all I wanted to do was help. A simple, if at times directionless, goal. When I started out, I didn’t know what I was capable of. I didn’t know what other people were capable of either.
I often think of my daughter and how, when she was a child, I would tell her everyone makes mistakes.
And everyone does. It’s a rare truth that parents tell their children.
What parents usually fail to say, though, is the hardest mistakes to live with are the ones we can do nothing about. The decisions we make that ripple out of our control and cause irreparable damage to other people. Those mistakes echo throughout the rest of our lives, twisting and shaping our futures and ourselves into something, someone, unrecognisable. Perhaps someone we told ourselves we would never become.
If asked to explain the worst of my choices, I could say many things. I could say I was swept up in the tidal wave of genius that was Dr Alexander Nova. I could say I didn’t think it would go as far as it did. I could say I was forced and manipulated by Obsidian Inc. to do things I would never have done otherwise.
I was tricked, I was hurt, I was forced.
I could lay claim to those justifications.
But it would be a lie. And I wouldn’t stoop to that. I abhor people who make excuses for the acts of evil they commit.
I was not conned into it. I was not abused in my past. I was not coerced or blackmailed.
I made every single one of my mistakes with my eyes wide open. It doesn’t make it any easier to forgive myself for those sins, but at least I can accept the depth of my corruption for what it is.
I have spent over a decade trying to correct the mistakes I made as a young woman. And for over a decade, I have been unsuccessful.
My continued failure has led me here, to the point I am at now. I tried to avoid these extreme measures. It is not what I wanted. But there comes a time when we must take the first step on the hardest path. There comes a time when we must do what pains us most. A time when we use the corruption inside us to reverse the corruption we inflicted on others. Or, in my case, the world.
I have failed to heal the festering wounds I once helped claw into the skin of our society.
Almost a month after my second attempt, I find myself sitting in my daughter’s flat with a cup of quickly cooling tea in my hands.
We’re scrunched up on her shaggy green sofa, both of us sans shoes. Usually, I would relish the opportunity to be here with Andy. I enjoy our simple, quiet moments together. I enjoy hearing Andy tell me stories about her life, her work, her friends, her latest spat with her girlfriend, Dru, over whose turn it was to take out the bins.
But today I cannot seem to get to grips with myself. It isn’t hard to think of the reason why.
We have lost many in the two failed attempts to begin our eradication of corrupted blood. Our mission was worth the loss. I still believe that. But after our second attempt, some are wavering.
It was inevitable. One failure can be chalked up to a lack of experience and bad luck. Two is the beginning of a pattern.
There is grief and resentment to contend with now. There are those who do not believe we are capable of the task set before us.
Some want to give up while they still have their freedom and their lives. I understand the urge, the fear. I’ve felt it myself.
But our work is not done.
I cannot allow us to spiral.
We have sacrificed too much. I have had to take from them to steady us, and they will not forget that.
After the disaster of the park concert, I tried to rectify what had been done in the name of our cause.

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Meet the Author

BL Jones is a twentysomething British author who spends all her free time reading and writing and taming her three much younger brothers. She works as a BSL interpreter in Bristol and lives with a temperamental bunny named Pepsi. She’s been writing stories since she was five, rarely sharing them with anyone except her numerous stuffed animals. BL has had a difficult journey into discovering and accepting her own queerness, and therefore believes that positive, honest, and authentic stories about queer people are very important. She hopes to contribute her own stories for people to have fun with and enjoy.

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Haint Upon a Time New Release Blitz

Title:  Haint Upon a Time

Series: Haints Misbehaving 5

Author: J Halie Steele

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: May 19. 2023

Heat Level: 5 - Erotica

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 31 pages

Genre: Erotica, Dark Fantasy, Paranpormal, Gay, Multiple Partners, Dark Desite, Magic, Sorcery, and Witchcraft

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Synopsis

Warning: This is a Razor’s Edge Paranormal Erotica Story. Expect limited plot and character development, and lots of paranormal heat. If you’re looking for a lengthy plot driven erotic romance, this is not it!

Luke ransacks the brain of every man whose body he steals before their memories fade. He’s learned how to make their homes and money his forever. It’s illegal as hell, but so is appropriating a body! Luke never searches out poor souls, but when a special man falls in his lap, he vows to keep him until he’s no longer useful.

Dallas spends his days on a beach bordering a hotel where he meets wealthy men who appreciate his prowess in the bedroom. He takes ribbing about his name and height in stride -- the most vital part of him isn’t small. Often, the men he hooks up with don’t want to let him go. But if Dallas ever finds a man who truly wants to keep him it will cost them!

Excerpt

Copyright ©2023 J. Hali Steele

Luke struggled to stem the rising aroma of cedar as his dick bulged behind his thin white cotton beach pants. The towel lying across his lap would have been tented if he hadn’t kept his magazine strategically positioned. If pressed, he wouldn’t have been able to describe a single beachgoer who had ambled by his chair. Luke saw only one man. The surfer who’d set up his station on the beach just beyond the security fence was distractingly beautiful.

Maybe twenty-five, relatively short in stature, the man’s unruly reddish blond hair was worn a bit long on top. The rest of his body appeared to be hairless -- which fit Luke’s fantasies perfectly. Fit, but not bound in muscle, the stranger’s freckled skin appeared to have been kissed for days, maybe months, by the sun. The pronounced bulge in his snug swimwear revealed the generous size of his dick. “I want to see that cock bare and engorged,” Luke whispered.

The smell of cedar distracted his attention from the gorgeous surfer. Sniffing, Luke twisted to survey the hotel grounds. A haint! The man stood no more than a foot behind him, but he was no threat to Luke. Shameless, he had his fat cock out and the crown shone with pre-cum. As he worked his hand up and down his length, dots of liquid slid over the broad crown. God, the sight was beautiful. Luke couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Dropping his magazine, Luke slipped a hand inside his loose-fitting pants. The cap of his dick was already wet, and smearing precum along his length made jerking the skin up and down easy. Within minutes he was ready to send a gush of sperm into his underwear. He didn’t even care that they’d become sticky and clung to his crotch.

Luke knew hooking up with another haint was not a good idea. Fortunately, his only other liaison with a haint served as a reminder to keep away from those like himself.

Singlemindedness and restraint had been taught to him by a traveling pastor whose name Luke could no longer recall. Luke could see his pretty face in his mind’s eye, though, and knew the man presided behind the pulpit the last Sunday of every month in Laurel Bloomery’s only house of God. There had been another man caught in the church man’s web of carnal deviousness and Luke often pondered what had become of him, as well as the pastor.

Finding another haint here shouldn’t have surprised Luke, but what were the odds he’d come across a being like himself on a beach in Los Angeles? And he didn’t recognize the man. This was the first haint he’d met who didn’t hail from Laurel Bloomery, Tennessee.

Philadelphia was the first city Luke had settled in, and for a time it was all his. Crossing paths with another haint there some time ago, Luke had damn near followed one of the ghostly beings into an eatery where he perceived at least one more whose aroma was vaguely familiar. Ah, their combined scents -- so enticing.

Turned out the restaurant, Brake Away, was a hotbed of the creatures who used humans for sexual gratification, then discarded the bodies they’d squatted in. They weren’t exactly alive, unless they were inhabiting someone else’s body, and in that case, they were unlawful tenants. How often could a human completely disappear off the face of the earth before authorities became curious?

Luke had discovered containing a haint once they were on the loose was pretty much impossible. Until they inhabited a body, haints were apparitions -- smoke -- and unmanageable. Once they’d escaped, there was no telling where they’d turn up or whose body they would commandeer. And the idea of getting one to willingly return to their small cedar chest was laughable.

Luke had left Philadelphia behind and moved to the West Coast. He’d disassembled the box he’d previously been held prisoner in and now kept it in a safe, locked away on a secluded piece of private property he’d managed to transfer into his own name. He’d briefly occupied a shady character who knew a forger who could reproduced legal documents with Luke’s real signature and photograph.

As long as local authorities had no reason to dig deeper, Luke had his own bank account and lots of other pricey things. Most important of all, he owned a home.

Keeping a low profile and not wishing to have strangers visit his property, Luke often rented a suite in a nice beachfront hotel to find a companion for carnal release. Thanks to the one who had caught Luke’s eye, nothing was working to suppress his desire. Lord, Luke fought his body’s growing excitement at the memory. Am I the only haint who feels remorse?

But there were two of them here now, and the smell of cedar permeated the air. Nothing would deter Luke from what he desired. Little did the surfer know what was about to occur -- how drastically his life was going to change.

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Meet the Author

Growl and roar -- it's okay to let the beast out. -- J. Hali Steele

J. Hali Steele wishes she could grow fur, wings, or fangs, so she can stay warm, fly, or just plain bite the crap out of… Well, she can’t do those things but she wishes she could!

J. Hali's a multi-published Amazon bestselling author of Romance in Paranormal, Fantasy, and Contemporary worlds which include ReligErotica 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 coffee.

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Raised by Wolves New Release Blitz

 Title:  Raised by Wolves

Series: Surviving Vihaan, Book Two

Author: Elaine White

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/16/2023

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 137800

Genre: Paranormal, MM romance, action/adventure, Alpha males, bonded, wolf shifters, disability

Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/128590685-raised-by-wolves

Book Description

Bad news always comes in threes.

As do the hits that knock Keon's perfectly laid plans into chaos. His no-good brother conducted a hostile takeover of their pack, became Alpha, and got killed in the space of a year. Grief has crippled their father, leaving Beta Weston desperate for Keon's return, as Simeon's last act as Alpha was to name Keon his successor.

Leaving his friends is heartbreaking. Arriving home to a hostile pack is unsurprising. But finding a rival pack hovering on the boundaries of his land, vying for blood, could be a problem. With Simeon dead, they don't seem to care which Alpha bleeds for the crimes.

With no other choice, Keon shoulders the burden of being Alpha. Fighting, bleeding, and sacrificing.

As a new Alpha, he needs to prove himself to get the respect needed for them to accept change…like dragging Vihaan into the 21st century. On the top of the list is finding a mate. But who would want to mate an Alpha whose own pack doesn't respect him?

Excerpt

Raised by Wolves

Elaine White © 2023

All Rights Reserved

Milo

Seven Months Ago

Alpha Thatcher’s Pack

E’Boolou Region, Vihaan

He always knew this day would come. Thatcher was too old and selfish to fight his own challenges, but part of Milo had naïvely presumed it would be Usher standing in his place. Or one of his many other brothers, who were better fighters.

But Milo supposed that was the point. This wasn’t about the challenge. This was about punishing Milo, because the Fates had given him a male true mate. This was a reminder of his place in the pack, in the world.

Every challenge was to the death, and if Milo died, he doubted his father, Thatcher, would spare a second thought. The loss of Milo’s gift would be a small price if he could give the pack this important lesson―there would be no gaoj tolerated in Thatcher’s pack or his family.

It didn’t matter that Milo hadn’t asked to be born gaoj―someone attracted to the same sex. The fact he was would be enough of an insult to Thatcher’s opinion on what made a man a man.

Beating each other bloody counted, apparently. With not even the Meskli to preside, as was usually the case.

Alpha Farley was a m’weko, but as the Meskli, he was a neutral party who governed within Vihaan. Settling disputes and resolving problems between packs, villages, and species of foame―those half-human who could call forth a beast form. He wasn’t a man to disobey and held tight to tradition.

No, waiting for the Meskli would mean prying eyes and someone willing to―and with the power to―interfere on Milo’s behalf.

He didn’t recognise his opponent, and Thatcher hadn’t bothered to tell Milo what this challenge was about. What dispute or grievance required the shedding of blood. A secret part of him wondered if the problem had been fabricated purely to punish him. Milo would put nothing past his father.

The moment the challenger stepped forward―a brute of a man, made of muscle―Milo’s nerves shook. He tried to hide it, summoning long buried memories of his most hated brothers, bullying and goading him, from his childhood. The only way he’d survive this was to remember one important thing―he’d rather spend an eternity in reedav than let his father win. An afterlife in Vihaan’s version of hell would be worth the chance to make his father suffer.

As long as Milo remained breathing by the end of the fight, it would be enough. He’d drag himself to his home, with his insides hanging out, if it meant denying Thatcher the satisfaction of seeing him fail.

*

Milo was down, beaten bloody and could barely feel his legs, but not dead. He could only see out of one eye, but his reflexes remained quick enough to roll away from the foot aimed at his head.

It had been a long, excruciating fight, with his opponent employing every dirty trick possible, and Thatcher didn’t object once.

At some point, Usher had arrived to watch horror-stricken, as Milo fought for his life. At least neither his mother nor his sister, Haley, had been dragged from their beds to witness his humiliation.

After five minutes of struggling to make his legs move, Milo froze at the first sign of rain. Dismay filled his heart, but he fought to stand and dodged through another ten minutes of attacks, too bone-weary to do anything but defend and protect himself. His opponent showed signs of fatigue, and it was satisfying to see bleeding wounds where Milo had left his mark.

Then the opponent backed away to shift into his m’weko form―a giant beast, all fur and fangs, and far scarier than the Dnaran tales of wolf beasts. Something Milo was too weak to do.

Lightning flashed across the sky, and he feared his fate was to die here.

As a massive paw swiped at his head, Milo ducked, rearing back to avoid it gutting his stomach on the way up. Too late to see the other hand lowering over his bent body in time to counter-strike.

He saw the claw descend, knew he had neither the time nor energy to avoid it, and felt the skin tear as it made contact. Milo screamed, a sound he’d never made before, and crumpled to the ground to an angry shout,

“No!”

In the haze of his vision, he made out Usher shifting to tackle the m’weko challenger, tearing at his throat. Milo lasted long enough for Usher to kill the man, then shift to human.

“I won’t let you kill him,” he snapped at their father, crossing to where Milo lay. Usher lifted his broken body from the ground, and such pain flooded through him that Milo passed into a brief, but peaceful, oblivion.

Purchase Links

NineStar Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/raised-by-wolves/

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Meet the Author

Elaine White is the author of multi-genre MM romance, celebrating ‘love is love’ and offering diversity in both genre and character within her stories.

Growing up in a small town and fighting cancer in her early teens taught her that life is short and dreams should be pursued. She lives vicariously through her independent, and often hellion characters, exploring all possibilities within the romantic universe.

The Winner of two Watty Awards – Collector’s Dream (An Unpredictable Life) and Hidden Gem (Faithfully) – and an Honourable Mention in 2016’s Rainbow Awards (A Royal Craving) Elaine is a self-professed geek, reading addict, and a romantic at heart.

Author Links

Website: http://ellelainey.wixsite.com/author

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/elainewhite.author

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ElleLainey

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elainewhite.author/

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/elainewhite359/

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The Man with Sapphire Eyes New Release Blitz

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Title:  The Man With Sapphire Eyes

Series: The Ballot Boy, Book Two

Author: Larry Mellman

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/16/2023

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 96100

Genre: Historical, historical/14th century Venice, lit/genre fiction, gay, new adult, interracial, political rulers, political intrigue and plotting, wartime action and adventure, gore, family drama, betrayal

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Description

In this exciting sequel, disaster threatens Nico, ballot boy to the doge, as neighboring Padua launches an undeclared war. Mistrustful of diplomats and spies, the doge dispatches Nico on a secret mission to the court of King Louis of Hungary to gauge the king’s resolve to aid Padua.
The doge also drafts Donato Venturi, the greatest swordsman in Venice, nicknamed Black Hercules, as Nico’s adviser and bodyguard. It’s love at first sight for Nico, but he knows nothing about Donato, the son of a Venetian noble and a princess of Mali. Assuming Donato is straight, Nico guards his feelings until an unlikely encounter at the Prior of Brotherly Love proves otherwise.
The pair steal moments together, but the war changes everything. Cutthroat political struggles with his own nobles keeps the doge busy in Venice as Nico again confronts the carnage of battle, testing his cunning. This brings him face-to-face with his nemeses, Ruggiero and Marcantonio Gradenigo, forcing an unplanned rescue of his soulmate, Alex.
When the war goes disastrously for Venice, the fate of the Serene Republic hangs on the will of the doge and the skills of Nico and Donato. Desperate to defeat Padua and drive out the Hungarian invaders, they risk everything in a final gambit to checkmate in three. In love as in war, winning and losing aren’t what they seem.

Excerpt

The Man with Sapphire Eyes
Larry Mellman © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Donato Venturi
I’m safe as long as I’m rowing. No enemy has ever successfully breached the mercurial lagoon surrounding Venice on all sides. For three glorious miles I row free, my stroke easy and automatic. I spent my youth on the lagoon until, at fourteen years and nine months of age, I was randomly selected ballot boy against my will and inclination. Taken from my mother, from my friends, from my home, and installed in the palace with the doge as my boss, my rowing time turned into riding and Latin lessons. I still ache at times for an oar in my hands and a breeze riffling my long black hair.
Midway between the Doge’s Palace and Marghera, one of our ports on terrafirma, with the sun in my eyes and the scent of the lagoon in my nose, I savor a moment of sweet peace before embarking on my new mission. Our neighbor and enemy, Lord Francesco Carrara of Padua, regularly burns our farms and plunders our mainland towns. Our amorphous shoreline teems with crooks, assassins, and spies. I don’t wear a sword because I wouldn’t know how to use one, but my crossbow is at hand, and my dagger hangs at my waist with a special kiss of poison along its razor-sharp edge. I’m rowing to meet a man I’ve never seen in a place I have never been. Serenissimo assured me I needn’t worry, that I would know him straight off, and I trust any man stamped with the doge’s imprimatur. He rides from Treviso fortress, ours, to meet me at the inn by the tower of Marghera at Vespers.
I tether my boat in the shadow of the three-story brick watchtower, the lower course of obvious Roman origin. The Romans never ventured onto the marshy islands of the lagoon, confining themselves to solid ground. I stash my crossbow and quiver in my boat, expecting no danger at the inn, only a new friend.
Fishermen’s huts clustered at the base of the tower enclose a crude square deserted in the late afternoon. The tower looms overhead, a rook on a chessboard spreading from Carrara Castle in Padua to St. Mark’s Square. At the back of the square, outside the inn, three men—desperados, mercenaries, or thugs—watch me approach with an unhealthy interest. None of them looks likely to be Donato Venturi. I place my hand on my dagger to show them I mean business. The doge’s ring glints on my finger. Those who respect the power of the doge see the ring as a talisman; those who don’t see only a large chunk of gold. One more step and I clearly pick out the splayed red carts, the carros of the Carrara, on their blood- and mud-spattered tunics.
“Aw, ain’t he pretty?”
“You heard about those Venetian butt boys. Better than women, they say.”
As I unsheathe my dagger, three longswords lunge at me, their wielders laughing at the notion that a dagger could protect me from them. I stumble backward, catch myself, stand as tall as possible, and hold up the doge’s ring. “Arms down in the name of His Exalted Serenity, the Doge of Venice.”
“Exalted Fucking Asshole, that one. Old Contarini got no weenie.”
I raise my dagger, knowing something they don’t know. They snigger and slash, making their steel blades sing. I cannot possibly nick all three with my blade before they cut my hands off, so I retreat. One of them slip-slides into my space, swinging. The point of his blade slices my doublet, stinging my skin. I swipe with my dagger, desperate to break his skin and deliver the poison kiss, but he flips his sword, grips the blade with his gauntlets, and swings it, braining me with the pommel. I fly backward to general laughter, rolling away as the disrespectful thugs advance to skewer me for the fun of it.
They don’t notice until their heads turn, following mine, and by then it’s too late. A whirlwind of dust whips toward the square delivering an armed soldier on a lathered white destrier showering foam. He swoops in and circles the Paduans, freeing me to sheathe my dagger and scramble to the boat for my crossbow, but before I can, he disarms all three in a shower of blood. He doesn’t kill them, but he may as well have.
He jumps off his destrier, which stands still as a statue behind him, grips my hand in his gauntlet, and yanks me to my feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
“What did they want?”
“We never got that far.”
As the wounded Paduans crawl away, he laughs heartily, slaps me on the back, and says, “Well met, Niccolò Saltano. I am Donato Venturi.”
He lifts off his helmet and shakes his head, smacking his right ear with the butt of his palm. I lack words to describe his sudden impact. Even his shadow has tangible presence. But more astonishing are his brown skin and blue eyes. His beauty shatters every canon of classical aesthetics and redefines them. His square face is made up of rounded planes showcasing Arab eyes, a Venetian nose, and plush lips wreathed in moustaches and goatee. No matter how fierce his brows or severe the crop of his black curls, his smile strikes me speechless. He covers my blush and stammer with easy conversation. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Serenissimo. He brags about you like the son he never had.”
“I wouldn’t take his word on me. His fondness inclines to dotage.”
“And also from General Giustinian, who credits you with our smashing victory at Trieste.”
“And yet I know nothing of you but your name.”
“Accompany me inside,” he says, “and we can remedy that.”

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Meet the Author

Larry was born in Los Angeles and educated in literature, political science, and life at the University of California, Berkeley. He has worked as a printer and journalist in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and St. Paul, Minnesota. Larry also worked with Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground on the Exploding Plastic Inevitable in NY, Provincetown, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, was mentored by Dean Koontz, and shared a palazzo in Venice with international opera singers Erika Sunnegårdh and Mark Doss.”

While living in Venice for many years, Larry also taught English, led tours, and immersed himself in the history and art of the Venetian Republic. The Ballot Boy was born in Venice and completed in St. Paul.

Larry is a lifelong social activist and writer, a voracious reader and researcher, an opera fanatic, and devoted walker. He currently lives in St. Paul with his partner of twenty-one years and his ex-wife of twenty-five years. His son is a pianist devoted to blues and jazz.

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How Not to Date a Dragon Master New Release Blitz

Title:  How Not to Date A Dragon Master

Series: How Not To #14

Author: Stephanie Burke

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: May 5, 2023

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 203 pages

Genre: Romance, Action Adventure - Dark Fantasy - Magic, Sorcery & Witchcraft - Bisexual, Multisexual & Pansexual - Paranormal - Military, Veterans & First Responders

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Synopsis

War is upon them -- armies are clashing at their doorstep. Ulvissar’s heat is becoming uncontrollable, and tension between him and Nithe is higher than ever before.
With his Dragon Lord and her new mate leading his warriors, will Ulvissar be able to destroy those who would betray them, and will Nithe be strong enough to claim both the title of Dragon Master and his Ulvissar? How can anyone withstand the wrath of an angry omega dragon?
Publisher's Warning: How Not To Date a Dragon Master contains scenes of graphic violence and adult kink with blood play that may be triggers for some readers.

Excerpt

The wind blew bitter cold on the overcast early morning when Prince Ranid the Bold and his army rolled into town, and it matched the attitude of the people. The few men who were left in the ranks watched the bedraggled and exhausted inhabitants stagger toward their town’s entrance, while the sounds of their war horses’ shoes loudly striking the dirt-covered cobblestones encouraged a lone hound to throw back its head and howl mournfully at the still present moon.
The few lights glowed enough to illuminate the remains of a once prosperous town now fallen into ruin. A lone, sickly-looking goat bleated as it wandered through, its dented bell clanking miserably in the night air while a lone owl hooted in the distance.
The place smelled of neglect and misuse. Most of the buildings that surrounded the courtyard and what looked to be the center of town appeared derelict, missing windows, wood siding sliding off of their sides, paint so old and weatherworn that it looked like it hadn’t been refreshed in years.
Prince Ranid the Bold, on his once proud white steed, stood up in the stirrups and declared for all to hear, “What a fucking dump.”
“Well, fuck you too, asshole!” a drunk leaning on a pole outside of the town’s only tavern called out. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
That gave the whole army pause before a tall, black-haired, green-eyed man’s laugh barked out, startling the few who wore his bright red colors before they began to chuckle as well.
“What?” The green-eyed Prince Colton of Rinastas called to the other disgusted prince’s soldiers. “Out here with no resources but what little nature has left, you expected to find a lavish palace fit for your royal ass?” He shook his head, amusement plain in every line of his body. “This is war, boy. No one is going to be around to hold your hand or wipe Your Highness’s backside for you. The people who live in this area make do with what they have.”
“And who do these people hold loyalty to?” Prince Ranid demanded, settling back into his saddle, his face slightly red because yes, he expected some sort of accommodation for the royals at least. He didn’t expect this place to be so… desolate.
“I believe they pay a once a year tax to the people of the Eastern Kingdoms -- the missing princess’s kingdom -- and then they are largely left alone. This is dragon territory after all,” Prince Colton explained. “No one has a real hold on it but because part of it scrapes against the princess’s kingdom, it is to her people that these hard-working individuals pay their taxes and what little tribute they can give.”
“No way.” Ranid rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and pouting like a child as he absorbed what Colton was telling him. “The kingdom renowned for its beauty wouldn’t let a place like this exist and tarnish their good name. This is a disgrace.”
From beside him on his own warhorse, Lord Petyr of The Eastern Kingdoms shook his head in embarrassment. How had he ever found the loud, obnoxious, and abrasive prince beautiful? Things had cooled significantly since he started seeking his own privacy and comfort in the bold red tent that Prince Colton had lent him. Sure, he was no longer in the man’s bed but anyone would think about waiting a full five minutes before another filled Petyr’s former position there. And Petyr knew from personal experience that when Ranid was distracted or angry, the whole act would take about five minutes… from start to finish.
“If you say so.” Colton snickered to himself, unwilling to engage the spoiled brat of a prince in any type of intellectual debate. As far as this asshole was concerned, if something wasn’t up to his ridiculous standards, then he would most likely dismiss it, and Colton was not up for this kind of stupidity. He could be back at his tent getting some shut-eye after a long and tedious… in every way imaginable… campaign march. He was tired, his ass hurt for all the wrong reasons, and now his head was starting to hurt as well from listening to the bitching and griping of the brat prince. The only amusement he’d found during this whole rush to an ass kicking was the delightfully sarcastic Lord Petyr.
The man was pretty, though his downcast eyes and guilty expression detracted from that somewhat. The man did know his mind though, and only consented to be abused a short time before, with some encouraging words, he struck out on his own. He was intelligent and sharp as he offered several pride-protecting alternatives to the idiot prince as they traveled that would allow him to pull out of his stupid march and still save face. Colton’s favorite idea was to just play this was an inspection and introduction tour to see what changes needed to be made before they reported back to the King of the Eastern Lands.
Of course, Rancid the Bol -- Ranid… Ranid the Bold ignored every idea offered and was hellbent on completing his quest no matter the cost. So far, he’d managed to lose a few tents, a few of his soldiers deserted because of the insanity that they were surrounded by, diseases was starting to run rampant through his men -- the sexually transmitted kind of course, because at this point the prince had more camp followers that loyal soldiers -- and he was losing the best aide-de-camp that Colton had ever seen.
Filled with righteous indignation, Ranid dismounted his tired horse with a huff and led the poor beast to what appeared to be an inn and tethered him to the post out front.
Petyr and Colton also dismounted and followed the upstart prince inside. They stepped into the dim light allowed by the open shutters of what appeared to be windows with some kind of glass. The rough wooden floors were dusty. Goodness knows how everything in this town was not covered in dust, but it looked like someone had tried to sweep it relatively clean. Several long wooden bench-style tables sat in rows on either side of the room, the bar along the back wall blocking access to what had to be a small kitchen in the back.
“You call this place an inn?” Rancid was already ranting at a disinterested woman who was slowly wiping down a battered bar with a dirty rag.
“That’s what the sign used to say.” She snorted, rolling her eyes and dropping the rag to the floor.
“Used to,” Ranid snarled, leaning on the bar… only to jerk his hand back as it encountered what had to be the remains of someone’s greasy dinner… or a body fluid. Who could tell?
“Used to.” The woman walked over to stand before him, her hefty body covered in a stained smock, her arms crossed over her chest as she stuck out her chin in an aggressive manner. “That’s what I said. Are you fucking deaf or something?”
“Do you know who I am?” He bent closer to growl in her face.
“No.” She leaned forward as well, growling back in his face. “And I really don’t give a fuck who you are. Do you want something or are you wasting my time?”
“I am the prince of your kingdom and I demand respect.”
“No,” the woman shook her head, a sardonic look spreading across her face. “Our kingdom doesn’t have any princes, unless you count the assholes that the princesses are supposed to marry. And you didn’t demand my respect, you demanded my utmost attention and you’re not worth my time… which you aren’t going to get.”

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Stephanie is a USA Today Best Selling, multi published, multi award-winning author, Master Costumer, handicapped, wife and mother of two.

From sex-shifting, shape-shifting dragons to undersea worlds, sexually confused elemental Fey and homo-erotic mysteries, all the way to pastel-challenged urban sprites, Stephanie has done it all, and hopes to do more.

Stephanie is an orator on her favorite subjects of writing and world-building, a sometime teacher when you feed her enough tea and donuts, an anime nut, a costumer, and a frequent guest of various sci-fi and writing cons where she can be found leading panel discussions or researching varied legends and theories to improve her writing skills.

Stephanie is known for her love of the outrageous, strong female characters, believable worlds, male characters filled with depth, and multi-cultural stories that make the reader sit up and take notice.

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Phoenix New Release Blitz

Title:  Phoenix

Author: Barry Creyton

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 05/02/2023

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 69900

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, actor, suspense, murder, mystery, blackmail, revenge, identity scam, horse farm, family drama

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Description

Jack McCauley is at a dead end. He’s run out of money, luck, and love. There’d be no one to mourn him if he died tomorrow. Out of the blue, he’s given the chance to begin anew—another identity, another life, another chance at love. Should he take it? Should he start over?
Jack is young, good-looking, and desperate for his next acting gig. His boyfriend is history, his rent is unpaid, and his agent isn’t returning his calls. He’s offered one chance at redemption—a small part in a western being shot in Arizona—if only he can make his way there from LA by noon the following day.
Hitching a ride with Martin Brenner seems just the ticket. Martin is on his way to a new life in Phoenix and seems pleased to pick up an extra passenger.
Little does Jack know that a simple pickup will lead to the acting job he least expected—the role of a lifetime. But nothing in Phoenix is what it seems on the surface. Can Jack act his way out of an intricate jigsaw of lies, blackmail, and murder?

Excerpt

Phoenix
Barry Creyton © 2023
All Rights Reserved

LOS ANGELES
Wednesday, July 13
2:59 p.m.

“Your name?”
The voice came from somewhere beyond the glare of the lights. It was deep, resonant, and weary.
A pinpoint of light reflected from the camera lens; Jack smiled at this tiny beacon—a warm, open smile with a hint of vulnerability, as he’d learned in drama class. He held up the slate bearing his name and said, “Jackson McCauley.”
There followed a weighty silence broken by a gurgle as Jack’s stomach protested a skipped breakfast. He hoped the mic hadn’t picked it up. Not that breakfast was beyond what he had in his wallet, but when it came to auditions and screen tests, the void in his gut admitted a butterfly or two.
He sneaked a glance into the gloom and saw a tight closeup of his face on a floor monitor. He was shiny from the heat of the lamps, but it was an evenly proportioned face with strong bones, piercing blue eyes, and a shock of carefully casual sandy-blond hair—a handsome face, a face, he’d been told, that would take him far.
It had taken him as far as this ancient, rundown sound stage in the back blocks of Hollywood.
“Jackson McCauley?” The weary man intoned the name as if trying to place it.
Jack turned his gaze back to the camera lens. “Most people just call me Jack—Jack McCauley. But, professionally…
There was a terse rustle of paper. “How old are you?”
“It’s on my résumé.”
The man sighed and said as if to a kindergarten dropout, “We’d rather like to hear your voice.”
“Twenty-three.”
Silence. Jack grabbed another look at his image in the monitor. He’d worn what he thought was appropriate to test for a western—a neat, sky-blue, long-sleeved denim shirt with tabbed pockets, faded 501s, and cowboy boots that were only slightly down at heel, a souvenir from a gig as an extra on a TV series; they added an inch or so to his lean six feet.
“Profile.” A female voice—the voice of the casting director who’d called him out of the blue that afternoon—Michelle? Nicole? Something French sounding. That was about thirty minutes before the phone company ended their bumpy relationship with him and killed his cell account.
He turned to his left, offering what he considered to be his best side to the camera. Across the dark stage in the yellow glow of a work light, he saw a bored grip gazing at the floor. Even from this distance, Jack could tell the only thought on the guy’s mind was getting the hell out of there for a cigarette.
“Other side.”
Jack did a one-eighty. His view from this angle was even more depressing: Another actor around Jack’s age stood in the dust-defined beam of a grid, rigid with nerves. His glance shifted back and forth from Jack to a page of script.
“Jack—Jackson—whatever…” Her voice had a husky, tough edge but sounded young; he could see nothing of her except the glint of a bracelet as she moved her hand in a casual, dismissive wave. “Tell us something about yourself.”
Jack turned back to the lens. “Okay. Um, I was born right here in LA. I always wanted to act, I guess. Always.”
“How about your folks?”
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, unaware he’d done so, but this subtle movement, coupled with a second’s hesitation, was enough to suggest to anyone with the most elementary knowledge of psychology that this was a painful subject.
“I never knew my mom.” He let this sit for a moment, then added, “She, um, she left when I was just a month old. And—my dad died when I was twelve. My grandmother took care of me until—”
“Any other family?”
“No, no one.” What had his drama coach advised? Use it! Use the emotion! He lowered his eyes, subtly suggesting loss. This was good. He was getting to give them a range of expression without having read a word of the script.
“What’ve you done?” the baritone asked.
“Uh, let’s see…I did a spot in Girl About the House for Disney. That was a while back. I did an ep of Sands of Time—”
“The soap?”
“Yeah.”
“That was canceled a year ago.” Now the baritone sounded impatient; his precious time was being wasted by the nonevent of Jack’s career.
But the woman sounded interested. “How about recently?”
“I was in True West. HBO.”
“Oh?” This elicited a hint of interest from the man. “Which character?”
“Um, day player.”
The interest evaporated. “An extra.”
“Yeah, but I’m good with horses, so they wrote up the part a bit.”
“But no lines.”
Jack shook his head.
“Anything else?”
“You want to know about the theater I’ve done?”
“God no,” the man said. “Just give him the copy.”
A disembodied hand darted into Jack’s pool of light and thrust a page at him.
“Can I have a minute…?”
“From sight,” the man said. “I’ll cue you.” He read in a monotone: “‘You wouldn’t mind living in the nicest house in town. Buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, going to New York on a business trip a couple of times a year. Maybe to Europe once in a while?’”
Jack’s eyes darted over the page trying to find the place. He realized he was squinting and eased the tension from his face.
Keep it simple.
“‘I know what I’m going to do tomorrow and the next day and next.’” The words were familiar. They triggered a faint memory of something rare and bright in a shadow-filled childhood. He couldn’t pin it down without losing concentration, but the emotion it generated was a gift to an actor. “‘And I’m going to build things! I’m going to build airfields! I’m going to build skyscrapers a hundred stories high! I’m going to build a bridge a mile long!’”
“Okay, that’ll do,” the man said.
Jack turned the page over and back, then peered into the void beyond the camera with a puzzled frown. “Isn’t this from It’s a Wonderful Life?”
“We just want to see how you handle dialogue,” the man said.
Jack smiled his easy, all-American smile. “Can I take it again?”
The request was ignored. There was a whispered exchange in the dark. He strained to catch the voices.
First the baritone: “…strictly an under five…”
Then the woman: “…exactly what I want…”
A little more muttering and then a firm “I know what I want!” from the woman.
“You’re a good-looking guy,” the man said. It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. Jack lowered his head modestly anyway. “Can you be in Flagstaff by noon tomorrow?”
“Flagstaff, Arizona?”
The baritone sighed. “It’s the only Flagstaff I know. It’s not a big part. You’ll have to get there on your own.”
Realization hit—he’d got the part!
A chair scraped as the woman rose, and Jack heard the sound of her high heels as she crossed the concrete floor to an exit. A stagehand opened the door, and Jack saw her trim silhouette as she left the stage.
“Be there twelve noon on the dot, or we’ll have to cast a local,” she said as she vanished into the light.

*

3:21 p.m.

The office that fronted the dilapidated sound stage was a sterile recent addition. No boastful movie posters adorned the walls, but the extravagantly tattooed girl at the desk more than compensated for the absence of decoration. Having ascertained Jack was “between agents”, she shoved a basic agreement across the desk. The money wasn’t great, but given his circumstances, food stamps would’ve been a plus.
Jack winced a little as he noted the girl’s pierced tongue and wondered if it got in the way when she kissed or ate. It certainly made a mush of the rote information she imparted.
“Twelve noon for makeup and wardrobe.”
Jack was relieved he was not expected to provide his own costume.
“Sign here, initial here, and here.”
He wanted to tell someone about his good fortune but realized, with no rancor, there was no one. Everyone to whom he’d been close had deserted him—his actor boyfriend for a good-looking realtor with an income, his roommate for a fringe theatrical production in Riverside, and his agent, who had cut him loose three weeks ago with spurious sympathy and a brief observation on “the state of the business.”
Fuck them all! He had a job. With dialogue. No billing, but maybe this could lead to something. He signed “Jackson McCauley” with a flourish. The girl provided a call sheet and directions to the location and the one-star motel where they would accommodate him during his week’s work.
Done with the formalities, he took the crisp, new-looking script and hurried out of the office into the searing Southern Californian sun. He punched the air and shouted a joyous, “Yesss!” as he ran into the street to the shady spot he’d found to park his car.
The spot was there, but the car was gone.

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Meet the Author

Barry Creyton has worked extensively in British and Australian theatre and television as actor, playwright and director. His plays are produced in more than twenty languages. Awards include the prestigious Kessell Award for his outstanding contributions to Australian theatre, the L.A. Ovation Award, and the Noel Coward International Writing Award. He resides in the United States. Find out more on his Website.

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