4/21/2014

Story Orgy Presents: UNTITLED Part 1

Welcome back to Story Orgy Monday! I'm starting a new story this week, something a little different, and as yet I haven't managed to come up with a title for it. Please, leave me a comment with any suggestions you might have! And... Many thanks for the fabulous art created by Jade F. Baiser, and to Em Woods for the intriguingly simple prompt.

After you finish reading my story, click on Over to Hank's and Havan's and indulge in some more d Monday morning fun!

UNTITLED PART 1
The garden was overgrown now.

The screen door rattled shut, cutting off the sounds of Nan and Pip chatting over iced tea on the enclosed back porch with a hapless Augie Cruthers. Faint strains of clarinets and snatches of sulky vocals followed Clay down the much worn wood steps.
When he was very small, and his parents had brought him here for the summer breaks, he'd tripped on the lowest step and split his lip. His tongue flicked over the tiny scar at the memory. Since then they'd talked dozens of times about replacing the narrow steps, but apparently now, just like in his childhood, it was a task for another day.
Clay left the path and wandered over cropped grass, in a lawn that seemed a lot smaller than it had been, until he reached an area where it was clearly not maintained any longer. He couldn’t hear Nan, Pip or Augie from here, but if he turned, he could see their forms, dark shadows behind the blurring screens of the porch.
Last Friday his young coworker had been undisguisedly dumbfounded by the invitation to visit Clay's patriarchal home, but after exchanging alarmed glances with his gape jawed secretary, and blushing profusely he'd accepted gamely. No doubt he thought that he was next on his notorious superior's never ending list of conquests, but the fact was that Clay wasn't interested. Augie was sweet, and cute enough, but Clay wasn't interested in sweet, and he preferred striking to cute, and fleeting to long lasting, when it came to bed partners.
All of which made fucking a man from his office a bad plan, especially someone like Augie who had happily ever after written all over his sparkling green eyes, soft styled five o'clock shadow and barely tamed curls. No, it wasn't sex that Clay had on his mind, it was distraction.
Clayton J. Merk could have told the man that he'd be serving more as a shield, a barrier to memories and emotions that Clay didn't want to experience again, but he figured that would become evident soon enough, when they retired to their own beds at night.
Some small part of him might have been trying to shock Nan and Pip, to maybe rub his gayness in their conservative family values a little, but that part had been made to feel small and insignificant, when Nan's faded blue eyes had brightened with delight to see that Clay had brought a guest. In fact, his grandparents had been so warm and welcoming, not even blinking twice at Augie's gentle lisp and painted nails that at first Clay had thought they'd both gone blind.
Then they'd been escorted to two very separate rooms and firmly informed that the floorboards creaked, which Clay well remembered, and instructed to show up for dinner in thirty minutes.
Over dinner, Augie proved his value as a distraction by displaying a very unlikely but undeniably thorough knowledge of big band music, and Clay was able to just sit and eat fried chicken and mashed potatoes as though his doctor hadn't just told him that he could stand to lose twenty pounds.
Surveying the chaos of his grandparents' home, Clay tried to stifle the dismay he felt. It had been years, closer to decades, really since he'd been here, but it should have at least felt familiar, shouldn’t it? Instead, it was as though the wilderness that his ancestors had carved a farm out of hundreds of years ago, was slowly taking back what it had ceded.
It was at once both more, and less than memory had painted it.
It was greener, lusher, more primal. Adam and Eve or a court of elves might have cavorted here, as it was now.
Less manicured, tidy, or functional. It was difficult to imagine the precisely laid out kitchen garden that his grandmother used to plant here every year, row upon row of tomato vines and pepper plants, hills of sweet, flowery cantaloupe, juicy watermelon, and prickly cucumbers interspersed with plots of herbs and six foot corn stalks with their razor sharp leaves.
The fields that used to line the drive on the way in were no longer planted with crops, just acres of rolling green grasses, up hills and down into tree dense hollows, hollers as the locals called them. It was beautiful, but when the grass came up to your knees, as it did outside the magic circle of manicured lawn surrounding the sixteen room colonial farmstead, that beauty was overshadowed with the unknown.
It was amazing how something like tall grass could turn a place he'd thought he knew like the back of his hand into some jungle of uncertainty that made him question all the things he thought he'd decided upon before he even left the city.
Somewhere at the bottom of the garden was a bench. Covering his eyes, Clay squinted into the shadows of the setting sun. Of course, with the garden overgrown now, it was impossible to find.
Crickets chirped and fireflies signaled frantically. He dragged in a deep breath, redolent with the heavy scent of dogwood and rain. His feet ignored the frantic voice in his head that ordered him to stay put, or to go back to the house, at the very least.
Chiggers, and ticks, and the lightning quick stings of any of a dozen other belligerent plants and animals assaulted his bared ankles, but his treacherous feet forged forward, and he couldn't break his gaze away from that Northwest corner.
He knew where it should be, there in the darkest spot, deep in the shadows, where the north boundary fence met the west boundary fence, under the branches of a gnarled old peach tree, which had stood sentinel over both farmsteads for so long that it had grown up and around and surrounded the barbed wire fence.
The tree marked the border, and was marked by it. Somewhere down there, in that dark recess, was the bench. Crafted and carved by hand generations ago by a tender-hearted lover whose bride had a fondness for sunsets. Carved of local limestone, smooth and white, once it had gleamed eerily, catching the moonlight and spinning his boyish imagination into fantasies unbound.
Back when Pip and Nan had been, as Nan put it, full of vim and vigor, and maintained the property to the nines, that is.
Now? When they scarce seemed to care about the house itself, and relied on some local boy to mow the simple acre of grass on which the house sat, the rest of the hundred acres was left to go wild, much as he had every summer as a boy.
And his feet were moving faster, tumbling him pell mell down that hill with a speed that left him breathless and clutching at his side, soothing the physical ache because the one in his heart was so damned old and familiar that he could almost ignore it.
Almost.
Except that …there it was.
In tall grass, dingy with dirt and pollen, bird excrement and murky leaves, sloping down so one end wasn't even visible, was the bench.
Clay sank down on the limestone and buried his head in his hands, shaking with the effort not to feel. Dragging in a deep breath, he consciously stiffened his spine and forced his hands down. He clenched the filthy seat in one hand and pushed back his hair with the other.
The field on the other side of the fence was everything his grandparents' place wasn't. Furrows of brown earth promised a future harvest, promised life.
As hard as he strained his eyes, that was all he could see.
"You've got a damned nerve, coming down here. I couldn't believe it when they said you were coming." The angry words rumbled over him, stabbing him with their hate and scorn. "You could at least have had the decency to stay up at the house instead of coming down here and flaunting your presence."
Clay stretched, feigning a casual attitude though icy sweat dampened the back of his polo shirt. "Brad? It's been a long time."

"Not fucking long enough, Merk."
To Be Continued

If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more! 



4/20/2014

Meeting New Friends... #books #quotes #mmromance

Good morning! Just spent some time off adding to my TBR pile. This week's reading: 

EM Lynley's Brand New Flavor and Gingerbread Palace

What about you?  


Are you ready to make some new book friends? 






http://top2bottomreviews.wordpress.com/2013/04/23/the-park-at-sunrise-by-lee-brazil/

4/17/2014

Crawl in Bed With Chris Quinton



Crawling Into Bed With Chris Quinton
And a Good Book

Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton? - Silk, hon, every time *g* - preferable a rich burgundy in color.

What are you wearing? - perfume and a smile

What are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight? - Oh, the usual... strawberries dipped in chocolate, raspberries and cream, champagne on ice...

If I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find? - Heh. Nothing very kinky - flavored lube, some long silk scarves, a string of large beads, a feather or two, a velvet glove….

Do you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the night? - That depends - covers tend to fly when I get excited.

Can I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up? - Of course you can, hon. I'm good at warming things up.

What are we reading? Dark Waters. It's a re-release of my m/m paranormal fantasy set in an alternative medieval Scotland, featuring a Waterhorse *g*. Not at all your usual kind of shifter.

Blurb - Flein is a wanderer by instinct and need, roaming the known world as the fancy takes him. In the Highland village of Glenfinnan, women have been raped and brutally murdered. The killer is a waterhorse, a monstrous shapeshifter by all accounts. But when Flein meets Donnchadh, first in its equine form, then its man-shape, he knows the waterhorse is innocent. Flein is drawn to the shapeshifter, but he finds it difficult to acknowledge it's more than a monster.

Donnchadh, though wary, shares the same attraction. They join forces to hunt for the real murderer, but time is short.  They must find the killer before more women die. Then suspicion is turned on them and the hunters become the hunted.

Excerpt - Flein's journey was uneventful and he made good time traveling west to east along Loch Shiel. A few days after leaving the Abbey, his gelding cast a shoe, so he decided on an early camp at the edge of the forest a stone's throw from the loch and not far from the place he'd used before.
He'd brought down a couple of grouse with his slingshot on the way and now they were roasting on a makeshift greenwood spit over the embers, their juices hissing where they dripped into the heat. The smell made his mouth water and for a while Flein forgot about a possible danger. Then his horse began to move restlessly on its tether and a deep-seated instinct told him the each-uisge approached. Then from behind him came the muted thud of unshod hooves on the dense mat of fallen pine needles, and the rustle of low-hanging branches brushing a large body. Seated on a pillow-shaped boulder, Flein smiled to himself and gave his meal another turn of the spit.
"Have you come to hear more of my travels?" he asked, not looking round. "I'm on my way to Invereil. Then I'll go on up the Great Glen to Inverness. From there I'll take ship to Rhodes. Now there's a splendid island." His visitor came no closer and for a while he talked of Rhodes, of its harbors and castles and the Knights of St. John. There was no other sound but that of his voice, the plash of waves from the shore and the sough of the light breeze. Then, because he was straining every sense, he felt rather than heard the movement. Just one step, that was all, and not of a hoof-fall but the silent pad of a bare foot.
Flein stopped speaking and held his breath. The silence stretched taught.
"The castle at Lindos?" prompted a voice that touched him with warm velvet.
Flein turned his head.
The creature was tall, matching his own height. But the shoulders were wider, the chest deeper, the muscles heavier on larger bones. Naked and like any beast, unconcerned by that nakedness, it was as uncompromisingly male as the stallion. Sable silk feathered over its upper chest and a thin line of darkness started just below its navel and widened down to the heavy genitals in their patch of thick curls. Long black hair drifted over the honey-brown shoulders in tangles, framing the face of a pagan demi-god. Its full lower lip hinted at sensuality and stubbornness in equal measure. Deep, dark eyes watched him, wary and curious. The firelight reflected back from those eyes with an animal's green chatoyancy, and nothing human looked out from them. There was an agelessness about it, and the deadly innocence of a drawn blade. Something was born in Flein's well-barricaded heart.
"Gods above and below, but you are truly magnificent," he said reverently. He had seen the work of the Greek sculptors at first hand, had himself stood for Praxiteles and Myron, and he knew this creature, this each-uisge, would have inspired masterpieces. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked.
The each-uisge didn't answer, just watched him, head a little to one side. The same way the stallion had watched. "Do you have a name?" Again, no answer. "Well, true-names can have power in them, so perhaps you're wise. Shall I give you a use-name, then?" A slight smile lifted the corners of that tempting mouth and he took it for assent.
Slowly, lest he startle it and with a casualness he was far from feeling, Flein got to his feet, studying the long muscular lines and fluid grace. It had strength and pride and an innate vitality that both appealed to him and challenged him. "Miles?" he suggested. "That means Soldier. No, let's stay away from Latin and stick with the Gaelic. Donnchadh. Brown Warrior. Donnchadh MacShiel, for the loch. It might be a little insensitive to give you a local clan name, since you killed and fed on the young heir. Among others."
"Why?" the creature asked.
"Because the clan wouldn't appreciate it, if they found out. They don't like being prey."
The wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Why? All things are prey to someone," it said, uncaring.

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Renee George & Giveaway #mmromance #erotic #pridepromotions



Welcome Renee George and Cock & Tails
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Cock & Tails #1: The WallBanger
To celebrate his 45th birthday, Dr. Harvey Grace agrees to go on a blind date at a popular gay sports bar, The Other Team. His date turns out to be the bar's owner--gorgeous 32-year-old Jay Lincoln. Their attraction is immediate and hot as wildfire. Harvey begins to believe that Jay might well be "the one," but is the younger man serious about finding Mr. Right ... or is he looking for Mr. Right Now?



Cock & Tails #2: The Hot Toddy
Todd Nelson and Tucker Thompson both know what it's like to feel abandoned, lonely, and afraid. Since ending up in the same foster family together, they've been as close as brothers.  Now in their early twenties, they still have each other's backs, sharing an apartment and working at The Other Team. Tuck avoids hook-ups while Todd constantly indulges in one-night-stands. Watching Todd go through a string of conquests in their home is brutal on Tuck, who wants Todd all for himself. What he doesn't realize is that Todd has strong feelings for him, too. Tuck has always trusted Todd to have his back, but can he trust him with his heart?




Cock &Tails #3: The Gin Rickey
Todd Nelson and Tucker Thompson both know what it's like to feel abandoned, lonely, and afraid. Since ending up in the same foster family together, they've been as close as brothers.  Now in their early twenties, they still have each other's backs, sharing an apartment and working at The Other Team. Tuck avoids hook-ups while Todd constantly indulges in one-night-stands. Watching Todd go through a string of conquests in their home is brutal on Tuck, who wants Todd all for himself. What he doesn't realize is that Todd has strong feelings for him, too. Tuck has always trusted Todd to have his back, but can he trust him with his heart?



Award-winning author ReneƩ George has been a medic, a nurse, a website designer, a small press editor, an artist, and a teacher, but writing is her true passion.
ReneƩ loves creating stories about sexy alpha men (BEST JOB EVER!).
She and her family live in a small, mid-western town, sharing their home with two dogs and a very independent cat.
Author Links
Renee’s Website: romance-the-night.com
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Cover Artist Renee George
Publisher Self-Published

Tour Dates: April 17, 2014
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Be Yourself

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings, 1955