Crawl in Bed With J.R. Loveless #mmromance #glbt #crawlinbed #authorinterview

Crawling Into Bed With

J.R. Loveless

And a Good Book

Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton? Definitely silk. There’s nothing more sinfully sweet than silk sheets against your skin.

What are you wearing? A beautiful set of red soft satin pajamas.


What are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight? I’m not really an eating in bed type of person, but I would say for this story it would be champagne and strawberries.


If I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find?  A few ‘toys’, if you get my drift.


Do you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the night? Depends on if it’s cold in the room. If it’s cold, I love to bundle up, but if it’s hot, I tend to throw the covers away.


Can I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up? Sure! I love to cuddle. 


What are we reading? Champagne Kisses, a sweet but hot Valentine’s Day short.

Blurb: Their date cancelled on the most romantic day of the year, Sam Evans feels betrayed by Dean, who often puts work before their relationship. Brooding about his lover's lack of commitment toward him, he leaves work early only to be stunned by what awaits him outside the door.

Excerpt:

February 14th, 3:05 P.M.

Sam Evans stared broodingly out of the window of the small bookstore he worked at part time. There were little to no customers in the shop and he couldn't be more thankful. His spirit was definitely not in the mood for being people-friendly. All he wanted to do at the moment was wallow in self-pity. How could Dean do this to him?

"I'm sorry, Sam, but it's a really big case. We can't afford to miss anything or he could walk."

"But it's Valentine's Day! You can't take a few hours off to spend it with me?"

"I'll make it up to you. I promise. I've gotta go. I'll call you later."

Click

Damn him! Sam scowled even harder. Six months they'd been together and Dean still put his work over their relationship. Sometimes he wondered if it was even worth it, but then he'd remember how sweet and sexy the man could be and his anger would dissipate until the next time Dean would cancel a date or break plans they'd made together. He loved him and couldn't imagine spending his life with someone else, but if things didn't change soon, he wasn't sure how much longer he could deal with it. Though Dean had no idea how deep his feelings went. They'd never used the big L word and Sam would be damned if he said it first with how things were between them.

He hadn't even gotten Dean anything for Valentine's Day. Because if they weren't going to spend it together, what was the point of getting him a gift? Maybe he'd even done it a little bit out of pettiness and disappointment. Okay, it was true. He'd been selfish and hadn't wanted to think about buying something for Dean because he was mad and because it depressed him even more to think about spending the holiday, meant for lovers to be together, alone.

Sam thought back to the first time they'd met and flushed at how clumsy he could be at times. His best friend and confidante, Aaron Beckinridge, had opened a catering business a little over a year before he met Dean. Sam could still hear Aaron's excitement when he'd found out he'd gotten the gig for a huge charity dinner party for some of the big wigs at City Hall. A few hours before the event, Aaron called Sam in a tizzy because he was short-handed and needed a body to help fill in. He'd begged Sam and despite Sam's many attempts to wiggle out of the obligation, Aaron managed to back him into a corner until Sam reluctantly agreed. He'd never been entirely comfortable in social settings, but at least he wouldn't be expected to make polite chit chat or entertain anyone.

At first, the party had been dull, a bunch of stuffed shirts bragging about their latest wins in the courtroom or their golf handicap. As the night wore on, Sam wandered through the crowd holding a tray of champagne glasses while attempting to entertain himself by making up stories about the attendees. One overweight man who brayed like a donkey and sweated like a pig reminded him of the arrogant, selfish Duke in one of his stories. A seemingly straight-laced blonde woman in a tight black dress would have made the perfect gold digging Black Widow. He made mental notes of everything to work into his stories, including some of the decorations and food from the evening.

In the midst of his imaginings someone bumped his arm causing the tray to over balance. One of the champagne flutes tipped and spilled all over a pair of expensive-looking black patent leather shoes. Sam immediately apologized and looked up into the most breathtaking hazel-green eyes he'd ever seen. His voice failed him.

Easily six foot four, the man towered over Sam's mere five-nine. The severe cut of the tuxedo clung to the stranger's lightly muscular physique in all the right places. Short light brown hair swept back from the man's features accentuated the strong jawline and firm rounded chin with a slight cleft in it. Sam's mouth dried out in desire and he swallowed hard, attempting to find his voice once more. He shoved a strand of his almost shoulder-length dirty blond hair behind one ear nervously.

"No worries. I hated these shoes anyway," the man drawled amusedly, his full lips lifting in an almost smirk.

Sam snapped out of his daze and blushed. "I'll get something to clean it up with," he mumbled and threaded his way toward the kitchen at the back of the mansion to grab a towel. Rushing back out, he saw that the attractive guy had disappeared and fought off disappointment as he cleaned up the spilled drink. He didn't delude himself into thinking the man could possibly be gay. If he was a guest at the party, it meant he was a lawyer and he hadn't heard of many gay lawyers, if any at all, in this city.
Sighing, he went back into the kitchen, dropped the rag on the counter and decided to take his break. "Hey, Aaron, I'm going to get some fresh air."

Aaron waved him off, shouting instructions at one of his regular waiters. Sam walked out of the back door leading onto a large balcony overlooking a huge, well-kept garden, which no doubt cost more than he made in a year. He breathed in the night air deeply as he moved to the railing and leaned against it, his hands resting on the cold cement. He tilted his head to stare up at the bright half-moon overhead while berating himself for being so inept. The man probably thought him an utter disaster. Frowning, he shook his head and tried to dislodge the stranger from his mind. Why should he care? After tonight, he'd never see the man again anyway.

He sighed once more. He wanted to be home, surrounded by his books and working on his latest novel. At least there he didn't have to worry about making a fool of himself. Books aren't concerned with what you look like or how you act. What he loved most about books was that they were places to lose yourself in. Somewhere you could hide from the cruelty of the real world and become a sexy, brilliant detective or a suave, confident prince who could have anyone they wanted, go anywhere they wanted and they never embarrassed themselves. It was why he loved working for A Book Nook, his usual day job. Most customers who came in were like him, looking for an escape from their lives. His own novels weren't main-stream, but he made enough to be comfortable working part time and writing.

"I always did detest these kind of parties," a deep, sexy voice disrupted his thoughts and Sam jumped, turning to look at the owner. The man he'd spilled the drink on stood a few feet away from him. He'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts, a bad habit mind you, that he hadn't even known the guy was there. How long had he been watching him? The butterflies in his stomach kicked up once more and he could only nod in response to the stranger's comment before turning back to staring at the stars and moon. Sam tensed when the guy approached and leaned onto the railing near him. He could feel the warmth radiating from his closeness and bit his bottom lip.

"I'm going to guess this isn't your usual gig either."

Sam shook his head, still finding his voice locked in his throat.

The stranger hummed. "If I hadn't heard you apologize earlier I'd wonder if you were mute."

"No," Sam murmured. "I can talk."

"Ah, there's his voice," the man teased gently, tilting his head toward Sam.

"I'm really very sorry about your shoes," Sam apologized again, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I told you don't worry about it. I have several pair like these and between you, me and the flowers, I'd rather go barefoot." One hazel-green eye winked at him.

Sam blushed and swallowed hard, his fingers curling into half-fists on the railing. His chest tightened almost painfully. He'd never been very good at idle conversation. Even as a child, he'd found it hard to open up to strangers. It took forever for him to make friends, but once he did, he allowed himself to let go and show more of his true self to them. "Well… um…"

"Dean Saunders," the guy offered.

The man's name was as hot as the package. Sam managed to force himself to reply. "Sam Evans."

"It's nice to meet you, Sam," Dean said holding out his hand.

Sam stared at Dean's manicured fingernails uncertainly for several breaths.

Dean chuckled lightly. "I'm not going to bite, you know."

Sam's blush deepened at his social ineptitude and he placed his hand in Dean's, shaking it briefly. When he pulled away, he felt Dean's fingers trail over his palm and shivered at the almost caress-like touch. "I… uh… should be getting back to work," Sam mumbled, pushing away slightly from the balustrade.

"Stay," Dean cajoled. "I could use the company and I'm sure your break is a lot longer than five minutes."

He gave a brief nod at Dean and relaxed against the banister. Nibbling on his lower lip, Sam focused on the fountain in the center of the garden, watching the way the water sprayed into the air before raining down to the surface. Dean shifted beside him and turned, leaning his elbows on the railing and tipped his head back to gaze up at the stars.

"So when you aren't serving stuffed shirts at a party, what do you like to do, Sam?" Dean asked casually.

"Oh, this isn't my usual job," Sam protested. "I was just helping out my friend Aaron. He was short staffed and asked me to help out. I'm actually… I work for a bookstore." He'd never felt comfortable telling others that he was a professional novelist. Most people took it as him bragging, or at least he thought it seemed they did. Although Aaron would always tell him to stop being so modest and to brag all he wanted, that becoming a published author was a huge accomplishment. Sam still felt as though he was showing off when he talked about it.

Dean gave the lop-sided grin Sam was beginning to see as his signature smile. "That suits you more than this place."

Sam frowned, his brow furrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It wasn't meant as an insult," Dean assured him. "I just meant that you seem like the type who prefers more casual environments rather than all this." He gestured toward the mansion and the party inside.

Eyeing Dean, Sam debated on whether to accept the man's words at face value, but figured it wasn't worth challenging since he didn't know him well enough to be certain Dean was being rude. "And what about you? Do you prefer casual or all this?" Sam tossed back, waving his hand similarly to Dean.

Dean shrugged. "I like being where I can be myself. The only reason I attend these parties is to meet shy, handsome waiters with gorgeous brown eyes."

At first, Sam felt a warm flush race over his skin, but then he thought about Dean's words and scowled, shoving away from the rail, the happy glow gone. "You don't have to mock me."

He spun around to go back inside except Dean grabbed his wrist, stopping him. He kept his back to Dean, trying to tug his hand out of Dean's grip. "I'm sorry, Sam. I wasn't mocking you. I'm afraid my flirting skills are a bit rusty."

Sam stopped struggling and turned enough to be able to see Dean. Flirting?

"Give me another chance, please?" Dean asked softly, his grip loosening and his thumb rubbing across the smooth skin on Sam's inner wrist. "I'd like to take you to dinner."

His fear of being hurt as he had been in his last relationship kept him from accepting immediately. He'd remained single for five years because he didn't want to ever go through the same pain again. Aaron constantly told him he needed to stop letting his past keep him from finding love, but it was easier to say than do. It was kind of like when you fell off a horse and were afraid to get back on. The longer you went without returning to the saddle, the stronger the hold your fears have on you. Several breaths went by before Sam replied. "I… I don't know."

Dean straightened away from the balcony railing and leaned closer to Sam, his fingers still loosely circling Sam's wrist. "Take a chance, Sam. One date and if you aren't convinced by the end that I'm a good guy, you don't have to see me again."

Sam hesitated again and Dean reached up with his free hand to brush a strand of Sam's hair back from his face. "One dinner. That's all I'm asking."

Taking a small leap of faith, Sam decided one dinner couldn't hurt, so he said yes. One date turned into two, then three, and finally on the seventh date Sam allowed Dean to seduce him. In the last six months, they'd been doing fairly well despite the multiple times Dean cancelled one of their dates to work on a case. Sam knew Dean wanted to help people and worked hard to do so, but he couldn't deny it still stung that Dean would rather be at work than with him. This Valentine's Day ditch was the hardest of them all. Why couldn't Dean find at least a couple of hours to spend with him? Didn't he want to? Or was Dean tiring of him already?

 Sam regularly battled his fears and anxieties. His ex-boyfriend had left behind a lot of scars. Not physically, but emotionally. At the end, when the reality of how long the relationship had been dead sank in, Sam hadn't wanted to accept it at first because it would mean the three years spent together meant nothing and he'd still been desperately clinging to the hope that they could work it out. Over the course of time since the breakup, he'd come to realize just how one-sided their relationship had been; the emotional and mental abuse, the way his ex would try to change him and mold him into what he thought was acceptable, and the way he'd used him until the very end. Dean had shown him even more just how wrong everything had been.

Sighing, Sam heard his boss, Marla, come out of the back room. "What are you so mopey about?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she set a box of books on the front counter. She was one of his closest friends, right up there with Aaron, and knew him fairly well. More than once she'd helped him with his problems. When she'd found out he was seeing Dean, she'd fairly squealed in excitement and demanded all of the details. At the age of fifty-two, Marla had been married and widowed, had two adult children over the age of eighteen, and spent most of her waking hours running the bookstore. Sam had been trying to get her to go out more, to date, but she'd just laugh and say, "Sam, my late husband was the love of my life. No one will ever be able to give me back what I lost and I really don't need to go on a bunch of bad dates to tell me that."

He bent further over the counter and watched her cutting the tape on the box. "Dean's stuck on a case and won't be able to spend Valentine's Day with me."

Marla chuckled while opening the box and beginning to remove the books in it for stocking. "Child, if people only expressed their love for one another one day a year, there'd be a lot less marriages in this world. Dean loves you and that's all that matters."

Sam frowned. "He hasn't told me he loves me."

Marla stopped what she was doing and put her hand on her hip, shaking her head. "You seriously can't tell me that you haven't noticed how head over heels for you that man is, can you? I've seen the way he looks at you when he picks you up. It's like he's seeing his very first sunrise and it leaves him breathless."

Sam ducked his head bashfully for a minute before peeking up at his boss. "You really think so?"

"I know so, hon." Marla reached out and patted his hand lightly. "Tell him how you feel, Sam. You might just be surprised."

He nodded as she went back to stocking the recent shipment on the shelves. Was Marla right? Should he just tell Dean he loved him?

"It's a little slow today so we're closing up shop a bit early, hon." Marla looked at her watch. "Instead of eight, let's call it at five, okay?"


"Sure thing, Marla." Not that he had anywhere important to be.

Buy Links:
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/703779
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06X17KWG9

Find Me Here:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorjrloveless
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jrloveless
Blogger: http://jrloveless.blogspot.com/
Website: http://www.jrloveless.com

Bio
J.R. Loveless is an avid fan, reader and writer of anything pertaining to male/male romance. She started out her adventure into the genre in 2004 when she discovered the anime Loveless, a softer side of Yaoi. The moment she saw Loveless, it sucked her in and hasn’t let go since.

After Loveless, she voraciously searched for anything she could find within the anime world pertaining to Yaoi and Shounen-Ai. She found Gravitation, Princess Princess, Gakuen Heaven, Junjou Romantica and so much more. As she searched for the different animes available, she stumbled across an amazing forum that to this day she is more than ever thankful she found.

J.R. currently has several works in progress and several more ideas on the slow cooker. Ideas come to her out of the blue, a lyric in a song, a line in a movie, or just out of nowhere while she’s standing in the shower. She loves to make up her own stories, to follow her heart, and to write things her way because she loves a happy ending.

She is always thankful for all of her followers on AarinFantasy and for all of the wonderful people who read her stories. Please feel free to send her an email or to drop her a note on Facebook. She will always try to respond, even if it isn’t right away.

Crawl in Bed with Sheldon of Jambrea Gaff's Playing With Fire #mmromance #characterinterview

Crawling Into Bed With

Sheldon of Jambrea Gaff’s Playing with Fire

And a Good Book

Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton?

Silk, baby. I love silky things against my skin…

What are you wearing?

I thought this was clothing optional?

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

You aren’t on the menu? *wink*

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

*bites lip* well… I do like to play. *leans over and opens the drawer to pull out a chess set* *winks* My trunk has all the fun stuff.

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

I kick them off. It gets hot in here at night.

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

Bring them on.

What are we reading? 

We are reading about my best friend and boss Hayden McGrath and his hot man, Amos Vasquez. Playing with Fire is available at Pride Publishing and Amazon. 

EXCERPT 

“Amos Vasquez was just seated.”

“Fuck! You tell his server we’re out of barbecue.” Hayden McGrath pointed at Sheldon, his manager.

“What?” Sheldon seemed confused and Hayden didn’t blame him.

“He isn’t getting any hints as to what I’m going to be doing at the American Royal.” Hayden got out of his chair and headed to the kitchen. He needed out of the office anyway—paperwork was driving him nuts…not like he had a long way to go, as he was proving with the conversation.

“You can’t be serious. He’s eaten here before. He had your barbecue just last week.”

Hayden knew Sheldon was trying to calm him down, but it wasn’t working because the crazy train was leaving the station.

“Not the new one we’re trying out tonight.” Hayden crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hayden, the team is ready. We’ve got this. There is no need to get all…insane.” Sheldon threw his hands in the air.

It was too late. Hayden rushed out of the kitchen so he could spot where Amos had been seated. And there he was, talking to a group of guys as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Damn it, why did he have to look so good? He was tall, dark and handsome with the dark scruff around his face that had scratched when they’d kissed. The tattoo on his forearm was on display. The rest of his tats were hidden where, once upon a time, Hayden had had full access and used it to his advantage. Amos had his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, as was his usual style—something Hayden shouldn’t have even noticed. He was over the cowboy. Totally over him.

He has such nice strong hands.

But enough of that. The cowboy was probably sleeping with one of those twinks at the table. It was infuriating to see the man looking so happy. He should be sad, pining for what he could never have again.

Hayden moved through the restaurant, nodding to the few regulars until he reached the table, letting his anger burn through his system. Why did the jerk have to keep coming into his restaurant and rubbing it in his face that Amos was over him? Not that they’d really had a thing. It had been one night.

One that Hayden kept dreaming about. Repeatedly.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Hayden. I didn’t expect you to personally take our order. I’ll have some barbecued pulled pork.”

“No. You won’t. We’re out.” Hayden crossed his arms over his chest. Was denying Amos his barbecue petty? Yes, but he didn’t have any fucks left to give.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe, Hay.” Amos smirked at him.

“You don’t get to call me that, Amos.” Hayden pointed at Amos. He was doing too much of that this evening. He holstered his finger and glared instead. He knew his face had to be flushed—the curse of being a redhead.

Amos sat back in his chair. “Is that why you’re entering the open contest this year at the American Royal. Something to prove?”

Did Amos look sad? No. Hayden couldn’t think about that. They were over before they’d ever begun. He wasn’t going to be another notch on the rancher’s bedpost. Well, technically, he was a notch, but Hayden wasn’t going to let his heart go to a player.

“I don’t have anything to prove to anyone.” Hayden was firm in the belief that he should share his skills with the world, or at least those attending the American Royal.

“Then what’s the big deal about serving me some barbecue?”

“I’m not giving you an unfair advantage.” Hayden huffed.

“I thought you knew me better than that, Hayden. I’m not going to steal your recipe. It’s been a long day. I’m hungry. I don’t want any of your other fare. I enjoy your barbecue. But whatever. I’ll take what’s on special if it’s going to be that big of a deal.” Amos sighed.

Hayden hated that he sounded like a brat. He was a classically trained chef who owned his own restaurant. Someone listening to him now would never believe it.

“I’ll send your waiter over. Excuse me.”

Hayden headed back to the kitchen, Sheldon trailing behind him. He’d almost forgotten his manager had followed him out of the kitchen.

“What was all that about, Hayden?”

“I don’t fucking know. I should know better. He just gets under my skin.” Hayden headed back to his office. He didn’t work the line anymore—that’s what his head chef was for. As a matter of fact, he didn’t do a lot of cooking at all anymore and it was one of the things bugging him lately.

“Maybe you need to get laid.”

“You know, you’re one of the only people who can get away with saying things like that. And I don’t need to get laid. I need to cook. This weekend can’t come fast enough.”

“We both know the reason you entered was because you want to beat Amos. He’s placed the last couple years.”

“Well, this year, I’m placing better than him. I plan to win this thing. He’s never done that.” Hayden threw himself into the chair.

“How old are you, man?”

“Damn it. I know, I sound like a moody teen. I’ve been in a funk for months.”

“It started when—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Sheldon. Maybe I can open another restaurant. Do some more hands-on stuff, hire someone for the paperwork. It has nothing to do with that man. Nothing.”

“Fine. I won’t, but you need to get over it or fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix. I’m going to win that competition and things will be better.” Hayden fully believed his delusion of things being better, unless he was sleeping and dreaming of Amos, but he was done with that. He was going to win the American Royal and send that cowboy back to his ranch with his tail between his legs.

Find Jambrea on FACEBOOK or join her Facebook Group

Cover Reveal: Spark to the Heart (Parkerburg #4) #mmromance #newrelease #coverreveal

Good morning friends! I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to share with you today the gorgeous and sparkling new cover art Havan Fellows and I have for our latest release. We'll have excerpts, contests and a final release date coming up in the next few weeks.

Spark to the heart is the 4th book in the Parkerburg series, about a quaint little town in New England. The story delves into the past of lifelong resident Rosy, and introduces newcomer to town, Jet.



When these two meet up one summer, sparks fly and Author Service's cover captures the heat and romance perfectly!

Spark to the Heart

Parkerburg #4

Blurb:

As a misguided youth, Rosy loved being that kid in Parkerburg—you know the one that everybody swears will end up in jail or comatose—until one summer day on the back roads of town when two lives came to a screeching halt.

Thirteen years later, Rosy owns the local pub on Maple Street and makes a good show of how he's recovered from tragedy. He even convinces himself…until he meets the new man in town and realizes just how okay he isn't. With the demons of his fatal past still stalking Rosy, he has no idea how to switch from simply existing to actually living.

Angus “Jet” Manheim—famous for his smooth, sexy voice and notorious for his hard partying ways—sped through most of his adult life on stage and in the recording studio. Sober and retired to the quaint New England town of Parkerburg, Jet’s ready to slow his soundtrack…until his compelling neighbor—a grumbling, muscular mountain of a man with an odd name—ups the tempo.

Frequently absentminded, Jet finds Rosy an easy object of focus, a solid center around which Jet hopes to build a future. But retirement isn’t easy. The entertainment industry doesn’t stop knocking just because you hang a do not disturb sign.

When Rosy’s and Jet’s pasts try to harmonize with their present, they might have to decide whether the chorus is worth repeating. 

PREORDER AND PURCHASE LINKS COMING SOON. 

Publishing Updates, Fortune Cookies, Top Chef, Grr! #caffeinateme #writestuff #mmromance

Good Morning! *sips coffee* Welcome. It's a whole new world out there folks, and I do not know what to make of it. We shall see how it all goes. Work wise, it's going fairly well. Havan Fellows and i have just finished edits on Spark to the Heart, book 4 in the Parkerburg series. We have a tentative release date planned for that, on February 13th, I think. Pending cover art and proofing, look for excerpts, buy links, cover reveals and a little give away celebration right here. Soon. 

On the Story Orgy front, we've got a new project! Project Fortune Cookie is underway and I am off to a great start with a blurb and a few hundred words. I've got an iffy character name situation though, and am looking for suggestions! Look for more Fortune cookie updates and information over the next few months. Tentative completion date on that project June, with a publication goal of August. 

Also, don't miss this! Crawl in Bed is Back! Check out  Crawling Into Bed With Rio Buchanan from Killer at Christmas by Kera Faire. More interviews to follow. I've got Kimi Saunders and Haley Walsh coming up in the next few weeks. 

Enough work. So, this has been nagging at me for the last few days. Feel free not to read my pre-coffee ranting. Also, SPOILER ALERT! If you're not caught up on Top Chef read no further!

#TopChef, two weeks ago, Jamie Lynch had immunity. The judges made a huge issue about how awful his dish (Chicken satay made with peanut butter *shrug* pedestrian, but really, how bad can it be?) was, and how someone on his team was going home and it was his fault. SO he gave up his immunity- and he went home. Everyone acted so shocked, like it had never been heard of. BUT, I clearly recall at least two times when the judges indicated QUITE strongly that they felt the person with immunity should sacrifice it because their dish was the worst on the team. One was season 11 in New Orleans where Nick made corn silk birds' nests and everyone hated them. He had immunity so Stephanie went home, even though everyone loved her dish. It annoyed me then, how big a deal they made out of the fact that Nick didn't give up his immunity. The whole point of immunity is to protect a chef when they make a cooking gaffe. Take that away, and there are many chef's who wouldn't have made it to the finale.

Jamie Lynch's Side of The Story

There. I said it. *fills coffee cup* Back to regularly scheduled programming.

That's it folks, all the news that's fit to print. I'm off to put some words on the page and dinner on a plate. Or in a crockpot, for you know, dinner later.

Just a reminder that you can save 25% all Lime Time Press titles when purchasing through the Lime Time Press Payhip store by using Code: YY4QONTIU8. 

Story Orgy Presents: This Is Not About Part part 4 #mmromance #blogstory #storyorgy

Good morning friends and readers! *sips coffee* Want a weather update? Sure. It's hot. Really hot. And muggy. I won't go into details, but sweat is an issue. LOL. It's Monday today, which means that Story Orgy is back and making it's appearance. Today I have part four of my contemporary romance This Is Not About.

Today's prompt is brought to us courtesy of the fine machinations of the fabulous Em Woods, author of some of my favorite m/m romances and fellow Orgiast.

JULY 11: It Wasn’t His Mother’s Cooking

This Is Not About

Part Four

The scent was amazing, that much was true, but it wasn’t his mother’s cooking. It wasn’t anyone’s mother’s cooking. Dubiously, Drake eyed the multi-colored blobs on his plate, then raised his eyes to meet Mick’s blushing gaze. “What is this?” The blush was pretty… if unusual. Mick was an urbane, sophisticated morning talk show host, after all. He should be beyond blushing.

“It’s a new thing. All the foodies are raving about it.” Fiddling with his spoon, Mick had the grace to look away.

“You’re taste testing or something for a segment aren’t you?” Drake concluded. The contrast in their current atmosphere and the neighborhood bar they’d met at the week before couldn’t be stronger. This place just screamed trendy date night and was chock full of hipster wannabes like the tall guy who’d been at the bar with Sean. Only these hipsters didn’t set Drake’s teeth on edge, and nor did he find himself stifling misery at the reminder of Sean with another man. Maybe he was finally getting over his lost love.  

“No… not really… well… maybe. But I really did want to try it.” Mick dragged his spoon through an orange blob, and a citrussy, curry sort of smell wafted up. His lower lip stuck out in a sort of pout, as though he were disappointed in Drake’s reaction.

“It looks like garishly colored baby food.” Drake returned his attention to the blobs on his own appetizer plate, but he was uncomfortably aware of Mick across the table. His friend was dressed with a sophisticated, timeless flair that Drake never could have pulled off. The soft blue pullover matched his eyes, clung to his muscular frame, emphasizing broad shoulders and toned arms. If Drake had attempted to wear such a thing he’d have looked like a fat nerd unsuccessfully aping the styles of a previous generation… or worse yet, like a down on his luck cartoonist who shopped at the goodwill.

On Mick the look was retro-cool and sexy in a very disturbing way. He snuck another glance at Mick under his lashes. And so was that pout… the full lower lip protruded in a  tempting way, and Drake had to scoot his chair back and put some distance between them. He was tempted to do something stupid…

“It smells good.” Mick interrupted that dangerous line of thought and Drake nodded, picking up his own spoon.

“So baby food is the new thing for trend followers, huh?”

“Foodies.”

“Huh?” Drake glanced up at the unfamiliar term. Thankfully, Mick was still looking at his plate, and he’d stopped pouting, which was really good because that kiss would probably be happening if he hadn’t, and it would really suck to ruin the best friendship he’d ever had by making sexual overtures and turning everything awkward.

“The food people aren’t like the fashion people. They call themselves foodies, not trendy.” Mick glanced up and their eyes locked, and it was Drake’s turn to blush as he couldn't shake the feeling that Mick knew what he’d been thinking, about the kiss and their friendship.

“Foodies? But they’re the same. The follow food trends like they follow clothing trends. Why do they need a special name?” It was a ridiculous question, and they both knew it, but Drake couldn’t think of anything else to say, which was kind of a first. He’d never before felt the urge to fill a silence between them. Normally he and Mick could talk about anything and nothing, or sit in silence without talking at all and still be comfortable.

“Uh… Well… just to distinguish themselves from people who like Chipotle and Applebee's, I guess.”

“What’s wrong with Chipotle and-”

“Nothing. Aren’t you going to try it at least before you diss it?”

He was so hung up on the word foodie that he couldn't think for a minute why someone who supposedly knew him as well as Mick did would think he wanted to start switching burgers and beers for trendy food and call himself a foodie, when he realized that Mick was raising a spoonful of orange pulp to his mouth with a determined expression.

Drake found himself entranced, watching as the silver spoon with it’s vibrant orange blob approached then passed over the succulent glistening lower lip. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as Mick lips pursed around the spoon and closed.

His breath caught as Mick pulled, and the spoon popped, empty from his mouth.

“Uh.” He grunted. A deep ache tightened his solar plexus and he yanked his gaze away, scooping up a greenish blob off his own plate for a distraction. He shoved it in his mouth, and pretended that everything was fine. It tasted like ashes, and stuck to every part of his mouth, like a big spoonful of ash flavored peanut butter. His fingers itched to draw the  image, a leering, tongue stuck letch with big eyes popping out of his head sitting across an intimate table from handsome, oblivious man.

“Okay.” Mick’s chair scraped on the floor as he scooted it backwards. “Let’s go.”

Drake swallowed the green ashes he’d shoved in his mouth and let his spoon fall to the table. “Go?” His voice was thick and awkward in his own ears, barely audible over the sudden hammering of his heart.

“Yeah… Baby food smells great, but the texture…” Mick swiveled his head around, seeking their waiter.

“The texture-” Drake echoed, unable to resist letting his gaze wander over his friend’s figure- the tight pants he’d paired with the pull over were just as retro, and just as… captivating. Though honestly, it was the man in the pants, the lines of thigh and abs, the whole picture that appealed rather than just the fabric that clung.

“I want fried chicken and crisp cole slaw.” Mick nodded firmly, snapped his fingers at a waiter. While the waiter scurried toward them, Mick took out his wallet and dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” The obsequious voice stirred Drake from his seat.

“No. Thank you. Cancel our order, please. We’ve been called away.”

“Called away?” Drake muttered aside as he strode beside Mick out of the restaurant, a converted storefront in a strip mall. “Fried chicken was calling you?”

“Hah. I thought it was a better excuse than this food sucks. I need texture.” Mick clicked his car fobbed and a vehicle parked half way down the street purred to life, lights flicking on. “ When I’m old and toothless you can feed me mashed up pulpy stuff.” He shuddered. “What were they thinking? Why is this a thing?”

“Isn't that my line?” Drake protested, automatically swinging around to walk with Mick to his car, even though his own jeep was in the opposite direction, around the corner.

“Why should you get all the good lines?”

Mick opened the passenger side door for him, and Drake slid into the opening, pausing with one knee on the seat. “Because I’m the snarky artist in this pairing and you're the sophisticated trendsetter?”

“Artists are frequently trendsetters,” Mick pointed out as he crossed between his Audi and a Lexus parked in front of it. “I, however, am simply a trend spotter. And that is made even easier by the fact that everyone who thinks they’ve “got something” new sends an email to the station and the flunkies weed through them.”

Drake eyed his friend’s clothes, then his own Levi's and sweater, forcing himself to sneer playfully while his gut roiled. “You look like a trendy kind of guy.”

“Because I have a fabulous person called a wardrobe consultant, who according to my contract with the studio, gets to buy and coordinate all my clothes unless I am at home in the privacy of my own house. Just in case, you know, someone sees me.” Mick’s door opened, and he met Drake’s stare over the top of the car. “Get in. We can hit up a Popeye’s drive thru I know of, and go back to my place, where I can be the real me.”

Drake obeyed, silenced by the implication that he hadn’t really been hanging out with the real Mick.

Voices in Your Head? Binging, Bread Bags #writestuff #caffeinateme #amwriting

 Good Morning. *sips coffee* Coffee is the secret to adulting in our house too.  Coffee is the best part of adulting. So the heat wave is predicted to break and temperatures drop back into the 80's next week. I'm hoping that I survive that long without melting. My tomatoes are thriving, but the zucchini is looking a little wilted.

*fingers crossed*

I've been huddling inside in the air conditioning trying not to go out any more than I have too.

Which is leaving me with plenty of time to indulge in one of my favorite summertime activities, binge watching television shows. Right now, I'm up to about season 4 of the new Dr. Who. I powered through Grimm, and am awaiting season 6 with impatience. Up next I have season 3 of Marvel Agents of Shield, and I am taking recommendations for after that.

If you're a binge watcher, I highly recommend Justified and Suits, both of which are available via Amazon Prime television. I find myself on Amazon Prime as Netflix seems a bit more flaky in terms of streaming lately.

BUT... I'm also writing. Not as fast as I'd like, but at least the story is there. That's way better than last month. Still working on Parkerburg 4 with Havan Fellows. I'm not telling who the mc's are going to be, but its a fun story so far.

Then I saw this. This is about as much truth as the internet holds...
I'm a 1. Someone in my household is a 3. I know, because every time I pick up the loaf of bread, half the bread falls out and lands in the dog's water bowl.

Anyway, that gave me a chuckle, so I though I'd pass it on.





_________________________________________________________________________

Because You're You 

Can a good cop find love with a bad boy?

Devyn Strake's piercings and tats are sexy as hell, but what Sully finds really appealing, is the young father's tender care of his son.

All Romance eBooks

Story Orgy Presents: This Is Not About Part 3 #mmromance #storyorgy #prompt

Good morning friends! I have finally been inspired enough to pick up my old prompting habit again. This little snippet continues a story I began back in January. It only had two parts at that time, so this is part three. To catch you up, Drake has been pining after a break up, but his long time best friend Mick is sick of the moping. He thinks it's time for Drake to look around him and realize that love has been beside him all this time.

This Is Not About

Part 3

“Every morning…”

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Drake didn’t bother to put down his book. In all honesty, he was still a little pissed at Mick for leaving him at the restaurant the week before.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Mick yanked the chair opposite Drake, dislodging Drake’s foot from the lower chair rung.

Drake dropped The Sandman Overture to the table, narrowly missing his coffeecup. He glared at his friend. “Doesn’t look like I can stop you, does it?”

Mick’s green eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “Don’t act like a spoiled brat.”

That it of anger over being embarrassed last Friday spiked. “Fuck you.”

“You wish,” Mick retorted smoothly.

“You should be so lucky.” Drake shot back. They glared at each other for a long minute before Mick’s lips twitched. The microexpression was all it took to alter the direction of Drake’s emotion. He burst into laughter as the twitch became a grin and then a chuckle.

“Sorry.” Drake finally got control of his laughter. His stomach ached pleasantly from the laughter,and his mood was incredibly lighter. “You were right, and I didn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s fine.” Mick picked up a napkin and shook it out over his lap then flagged down the waitress. “So, you want to go out this Friday?”

It was like swallowing vodka when you thought you were drinking from a water bottle. His mind instantly went in the wrong direction. Mick was hot. So sexy.. lean, pretty, and so off limits. It took less than three seconds. Not long enough for Mick’s expression to change, not long enough for the waitress to get to the table, but long enough for Drake to picture his friend naked, get turned on and feel like a complete jerk. Then the other shoe dropped and he realized that Mick was NOT asking him on a date, but asking him if he wanted to go somewhere and hang out, like they did most Fridays. “Yeah, I’m u-” Aware of his stirring senses, he abandoned the word up and finished with “in. Maybe someplace with music.”

“Leave it to me.” Mick beamed,turning a brilliant smile on the waitress who’d finally arrived at their table. “Coffee,black please.”

“One black coffee. Can I bring you a muffin, or a plate of eggs and bacon?” The cute waitress was blatantly ogling Mick, and Drake felt embarrassed for the poor girl. He wanted to shoo her away from the table or tell her just how gay Mick was, but he couldn’t.

Mick however, it seemed was used to being stared at, and he just smiled kindly and shook his head. “Just coffee, sweetie, thanks.”

She blushed and scurried away, giggling.

Drake watched her go, turned back to Mick, who had grabbed a pen from his pocket and was writing on a napkin.

“Happens all the time.” Mick said, not looking up.

“Girls young enough to be your daughter hit on you all the time?” Drake derided. “I can imagine.”

“No.” Mick threw down the pen and pushed the napkin to the edge of the table. “People recognize me from the show all the time.”

“Oh yeah. She was eying you like a side of beef.”

“She was not.” Mick’s cheeks pinkened, and h ducked his head. “I’m gay. All of Morrisonville knows it. And she’s not young enough to be my daughter. I’m only thirty-five and my daughter is twelve.”

Drake spewed the coffee he’d just sipped. It sprayed over his plate and splattered the table. “Daughter?”

***

“Yeah. Did I forget to mention that little detail?” Mick watched Drake nearly swallow his tongue while he attempted to gather his wits. He tossed a napkin in Drake’s direction and waited while Drake mopped at the liquid he’d sprayed all over.

Finally, Drake spoke. “I have known you all our lives. In kindergarten you had a Barbie lunchbox.”

“You punched me in the nose because of that lunch box.” Mick reminded him.

“Because my dad wouldn’t let me have one. My sister Ava had one with sparkles, and sparkles were too cool.”

“My daughter went to school the first day of kindergarten with a hot wheels lunch box.”

“That’s great. But my point was, I know you. You’ve been gay since forever and everyone knew it. You do not have a daughter.”

“But I do. Want to see a picture?” He reached for his phone, where the latest pictures of Mika were stored in a separate file. “Her mother just sent these.” Without waiting for Drake’s answer, he swiped the phone on and set about finding the photos.

“Who?”

“Mika, my daughter.” Mick jerked as the phone was snatche dout of his hand. He glanced up to find Drake glowering at him. It was amusing, and yet… a little shiver went down his spine. Drake mad was seriously hot.

“Who is her mother? You’ve never dated a woman. I doubt you’ve ever even touched one, let alone impregnated one.”

“Her mother is a very nice lesbian named Gina who wanted to have a child. She lived-”

“I remember Gina. redhead, no boobs. Lived across the hall from you in that dive you used to rent.” Drake sneered, but his anger had faded, his expression confused.

Mick decided to end the joke. “I donated sperm, dumbass. She wanted someone to father a child, not a lover or a husband.”

“She sends you pictures. I suppose you split holidays like a divorced couple?”

“No,” Mick picked up the napkin and began shredding it. The talk about his daughter was all his fault, he knew that. He just had to blurt out the one big secret that he’d managed to keep from Drake all these years. Well, the second biggest secret. “I’ve never actually met her. It wasn’t a relationship. I was… down. Thought I’d never find anyone of my own, never have a chance to have kids otherwise. And we agreed, Gina and I, that she’d tell Mika who I was when she was old enough to ask.”

Drake bit his lip, eyes darkening. “She hasn’t asked?”

“She’s twelve. Barely old enough to realize that a woman can’t have a baby by herself. I’m okay with it. I didn’t bring this up to-” Every morning he woke up, wondering if today was the day he’d get the call, if today was the day he’d get to be called Dad.

“Hah! Have you seen-”

Mick held up a hand. “I have seen way more than I want to. But Mika and Gina live in the country, and she’s very sensible. Plays softball and the violin. No way is our daughter going to turn into Miley Cyrus. Speaking of… guess who not so politely canceled her appearance on Morning in America?” He deliberately changed the subject.

“There is no way you booked Miley Cyrus. Morning in America is just not…”

“Uh uh uh. We’re grabbing a bigger share of the audience all the time.”

“It’s regional.”

“It’s the age of cable, made for Netflix, and Amazon. Television as we knew it is dead my friend.” Mick drained his coffee and stood. “Besides, I hear they have a really hot, gay host.”

“I can’t believe you had a daughter and kept it from me all this time.” Drake was thumbing through the pictures he’d finally found on the phone.   There weren’t a lot, because Mick saved the rest on a thumbdrive at home, but enough. A smiling dark eyed infant, a charming five year old with one front tooth missing, hugging that Hot Wheels lunch box, and one of Mika with her violin, a mutinous frown on her piquant face.

Already he regretted the impulse to prove to his friend that Drake didn’t know everything about him. This awkward sense of exposure served him right for trying to prove there was still enough mystery between them to make a relationship interesting. “It wasn’t really my story to tell. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’d like to meet her someday.” Drake looked like the comment had surprised him as much as it had surprised Mick.

“Yeah, me too. Meanwhile, I’ll pick you up tonight, eight o’clock ok?”

Drake was chewing his lip again, a gesture that spoke to his confusion. Mick liked it. He liked that Drake was confused by him, it reassured him that he wasn’t alone in his current state. “Ok.” Drake agreed, though he sounded fairly hesitant.

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

Hank Edwards

Havan Fellows 

EM WOODS