Sweet Exchange:All the heat plus a HEA!

Unforgettable by Lee Brazil Scottish/Highlander M/M Historical Drama Sweet Exchange Series Lime Tree Publishing Buy at ARe  Can the love of a lifetime be forged in the aftermath of bloody battle? Ian Kerr dreams of the blue-eyed gaze that met his in a strange, still moment on the field of battle. Brodick MacFarland, young and inexperienced, yet old enough to fight for his clansmen, saves a wounded man left for dead by his kin. Now, five years later, Brodick is a trained physician and an adult who knows his own mind. Fortunately for Ian, the clash between the clans still rages on, leaving Brodick fair game. Will Brodick come with Ian of his own accord or will this educated warrior continue to evade capture? Teaser Excerpt: Thunder awoke Ian Kerr from a restless sleep haunted by troubled blue eyes. He wanted to reach out to the owner of those eyes, tell the man that it would be all right. "All right," he mumbled, forcing heavy lids up. His head felt thick and his vision blurred.  Lying still, he forced himself to assimilate his surroundings as his head and vision slowly cleared. The floor beneath him was earth, the wall he lay against as well. A fire crackled nearby, providing warmth and a dim flickering light. His belly rumbled loudly, echoing the thunder.  Last he'd known, his brother Andrew, and Agnes MacFarland had left him to cover their retreat. How had he come to lie in an abandoned shepherd's bothy? Still, it was out of the storm that raged outside, and for that he was grateful. A savory scent lingered in the air, and Ian shifted upright to find the source of that enticing odor. "Ahh…" Agony seared his chest, and he clutched at it, marveling as his fingers found a neat row of stitches. The pain jolted his muddled brain and memories fought slowly to the surface. "The battle…" The damned MacFarlands had left him to die on the roadside when one of their untrained whelps landed a lucky blow with sword he'd been scarce able to lift. "Aye, easy there." The soft burr drew his gaze to a thin man in a MacFarland tartan kneeling near the small fire. The youth filled a bowl with pottage and crossed the small space between them. The voice was familiar, the figure strange.  "Where am I?" "Boden's old place. I couldna get ye any further from the road. Wasna safe to take ye to the farm." When the youth knelt and offered him the bowl, Ian was struck by deep blue eyes, the steely blue of the sky before sunset, set in a fine boned face, beardless, thin, fragile nearly, and very familiar. "Ye're a MacFarland." He reached automatically for his blade, though the stripling was hardly threatening in his appearance. Memories stirred of the recently fought battle. Those were the eyes from his dream… "I remember ye from the fight. Ye were in Andrew's bride's guard." Laughter lurked in the blue eyes before the youth ducked his head. "I'm Brodick MacFarland. Agnes is my sister." His cheeks flushed slightly, though it could have been a trick of the flickering fire.  Brodick returned to the fire and filled another bowl of pottage for himself. Ian surveyed him cautiously. His instinct said the other man was no threat…but their families were at war. "Ye fetched the doctor for me?" Silently, he ate a few bites of pottage, studying the slim figure, the thin chest and wiry arms. This was no warrior, though he could plainly see the man wasn't as young as he'd first thought.  Brodick met his gaze again. "I sewed ye up meself. I'm a student at Aberdeen. I'm sorry if 'tis no' perfectly done. But I didna dare let anyone know you lived." Ian nodded. "Why?" This youth hadn't participated in the mild battle; Ian's injury had been caused by a startled looking stripling who'd vomited into the heather and thistle at the roadside immediately afterward. Ian's clansmen had left him, their need to escort Andrew's bride to safety most urgent. He caught a sidelong glance from Brodick, and something in the darkening gaze sent a flicker of heat to his groin. Clan MacFarland was known for beauty in a land where brawn was prized, Ian wouldn’t have been so smitten with the sainted Agnes, but this one was different…special. Where the other MacFarlands shared his creamy pale skin and plump rosy lips, instead of the deep auburn hair the rest of the MacFarlands sported, this one had been graced with a wild mane of black curls, cropped at the shoulder. Ian's fingers itched to bury themselves in those curls, to test their silky appearance with his fingertips.

Free Read - Nothing to Forgive and the Return of Because You're You

Have you picked up my free read yet? 

It's a short, sweet, sexy story about age differences, and what's really important in a relationship. 

Vic comes back from a business trip and is shocked to find a hot young thing hanging on to his lover. Sure, he and Marc had a fight, but Vic figured they'd work things out. And how could Marc's new someone special be so young, when their fight had been about their age difference...?

All Romance eBooks

My other free read is down briefly for editing and a new cover but will return to ARE and other sites by the end of the month.

Crawl in Bed With Caitlin Ricci

Crawling Into Bed With Caitlin Ricci 

And a Good Book

Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton?

What are you wearing?

Cotton. Purely perfect organic cotton sheets with a very nice thread count. They're soft, comfortable and very little fuss. I'm in a tank top and shorts- comfy lounge clothes. My feet are bare. I can't stand socks unless I have to. 

What are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight?

Gingersnap cookies and iced green tea. I love sweets and tea is delicious. Right now I keep switching between mint tea or green. 

If I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find?

Randomly written notes from ideas that came to me in the middle of the night along with a few pens and some sticky note pads. There's also a small flashlight in there so that I can see what I'm trying to write. It's still a complete mess though. I'm not that neat early in the morning. 

Do you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the night?

No covers. I hate waking up and thinking that I'm trapped, even if its just by blankets. 

Can I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up?

Yep, though my dog might already be between us. She takes up a lot of space. 

What are we reading?

Out in Colorado is my latest release and it can be found here http://www.stormmoonpress.com/books/Out-in-Colorado.aspx.

This collection brings six talented authors from the Centennial State together under one title, all offering their take on what it means to be Out in Colorado. These stories explore the cultures and mores of the state as only native authors can, each bringing a unique perspective on the diverse peoples and changing attitudes that are quickly coming to define this state in transition.

First, in Something Old, Something Blue, Justin Pauldino, the adopted son of Denver's Italian mob boss, is a one night stand kind of guy and likes it that way, until his latest bed partner, Michael Blu, upsets his applecart world enough to make him consider settling down. When Justin decides to put his best foot forward with Michael—a third generation attorney, whose father and grandfather have an unpleasant history with Justin's adoptive father—Justin's world is turned upside down when his good intentions set in motion a series of events that will change his life forever. Then, Joey Graham has demonstrated his Casual Brilliance and landed the job of his dreams out of school; the only catch is that he has to move to Colorado to do it. Fortunately, Joey's got a new coworker who's more than happy to introduce him to everything his new home has to offer. Next, in a yearly tradition, five friends had gotten together in a cabin in the winter mountains of Colorado, but one of them has been lost for years. This year, all five friends will be back together and discover secrets that will change their lives forever, in Spirit's Fire.

In Take a Bow, Brandon's daughter's wedding is approaching quickly, and the nervous father realizes that if he is to keep from embarrassing his little girl during the father-daughter dance, he needs some lessons pronto. But the gorgeous and charismatic dance instructor, Crispin, has Brandon too distracted to learn when all he can think of is dragging the man down for some dancing of a more horizontal sort. Next, stuck in an abusive relationship with the cultured and sophisticated (and closeted) Ethan, a relationship that is quickly spiraling downward, Trevor feels Frozen, lost and left behind as everything spins on around him. When a sudden turn of violence forces Trevor to face the tragedy that his life has become and make a hard choice, it could be the awakening he needs, or it could be the last decision he ever makes. Finally, being an otter shifter, though fun, comes with its own set of problems for Lon, not the least of which is the need to be in his shifted form for at least a few hours every week. This biological imperative threatens his budding romance with University of Colorado adjunct professor Corey when an accident in the back country leaves Lon unable to make his shift without revealing his furry secret, inSlip/Slide/Snow.

You can always find me at www.caitlinricci.com or email me at authorcaitlinricci@gmail.com.

Thanks for having me :) 

Newly Re-Released at All Romance e-Books

Available at  All Romance eBooks 

This story remains one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy it. If you purchased Word Play, you should know that this story has not been altered substantially from that version except in that it is being re-issued as a stand alone title. 

BLURB

First they were three, now there are two.  Can Jason and Morgan make a relationship work without Paul?

For years the three of them had been inseparable, first as friends, then lovers. It's been ten years since they parted for what was supposed to be a year apart to pursue their dreams.   This isn't the reunion they planned then.  It's nine years too late for one thing, and they are one man short for another.

In the years since Paul's death, Morgan hasn't exactly been waiting for Jason to reach out to him.    He's been too busy trying to forget, to move on.  Until Jason sends the right message.

 Is the painting just an excuse to see his ex again?

EXCERPT 

Chapter One

The park at sunrise. How many nights had we ended up here? Coffee from the all-night truck stop in Jamestown in hand, steam rising as we walked, searching for that most exclusive private spot where we could see but not be seen. The bench that was sheltered by just the right number of trees, with the best view of the pond and the flagpoles and the sunrise.

Nights of parties, concerts, hanging out, or working had all ended in this spot. When the fun was done, we sobered up as the sun rose here. When we were exhausted from working those double shifts and pulling all-nighters, the sunrise reminded us why we worked so hard. When we were flying high on concert-induced endorphins, it spun wild dreams in our heads that spilled from our mouths in raucous harmony. The three of us, wrapped in one blanket, sipping from one bottle, from one cup, contemplated that sunrise. In snow and rain and heat and cold we huddled here. For four years, this place colored our lives in ways we couldn't imagine.

The bench we'd claimed as ours drew me onward. My feet recognized the path, if my mind did not. In the inside pocket of my too-thin-for-the-Colorado-cold-but just-right-for-California black leather jacket, the crinkle of paper jabbed at my soul. As much as anything else, it was why I was here.

When I found it, the bench was still the same with its old, wrought-iron rails and splintery wooden slats. I stopped. Progressing from here would be harder. The cold seeped through the inadequate leather soles of my knee-high black boots, chilling my feet. Once I'd known how to dress for the cold. Once cold hadn't mattered. I'd had their warmth to keep me warm. For years I'd had a vision, locked in my head. This bench, this park, the sun rising in the background. The first flakes of falling snow drifting down. On the bench, two men whose heads turned as I approached, who jumped to their feet with open arms and welcoming smiles. The first time we met here, the last time we met here.

Today, I had a memory. A sunrise that would start soon. I forced myself forward, placed one booted foot on the seat and hoisted myself into the familiar position, buttocks perched on the topmost slat of the bench. Splinters prickled against the seat of my 501s, but the first changing light as the sun made its appearance caught my gaze. Since the last time I'd sat here, the last time we'd been together, I hadn't sat through many sunrises. I'd observed a lot of sunsets on the Pacific coast, but the sunrise had become a time of regret.

As I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees and prop my chin in my hands, the crinkle of the envelope in my pocket and the crunch of dead leaves on the grass behind me competed for my attention. I drew the envelope from my inner pocket as the footsteps approached. I knew who it was. Had realized he would be here, though how he had known I would be was anyone's guess. It appeared to me that I hardly knew what I was doing, catching that plane, leaving behind friends and commitments. Me. Mr. Responsible. Reliable. Dependable. Had I even called in and told the principal I wouldn't be there for the last week of classes? I couldn't recall. He'd figure it out when the Calc I kids showed up for the key to the classroom, no doubt.

The sudden drag of a wool cap being tugged down over my long hair startled me. It shouldn't have. I should have predicted he'd be in this "taking care of Morgan" mode. At twenty two it had been endearing; at thirty two it pissed me off. Deep, calming breaths kept the anger manageable. Come here, do what needed to be done, get on the next plane back to California, back to emotional stability.

"I see you're dressed for the weather as always, Morgan." Jason's voice was husky, hesitant.

A pair of black knit gloves landing in my lap tipped me over that edge from making a snide remark to throwing an uncalled-for hissy fit.

My jaw clenched tightly. Screw breathing deeply. I yanked the cap from my head, pulling long strands of black hair from the band at my neck, and winced at the tiny pain. I flung the cap to the ground in front of us and looked up the black denim-clad legs to the black pea coat and beyond. My mouth opened to swear, but no sound came out. The hissy fit drained away to something else entirely. My pulse still raced, but for an entirely different reason.

How fair was that? How fucking fair was it that after ten years apart, my hair showed silvery streaks and my face showed my age, but Jason was still the slender, boyish youth of years gone by? Yeah, he'd shaved the dirty blond dreadlocks. Those wire-rim glasses were new, but he appeared as youthful and vibrant, untouched by life, alive as he had when we'd all parted years ago to make those sunrise dreams reality. His black jeans had the telltale smudges of paint, and I'd be willing to bet that underneath those leather driving gloves lurked more paint.

This wasn't the reunion we planned then. It was nine years too late, for one thing. We were one man short, for another.

The bench creaked as he perched next to me on the top slat, and instinctively I grabbed his knee to anchor both of us so we wouldn't topple backward. His hand covered mine before I could jerk it away, and he refused to relinquish it when I tugged. I gave in with ill grace. Jason’s touch stirred physical responses that I’d rather not experience.

"I sent you an invitation to my gallery opening last year."

"I got it."

"You couldn't make it." No judgment. Levelheaded, easygoing, that was Jason. I didn't even understand how he knew to send the damn invitation to the school in the first place. For all I knew, he still lived with his parents and painted in that fucking unheated studio over their garage.

I handed him the envelope. The envelope that had brought me here, as he had known it would, when nothing else could. "I want to buy it."

He shook his head. "It's not for sale. That's not why I sent it to you."

Heat pooled at the back of my neck, and the tiny, irritating noise of my own teeth grinding warned of a potential headache in the offing. I turned, made eye contact for the first time. "Then why? Why send it? Fuck, why paint it? How the hell could you even stand to paint that picture? It kills me that you could have done that, like it doesn't mean fucking anything to you." By the time I spit out the last words, my voice had risen enough to scare off the waterfowl in the pond.

The expression on his face was one I'd never noticed before. I thought I had all their expressions memorized, his and Paul's. Oh, Christ. "Paul." The name slipped out, the memories in. I dropped my head to my knees again, breaking eye contact. I had to create mental distance since physical wasn't possible. I was empty, raw. My stomach tightened and my eyes burned.

"Morgan, it means everything to me. It's all I have. That painting, it's the heart and soul of who I am, who you are, who Paul was." The hand clutching mine drew away, and I nearly protested as cold took its place. Then I felt him fussing. I rolled my eyes as he loosened the band from my hair and combed his fingers through it before gathering it back into a neater ponytail, smoothing the hairs pulled loose by the wool cap. It felt too good to be cared for like that again. I jerked upright and away.

"Damn it, Jason, I don't want to go there. We can't recapture the past! You are not my mother. You are not Paul." I narrowed my eyes and gave him the look that intimidated school board members and recalcitrant football players alike. "Why did you send it if you won't sell me the painting?"

"Were you here? May twenty-sixth, two thousand one? Because I was."

I stared at him. My anger was fading, heart rate returning to normal. The heat from earlier was replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the low temperature. Surely he was kidding. "Why? Why did you bother? Paul was dead by then. You had to know I wouldn't come."

"No, I didn't. See, somehow, I never thought it was all about you and Paul. Somehow, I thought it was all about you, me, and Paul. I guess I naively believed that without Paul, you and I would need each other even more."

I couldn't speak, but my shock must have shown on my face. With an impatient sigh, Jason jumped from the bench. I automatically steadied myself, swaying slightly as the bench protested the sudden movement.

He tossed the photo from the envelope into my lap. "I have it crated and ready to ship. Pick it up at my parents' house any time. I won't be there."

I didn't look up. I didn't speak. I listened to his footsteps, muffled now by the snow that had fallen on the crunching leaves. As the colors changed and faded from the morning sky, I stared at the photo of the painting that had brought me here. Three men on a bench in a park at sunrise, three heads pressed together, three hands clasped. If one of the images was a little blurry, I couldn't tell if that was the artist's intent, the tears in my eyes, or the snow that fell on the photo.

And the Good News Keeps Rolling In!

Just received an email from All Romance eBooks- 

It seems that Temptation, my latest release has hit the site wide best seller list at #36 after releasing on Friday! 

They sent me this cool little icon...

And look...it's like they KNOW how I can't exist without coffee....

lol 

Anyway, I'm thrilled as can be and I want to thank all my readers who purchased Temptation this weekend.

Temptation 

Available at  Breathless Press  All Romance and Amazon

Meeting Solomon again while holding hands with another man wasn't in Lake's plan.

 Neither was anything that happened afterward.

After a hot interlude at a holiday party, Lake Wynters and Solomon Arsdale exchange phone numbers but not promises. Lake is fine with that until something happens he's never experienced. As days pass without Solomon calling, Lake discovers he just can't forget the sexy older man. Giving in to temptation, he takes matters into his own hands and visits Solomon at his office, breaking his own dating rules.

Waiting in Solomon's office, Lake is shaken to the core by how much Solomon's acknowledgement of their encounter means to him, and how much more he wants it to lead to.

But when the door he's eagerly watching opens, it brings new temptation in the form of Adonis Kosmias. Adonis isn't anything like Solomon. Not many would call him beautiful. His features are too harsh, his body too angular. But he moves with fluid grace and his hair falls in perfect waves and his eyes sparkle with warmth. From the first touch of his hand Lake is thrown into even greater confusion. So distracted by Adonis's touch is he, that when Solomon finally makes an appearance, their hands are still clasped.

EXCERPT 

I'm Lake Wynters, I reminded myself as I paced, keeping an eye on the massive oak door that stood stalwart between me and the man I'd come to see. The secretary tried to make me sit, even offered me a copy of a news magazine to read. I think my blank look surprised her. She wanted me to sit in that plush but horrible amber colored chair and wait quietly for Solomon to decide whether my claim to friendship was a lie. I sort of was, and I sort of wasn't. But that wasn't why I paced.

And it wasn't because I wasn't sure if my pants would crease or fuzz would stick to my butt either. I just couldn't be still. It was unbelievable how much my existence seemed to hinge on his decision to acknowledge me. So I paced around the soft brown carpet, from the window that overlooked the parking lot and a very distant view of the sparkling waters of the ocean, to the chair. The door didn't open, even though it felt like it must have been a half hour since she'd called through and his deep voice had asked for a few minutes.

He's going to remember me, he's going to see me; he's going to be glad I came. He wouldn't have given me his number otherwise, would he? I wanted to believe that so badly. Because I wanted to see him. I didn't want to get brushed off. Why wouldn't he want to see me again? I was pretty...we would look great together, and I'd already proven to him that I knew what the fuck I was doing. That thought had me cursing silently as my cock stirred a bit. Okay—no remembering the blow job in the vestibule.

Just remember the indulgent smile. The way his hand closed around the number written on his palm. The way his thumb wiped the tiny drop of semen from the corner of my mouth. Yeah, those were the things I needed to remember, the things that said more than getting off for fun, the things that said maybe what we'd had meant a little something more.

Every little sound fell on my ears like a blast from a car horn, from the coiffured secretary's hands clattering on the keyboard to the hushed slur of paper in the printer. Wearing me down, tearing at the confidence I'd mustered in order to come here today.

I wanted to double-check my appearance, run to the nearest restroom and check my makeup, the shine on my boots, the cut of my jeans. I wanted to tell her to forget it, to run out and get my hair done, buy new boots, new jeans, anything to chase away the doubt this man created in me.

I was on edge and I didn't like it. I didn't like being here. I didn't like that he hadn't called me. Why hadn't he called me?

Everyone always calls me.

Not Solomon Ardale. I closed my eyes and his face hovered there in front of me, dark, solemn eyes, strong smooth jaw. The bold, aquiline nose I'd kissed playfully two weeks ago, the thick dark brows I'd traced with my fingers.

The moist hot mouth that had captivated me with one swift brutal kiss before he'd pushed me aside. Had he tasted himself in that kiss? Certainly his taste lingered in my mouth. That flavor was so imprinted in my memory that I could savor its echoes today, the blend of salt and sweet and bitter, smooth and slick against my teeth, my tongue.

But he left me there, mouth hanging open, clutching the little white business card he'd given me after I wrote my number in eye liner in the palm of his hand.

He hadn't called.

Not to ask me to dinner, or the theater, or a movie.

He wasn't even interested in a repeat performance.

Why did it fucking matter? I didn't think he was in love with me. I didn't expect him to even like me overly much. After all, a half an hour at a party isn't much to base affection on.

And yet, here I was, wasting prime holiday shopping time sitting in a stuffy office hoping to see someone I'd only met once.

The door behind me clicked and I spun around, expecting to see Solomon, but instead it was a younger man, handsome in his own way, but leaner with a darker appearance. That explained why Solomon hadn't admitted me right away. He was with someone. The relief I felt made me a little wobbly in my heels, but I smiled at the newcomer, letting my suddenly lighter spirit show. Maybe I smile too much for the camera and it came off as flirty instead of friendly, because one arched brow rose high and I nearly giggled. It made him look very much like an inquiring Vulcan and less wicked than I'd first thought.

He looked me over slowly, extending a hand in greeting. "You're Lake Wynters?"

I accepted his hand, squeezing gently, just as my behavior coach had taught me. "I am. You'll get used to it. It's my real name. My parents were wannabe hippies. I had to get over it, just one of many things." Jesus, why was I babbling? More to the point, why did this man's dry, firm touch send goose bumps up my arm?

"Will I? Get used to it, I mean?" He smiled a little, just the tiniest quirk of his lips, but I felt at ease suddenly.

"I think so. At least, I hope so. And you are?" I wanted to put a name to a face that I would surely remember for a long time. I had the feeling we could be friends, maybe more than friends.

"I'm Adonis Kosmias. Alas, my parents were also enamored of odd names." He smiled fully now, white teeth gleaming between full dark lips.

"Adonis?" He seemed to find the name amusing, but it sounded nice to me. So did the husky note in his voice and the gentle laugh that came as he recognized my confusion.

"He's the Greek god of beauty and desire. Come in, Solomon will see you now." I realized our hands were still clasped, though neither of us made any pretense at shaking and felt my neck and ears flame instantly. I blushed. I'd be walking in to see Solomon with my ears and cheeks flaming red. So much for appearing sophisticated and debonair. My cover, such as it was, was blown.

But, the Greek god of beauty and desire? Yeah... I could understand his laughter. Not many would call this man beautiful. His features were too harsh, his body too angular for beauty. But he moved with fluid grace and his hair fell in perfect waves and his eyes sparkled with such warmth.

His touch distracted me from Solomon, who was now willing to see me. On the other side of the door I'd been obsessed with just minutes earlier.

The door opened before I remembered that I could tug my hand out of his grip and didn't need to wait for him to release it. So, what the man I'd dreamed about for two weeks saw when I stepped into his office, was me holding hands with another man.