Monday, October 29, 2012

Happy Halloween! I'm Hungry For Love...

Ah, Halloween, the time of year when you settle down with a collection of hot, horrifying zombie erotica... Wait, that's not what you usually do? How about giving it a shot this year by checking out Sommer Marsden's Hungry for Love, which includes a story by yours truly.

If this amazing premise doesn't convince you, here's an excerpt from my contribution, "Screen Siren," which describes a rather unusual casting call. B-movie director Sam Raymond sorts through a collection of zombie leading ladies, in search of his ideal woman:

How many times has he dreamt of being face to face with her? How many times has he had the shameful, clichéd fantasy about her and the casting couch? How many times has he envisioned her sharp and delicate face upturned and eager to please? He once went to see her in a play and spent the entire two hours staring at a bruise on the inside of her right elbow, wishing he too could mark her flesh, even if only for a day.

Deborah, his assistant director, is beside him again. "That one looks live, doesn't she? I'll give Tommy the signal."

"No!" Sam nearly shouts. "I want her for my lead." Jessica Savage. For a feverish four-year period, Sam had written a screenplay for her once every three months — though no one ever saw them. More recently, he has pounded away at a single effort, revising ad nauseam, hoping he can find some way to make it less awful and more worthy of her.

"Are you sure?" Deborah's voice is skeptical. "She has that look, don't you think? Her eyes seem too aware. I think we should shoot her."

Deborah is probably right. She is more than competent as an assistant director. If the world were fair, Sam would be working for her. And Jessica's pale, rigid face does seem a little sly. If this weren't Jessica, he would shoot her rather than take the
risk. Zombies, after all, are the ultimate disposables.

Sam cannot bring himself to pass up what will certainly be his last chance to work with Jessica, even if she appears now in this much changed form. "Let me get a closer look," he murmurs to Deborah. "Have someone hold the others back, will you?"

He steps closer. The allure of his mental image of her is so strong that he forgets the stench and takes a deep breath. He expects the cayenne chocolate smell she has in his fantasies — particularly in the one where he takes her to his mother's house and they all cook molé together before Sam and Jessica have wild, chocolate-smeared sex in his childhood bedroom.

She does not smell like molé or any food Sam would like to eat. He gags a little, but Hollywood has taught him to swallow his disappointments. He takes her hand in the gentlemanly way he always imagined. She surrenders it to him nervelessly. Flipping over her forearm, he checks her, finding the thick, perfectly round hole through her veins that is typical of a broker deal. She died for this casting call, for this moment with Sam here and now. The idea warms him. She chose him, even if she did not know exactly what she would get.

Sam peers into her dark, empty eyes. He agrees with Deborah that there is more to them than there ought to be. Jessica Savage might be in there somewhere. His hand tightens around hers.

The rational part of Sam's mind knows this means he ought to step away and signal Tommy and Dave to riddle her with bullets. But the likelihood that she is somehow still Jessica — even if this version of Jessica would tear him limb from limb with her molars if given the chance — appeals deeply to the part of Sam that has longed for Jessica Savage since he came to Hollywood, the part that made an obscure aspiring actress into a private obsession and deeply held fantasy.

Hollywood has taught Sam one thing: You can't have what you want, so you take as much as you can. "She's fine," he calls in a steady voice. "She's our lead."

Read the rest, as well as the other authors' stories, by picking up a copy at your preferred Internet vendor:


All proceeds from the anthology go to the American Diabetes Association

Friday, October 19, 2012

Release Day For Not His Territory!

That hot cover is for my new release from Breathless Press, Not His Territory.

Here's a blurb:

Werewolf investigator Raul Silva has always followed orders, but the latest might be one too many. Can he really resist his target's hot ex-wife?

After a devastating encounter with an illegally shifted werewolf, a wounded Raul Silva slumps on Chandra Williams's doorstep, begging for refuge. As an investigator for the legalistic Werewolf Council, Raul's been sent to look into instability in the local pack. Chandra's presence makes him want to succeed at his mission for personal — not professional — reasons.

The Werewolf Council disapproves. Chandra is strictly off-limits for Raul according to both the traditions and laws of the werewolves. But after a life devoted to upholding principles, Raul's instincts and desires are boiling to the surface. Can Raul resist Chandra, or will he break with everything he stands for to pursue a woman who is not his territory?
And a short excerpt:

"Can I take off his marking? I'm glad it kept you safe, but I'm not his territory. It's not his house. I pay for it."

Raul's eyes took on a strange weight. Chandra shivered, too aware of his body. "I wish it were that simple."

"Why isn't it? I can buy spray paint and cover up his mark."

"A territory dispute must be resolved on the full moon in the ancient way."

"The ancient way?"

"A challenge. A battle for control. It's done in fully shifted form."

"Well, I'm not a werewolf. What am I supposed to do?"

"We're set up to be self-policing. Your ex shouldn't be behaving the way he is. Marriages to humans are somewhat frowned upon and are supposed to be done with full knowledge and consent on the part of the human. This obviously wasn't how he did it with you, since you know nothing of our customs. A human has good reason to be wary of marrying one of us, though. Werewolf law often resorts to the ancient way for final arbitration. A human is at a disadvantage in any dispute with one of us. It's much easier when we keep to ourselves." Both of Raul's hands gripped the tablecloth now. Chandra wondered what part of this upset him so much.

"So you're saying he shouldn't have married me."

"Not if he planned to treat you this way." Raul's voice came out as a snarl.

"I mean, because it breaks werewolf law."

"It's not that a werewolf can't be with a human," Raul said. His emphasis on the words "be with" sent a chill down her inner thighs. "It just needs to be done properly." Now Chandra grabbed her own handful of tablecloth. She needed to figure out how to get free of her ex, not become distracted wondering what Raul would consider the "proper" way to be with a human.

"Okay, well." Chandra's voice shook. She forced herself to look at a spot on the wall beyond Raul. If she looked directly at the man, she'd be off on another fantasy before she knew what hit her. "Since that's water under the bridge at this point, isn't there any way to dispute his claim on my house?"

Raul's hand brushed hers. Chandra jumped. "Another werewolf could dispute on your behalf. I could do that for you. If you wanted. I owe you my life as it is."

Chandra waited for him to move his hand away. He did not. She went on speaking anyway, despite the bolts of arousal shooting through her lower belly. "And what then? Am I—I mean, my house—is my house your territory if you win?" Her arms trembled. The idea of being his territory sounded medieval to her brain, but her body loved it. Enough that she involuntarily crossed her legs and squeezed them together, further igniting the heat between her thighs.

"In theory," Raul said slowly. "I suppose so. In practice, only if you want it to be." He smiled. "I'm a werewolf, not a caveman."

You can grab it from Amazon, or from the publisher's site.

While you're over there, check out the new release, One Wild Vegas Night, from my fellow Ravaged author SJ Thomas.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

The Last Dream

Circlet's Erotic Shakespeare collection, Like A Midsummer Night, released recently, and it contains my first published m/m story, "The Last Dream," which pairs Mercutio with Tybalt.

I had a lot of fun writing this. I used many bits of dialogue from the original play, and, when I had to write my own, I tried to maintain Shakespeare's blank verse. It felt supremely arrogant at times -- the first thing I do in the story is finish Mercutio's interrupted Queen Mab speech -- but I love pastiche and how imitating another's style ultimately sets me free.

Here's a short excerpt:

That hag Mab, spinning her dreams of passion and punishment, has tricked him well. Long has Mercutio avoided the entanglements of sentiment. Physical love holds no charms worth boasting of. His trysts to date have all the splendor of sending laundry to the washerwoman. Needs sated, a body cleaned and restored, and a thanks and farewell to all involved.

And now Mercutio makes a fine picture, as part of a little group largely unknown to each other. Romeo, beanpole lover of all that lies between a woman’s thighs—so long as he neither sees nor touches the treasure—skulks about sighing first for Rosaline, then for any maid young and foolish and possessed of duel-seeking relations. Skulking after Romeo comes Tybalt, drunk on his own rage, his deadly grace too pleasing to Mercutio’s eye. Mercutio—himself now a skulker in turn, all thanks be to his new lord Cupid—gazes upon Tybalt with desire and trepidation, and mocks himself for looking at all.

This strange attraction, this proof of cocky foolishness and his body’s brazen disregard of self, promises danger as heady as it is certain. The trouble lies not merely in the brash carriage of his eye’s new fixation, but rather in the strength of the pull. Never before has Mercutio failed to control the object and timing of his affections. Never before has Mercutio skulked.

Besotted Romeo, far beyond considering the consequences of being seen, makes love to Tybalt’s cousin with his eyes, and shoves through the crowd to bump his hand against her hand. Mercutio sneers and Tybalt explodes, breaking out of the shadows to hiss at the elder Capulet. The old man waves him off, and Tybalt returns to the domain of the skulkers, the sun-darkened flesh above his brilliant eyes gathered like a fist about to strike. He talks to himself, the words soaked up by Mercutio’s eager ears: “I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall, now seeming sweet, convert to bitt’rest gall.”

No good for Romeo in that, but does Wandercock care? He is busy, pressing swelling lips to the yet-unspoiled hand of Tybalt’s young cousin. And there, if nothing else, lies an illustration of which Mercutio should take heed. A man so locked in love’s pursuit that he neglects the half-drawn sword at his back, a weapon which will surely swing ere break of day. Mercutio cannot help glancing over his own shoulder. But there is no one there, and Tybalt has gone, taking with him all the evening’s threat and thrill.

If you'd like to read more, or check out the other authors' stories, you can pick the book up here on Circlet's site or here at Amazon.