Crawl in Bed With The Gorgeous Sue Brown

Crawling Into Bed With Sue Brown

And a Good Book

*crawls across bed* Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton?

Cotton. I’m such a boring person. As long as I don’t have to iron them.

*nods* I’m all fro not ironing. What are you wearing?

Today’s sexy pyjamas are fleecy spotty bottoms and a pale green top.

And a lovely combo it is, too. What are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight?

Lee, you know me… lovely coffee, dark chocolate and hmmm, can we have a red wine?

*sighs contentedly.* That's perfect. Coffee, chocolate and wine.  If I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find?

NOOOOOOOO!!! Step away from the drawer!

You can look under my bed though… I have my favourite books there.

*pulls hand back* Whoa.  Okay. No need to panic, I won't open the drawer.  Although before I was just asking...now I'm dying of curiosity about that drawer. Right. I can see your not budging on this one. So, onward we go. Do you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the night?

The dog hogs the bed and duvet. I sleep however he lets me.

LMAO. I hear you there. My Great Dane is exactly the same! Can I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up?

Do it, and die!

OKAY! Fine...I'll just huddle over here...maybe I can wedge my cold toes under the dog...then again...maybe not. Does he bite? What are we reading?

I think we’ll have Stolen Dreams today.

Buylink: https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/products_id/785

The outcome had been inevitable. One minute after purchasing the skinny latte, extra hot, no froth, the lady in her professional heels and custom-made silk suit wore the drink all the way down the front of her sleek lavender outfit. The cause of the catastrophe? Morgan knew of only one person who treated every arrival like an event involving doors slamming against walls. He sighed as he looked down at the script, not wanting to see what followed the screeching.

"Look at me. Look at me!"

A mezzo-soprano would have admired the woman's vocal range and volume: the clumsy attempts of her persecutor to apologize were overridden by her outraged rant. They needed a harridan like this as an extra for the film. Somewhere in the script there was a woman having an argument in the background. Perhaps Morgan could drop this lady a business card and suggest she contact the casting agents. She would be one less problem for the temperamental director to deal with.

The cause of all the kerfuffle was sounding increasingly desperate as the woman refused to be placated with offers of a fresh coffee and dry cleaning.

Morgan wasn't going to be able to ignore them for much longer. Wait for it...

"Morgan! I need help here, man!"

Pasting on a professional smile, Morgan got to his feet and made his way over to the commotion. Elroy had done an impressive job, Morgan had to admit. The front of the poor woman's pale lavender suit was completely covered by a brown stain and there was a puddle of coffee around her feet. Morgan had no doubt her fifteen hundred dollar shoes had been ruined. He fought back a smile as he recognized the make of shoe.

"Nice start to the day, Elroy," Morgan said out of the corner of his mouth.

The other man seemed to fold in on himself, the remnants of the bluster deflating as his friend took over.

"What about my suit?" The woman spied a new audience in Morgan and seemed intent on starting her theatrics all over again.

Morgan turned the full force of his smile on her. This was a patented technique to charm everyone, and Ms Coffee-covered Professional was no exception. She opened her mouth and shut it again, returning the smile with a small, if slightly strained, one of her own. Taking advantage of the sudden silence, Morgan waved to the barista behind the bar. Marco came forward with a bucket and mop to clean up the floor. The last thing MC's Coffee House needed was a lawsuit for a broken hip. As the young barista started to mop up the coffee, Morgan guided the woman farther down the counter.

"Marilyn, get the lady a fresh latte and give me some wet paper towels. Elroy will have his usual. Elroy, sit down over there."

Having given his orders, he turned to the woman, whose clothing still dripped coffee on the floor. "Ma'am, are you all right? Are you scalded anywhere?"

She shook her head and Morgan could see her working herself up to another tirade. He smiled again and she subsided, muttering to herself instead.

"Mr Lewis here," Morgan indicated Elroy, "will pay for a cab to take you home to change and for your dry cleaning. Here's Marilyn with another coffee."

"Cab's ordered, Morgan," Marco called, as he served the next customer.

She accepted the coffee with a muttered "Thanks," and took a sip.

By this time she probably needed the caffeine, Morgan thought.

Elroy was digging through his pockets, emptying out the loose change. "Morgan, man..."

Morgan suppressed a sigh. Elroy didn't have enough money for the cab and the dry cleaning. He probably didn't have enough money for the coffee and cake he was going to consume, knowing Morgan would never press his friend for money. Elroy played on being a starving actor with consummate skill. "I've got it," he said, glaring at Elroy. The man just gave an apologetic shrug. Morgan handed over a few bills to the woman, telling her to come back to the shop if she needed extra money.

"Cab's here." Marco nodded toward the door.

"Here we go." Morgan steered the woman out of the shop and into the taxi. He prayed the cab driver wasn't going to make an issue about coffee getting on his seat covers. God must have been listening to Morgan because the man merely waited to hear the woman's destination and then drove off.

Crisis averted, Morgan returned to the shop and prepared to ream out his friend for the shitty start to his day. To his surprise, Elroy was nowhere to be seen. A fresh cappuccino and mocha were sitting on Morgan's table, both drinks steaming gently, but Elroy had vanished.

"He got a call. Said he'll be back in a minute," Marco said, from his position behind the counter.

Morgan thanked him and returned to reading the script. The story was a good one; full of dark imagery that was going to test Morgan's skill as the first assistant director. He wasn't going to have much time to come down to the coffee shop over the next few months. Fortunately, the staff were used to the owner's coming and going in between films and kept the shop running smoothly. His investment in the coffee house had proved a sound one and kept him going between films. Morgan's reputation as an assistant director was growing, however, as word of his excellent work spread. He was beginning to have directors come to him, pleased to work with somebody whose skills they knew and trusted.

He looked up as someone jostled his leg. Elroy sat opposite him, picking up his cappuccino and downing a large gulp with a grateful sigh.

"Better?" Morgan asked, already knowing the answer.

"Hell, yes. God, what a start to the day. I thought that woman was never going to shut up." Elroy flopped back in the chair, his hat falling over one eye.

"You do seem to bring out the worst in women," Morgan observed.

"I have a knack," his friend agreed, completely unbothered by the observation. He closed his eyes as he sipped his coffee.

There was something wrong with Elroy. Normally Elroy would be running his mouth about the script he had read or the actress he'd had in the sack the night before. A few moments passed. Elroy slurped on his coffee and sighed.

Worrying at his bottom lip, Morgan waited to see if Elroy would speak. When he didn't, Morgan said "Elroy?" and waited for his friend to open his eyes again. "What's the matter?"

Elroy took his time answering. "Have you spoken to Tommy this morning?"

Morgan shook his head. "Tommy? No, why? Is there something wrong with him? Jase would have called me if he'd seen him."

Jase was Morgan's fiancé. Normally he would have joined Morgan at the coffee shop; but he'd had a call-back on the other side of town. Tommy, a friend of Morgan's from high school and sometime security guard, occasionally ran into Jase at the studios. His blue eyes resting on Morgan, Elroy said, "I got a call this morning from Tommy. Morgan, Shae Delamere is back in town."

Blog: http://suebrownsstories.blogspot.co.uk/

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Welcome Guest Sue Brown

I’m sitting on my sofa humming along to Hawaii Five-O.  Next to me the doggy is snoring. The kids are in bed. And I’m rambling because I have to discuss whether men can write romance.

Yes.

There we go.

Of course men can blinking well write romance. Are you insane?

Okay, well, what am I going to write for the next 450 words?

Look, if you know me at all you’ll know that I get really cheesed off when people say you can’t do something because of your gender.  Women can’t serve on the frontline, men can’t be nannies, women can’t write m/m, and men can’t write romance. It’s all tosh. Gender discrimination works both ways and it’s just as wrong whichever way it is applied.

Have you ever read something so beautiful that your heart feels like it’s been torn in two? No wait, that sounds wrong. It doesn’t sound romantic. But it was poetry to my soul. I wish I could have written it but my soul is not that romantic.

“I looked through your eyes with you, Dustin. Tried, from my

perpendicular perspective, to capture the same images you caught.

And I wondered as I looked with you, could I see from your

perspective? Could I abandon the passion that you have and still

nourish myself on the pain of that forfeiture? Could I hold my fear as

the highest of my emotions and line all others up behind it?

I could not, and when I realized that, you were gone. The cup

half empty, the croissant broken but otherwise untouched. Only the

motes showed me the trail of your passage.

And yet, here I am, still so desperately in love with you.”

I read this last night, from Listening to Dust by Brandon Shire. It is the most beautiful poetic love story. A traditional m/m romance, heck no, much more than that.

Do you think that men can’t write romance? They’ve been doing it a while.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: 
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” (Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day)

Do you still think men can’t write romance?

You see, I could talk until I’m blue in the face, but then you won’t see for yourself. Lee Brazil *Hi, Lee*, Andrew Grey, John Goode and Christopher Koehler, are guys who write gorgeous romances. The range and depth of feeling in their books makes this girl’s (what! I can be a girl) toes curl. I could pick quotes from all of their books. But then I’d be rereading their books til midnight and I want to get some sleep. Sure, men write thrillers and crime, sci-fi and fantasy. But they can write romance as well and don’t let anybody tell you any different.

Sue’s Bio: Sue Brown is owned by her dog and two children. When she isn't following their orders, she can be found at university listening to lecturers discuss long-dead theologians. In her head, however, she's plotting how to get her cowboys into bed together; she just hopes the lecturer doesn't ask her any questions.

Sue discovered M/M erotica at the time she woke up to find two men kissing on her favorite television series. The series was boring; the kissing was not. She may be late to the party, but she's made up for it since, writing fan fiction until she was brave enough to venture out into the world of original fiction.

Complete Faith: sequel to Morning Report.

For Tommy Bradley, a hand working on the Lost Cow Ranch in rural Texas, admitting his sexuality is impossible, even if his bosses, Luke and Simon, are gay—Tommy has spent his entire life hiding the truth from his homophobic parents. Then Tommy meets pastor Noah Taylor in Luke’s father’s hospital room, and his difficult secret becomes that much harder to keep.

Noah is unlike any man of God—or any man—Tommy’s ever met. For one thing, his congregation is made up primarily of GLBT individuals and their families. For another, he isn’t afraid of the attraction he feels toward Tommy, and he makes his intentions very clear. But Noah won’t hide his sexuality or his love from the world, and he won’t start a relationship with Tommy while Tommy hides his, either. Faced with the choice of losing Noah or coming out to his parents, Tommy takes his first steps out of the closet.

 But Tommy isn’t the only one facing challenges. Thanks to an outpouring of hatred from Pastor Jackson and a group of ranch owners, Noah must cope with the possible loss of his church and his livelihood.

Welcome Guest: Sue Brown

This is blog number 3 today. I’ve been working up to this. The lovely Lee (and this man is lovely) said anything as long as there was no nudity. I can do that. You don’t want to see me naked anyway. That was a joke, Lee. I’d never subject your readers to that.

Hello, my name is Sue. I want to make a confession.

I would like to be a Pollyanna. Do you all remember Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter? She was an optimistic little orphan who turns the dispirited inhabitants of a New England town into happy, shiny people after she teaches them The Glad Game, making the best of every situation. Even when she loses the use of her legs, and feels miserable (as you might in the circumstances), everyone comes to visit her and encourages her to see the best of things.

Now, unfortunately, I am no Pollyanna. I would have told them to eff off. I’m not a glass-half-empty girl. I am reasonably optimistic and I do like to see the world being happy but I’m also cynical, and always waiting for the other shoe to drop. So why am I burbling about this?

In our little world there are an awful lot of people out to damage our fragile egos. Some do it unintentionally. Betas can trample over our manuscripts with the best of intentions. The hurt of a rejected submission. That one star review that leaves you weeping in the corner and declaring war on the reviewer’s first born.

There are also the people who tell you that you shouldn’t be here in their little playground; you don’t have the anatomy, you’re not gay/straight/black/white/Bagpuss or the Muppets. Whatever reason, there is always some reason why you shouldn’t be writing.

People say these hurtful words for a number of reasons. They genuinely believe what they are saying (preserve me from certain religious leaders), some have been affected by life experiences, and some people are just genuine arseholes who like causing trouble.

We are told over and over again don’t respond. Don’t cause a confrontation. It always backfires. It does. There’s no doubt about it. I hate confrontation, yet watching it unfold over the course of the days is nauseatingly mesmerising.

So what is the point of this blog? It does have a pointy part, I promise.

Sometimes the people you hurt when you go out, righteous swords waving to tell the villain exactly what you think of him or her, are not the intended recipients. Sometimes, it’s the quiet person in the corner who needed that person, or the one who looks up to them for reasons you know nothing about. Sometimes the person that is hurt is you, because people have long, long memories.

Maybe sometimes you need to think of the nice things, the happy things, think about playing the glad game, rather than the playground bully. Pollyanna maybe have been intensely irritating but I think she had the right idea in making the world a happier place.

Author Bio: Sue Brown is owned by her dog and two children. When she isn't following their orders, she can be found at university listening to lecturers discuss long-dead theologians. In her head, however, she's plotting how to get her cowboys into bed together; she just hopes the lecturer doesn't ask her any questions.

Sue discovered M/M erotica at the time she woke up to find two men kissing on her favorite television series. The series was boring; the kissing was not. She may be late to the party, but she's made up for it since, writing fan fiction until she was brave enough to venture out into the world of original fiction.

Buy Link for Light of Day = http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2745

Excerpt for Light of Day

MAX saw Chris just before he left London. It took remarkably little time to hand in his notice and sublet his flat to one of the hotel staff. It was strictly against the terms of the lease, but Max’s landlord didn’t care as long as the rent was paid on time. He’d booked his flight to Dallas before he met Chris for coffee at their usual café. 

Chris glanced up at him from reading the newspaper as he slid into the booth they called “theirs.” The cracked and dirty plastic upholstery with the yellow foam exposed seemed almost like home away from home now. 

“Jesus, son, you look like shit.” 

“Why, thanks, Chris. You’re so good for my ego.” Max slumped down on the seat, looking for the waitress to take his order.

“He did a real number on you, didn’t he?” Chris looked angry.

Max was touched by his concern. “It was my own fault…,” he began.

He jumped as Chris slammed his fist down on the Formica table.

“Too fucking right it is! Are you a total fucking moron? What did I tell you? What were my rules? 

“‘Don’t look, don’t touch, and definitely don’t fondle the merchandise,’” Max quoted obediently.

“They were rules two, three, and four. What was rule number one?”

Max pressed his lips together. He wasn’t a fucking child, and he didn’t need to be pulled over Chris’s knee in public for a spanking.

“The first rule, Max. After the last fucking time you got yourself into this state? What was the first rule?”

“If they’ve got a dick, don’t offer them a seat in the cubbyhole.”

Chris tapped the table with his fingernail. “And what did you do?”

“Invited him into the cubbyhole.”

 “And what did he have?”

 “A big, thick dick. It was just a shame he didn’t get the chance to shove it into my cubbyhole.” Max said crudely, but he was unable to prevent the flush at the memory of exactly where he had shoved it. 

Rolling his eyes, Chris said, “And did you ask him before or after he checked in?”

Max glared at him. “It wasn’t like that. He asked for a drink.”

Chris sighed. “There’s a fucking bar, Max. Most people have a drink in the bar. You don’t have to fuck them all.”

 “I didn’t, I don’t,” Max protested. But he had. He fucked Robert ’til the man was a boneless mess beneath him. He shivered.

 “No?” Chris gave him the fish-eye. “Do you even bother to say hello? Or do you just go straight for the fucking?” His voice was rising and Max saw the couple in the next booth look over. 

 “You wanna say that slightly louder, Chris? I don’t think my mom heard you.”

 “Sorry.” But Chris didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pissed.

“Look, I’m sorry, I know I’m stupid to keep doing the same thing.”

Max stopped when his plate of eggs and bacon was put in front of him. Rosie, the elderly waitress, was the same one who had served them since they discovered the café in the railway arches.

She looked at him critically. “You look like death, luv. Been burning the candle at both ends, have we?”

He gave her a wan smile. “Something like that.”

“You need to find a nice boy of your own to settle down with,” Rosie told him.

Choking on his first mouthful of eggs, Max reached for his glass of water. Through the tears streaming from his eyes, he saw Chris cracking up.

“He’s not so good at understanding the part about finding a man of his own… Ow! Fuc….” Swallowing the curse, Chris clutched his bruised shin, newly decorated by the toe of Max’s sneakers.

Rosie patted Max on the shoulder and left them alone. 

Chris glared at Max. “That fucking hurt, dude.”

“Tough.” Max forked more eggs into his mouth. He swallowed and said, “I’m going back home.” When Chris didn’t say anything, Max looked up. “Say something.”

Shrugging, Chris pushed his empty plate away. “What is there to say? I think it’s a good thing.”

 “You do?”

 “Uh-huh. You’re fucking up here, son. Go home. Screw up over there. Your mom can look after you instead.”

“You’re all heart,” Max said drily.

Chris’s face softened. “Go home, Max. Let your momma look after you and get some perspective. You’re an intelligent guy stuck in a dead-end job. That’s why you keep doing these stupid things. Go back to school and get a real degree. Do something with your life.”

Max grinned at him. “I’m gonna miss you, y’know?”

“Gonna miss you too, fucker.” Chris sat back, letting out a satisfied belch. “I’ve been thinking of going home too. It’s time I went somewhere that can cook a steak without incinerating it.”

“Thought you hated the thought of going back to Hicksville?”

“Yeah, well, America’s a big country. One or two places are even civilized; somewhere there must be a place for me. And at least they understand what I’m saying. I get sick of having to repeat myself to these hoity-toity nonces.” 

Laughing at Chris’s appalling upper-class English accent, Max picked up his empty coffee cup and waved it at Rosie. Today was a day for changes. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

You can find Sue’s HEAs here – well, kind of HEAs: http://suebrownsstories.blogspot.com/