Showing posts with label Adult. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adult. Show all posts

June 14, 2016

Coming Soon! Excerpt & Giveaway: Heavy Hitters, Caribbean Tales #1 by Taylor V. Donovan


*Standalone Gay Romance Saga

His toughest opponent is himself.

World Boxing Champion Santino Malavé González has been fighting since he was a kid. Poverty, domestic violence, and emotional abuse were early contenders. Guilt and self-loathing were beaten into him at an impressionable age, and now machismo, an integral part of the Latino culture, rules his life. In the ring he’s undefeated. Outside the ropes life constantly hits him below the belt. It takes a sucker punch from his best friend to finally knock the denial out of him and force him to face his true nature like a real man.

A natural born entertainer, Luca Jenaro Betancur Ferrer has grown up serving God, performing, pursuing a career in music, and celebrating life among his tight-knit Catholic family under the scorching Puerto Rican sun. Singing the wrong note on stage is not a mistake the multi-platinum award-winning singer would ever allow. Falling in love with a man is not a transgression his devout family may ever accept. The ties that bind him are strong, but the pull toward his childhood best friend may just be enough to tear it all to shreds.


Anger, mistakes, bigotry, and the need to conform put up a good fight throughout their life journeys. Their religious and chauvinistic society constantly challenges their pursuit of happiness, and only time will tell if their relationship will survive the battles, or if they’ll lose each other by technical knockout.

Releasing June 24, 2016 



“Take this.” Julito handed him the other bag. “It’s your boxing gear.”

“Why’s this here and not in the shed?”

“I’ve been bagging it up every night before going to bed and putting it back in the shed before leaving for work for the last couple of weeks. I told you to put on your shoes.”

Santi obeyed immediately. “Why’d do you do that?”

“I’m ready,” Omayra said from the door, sounding scared, sad, and excited in equal parts.

“We can’t leave without Ma,” Santi repeated. “He’s hitting her because—” He felt like he was choking on his own words. His father didn’t love him. His mom was sending him away because he’d told her he liked boys. She’d failed to stand up for him… hadn’t even tried to reassure him that she’d always want him regardless of who he was. It sucked. “Mami and Papi are disappointed in me,” he forced himself to say. “All this is happening because they think I’m gay.” 

“He’s hitting Ma because he’s an abusive prick,” Omayra countered.

“I’ve got to show him I’m not gay,” Santi whispered. “This is my fault. I’ve got to do everything I can to make things right for Mami.”

“And you’ll start working on it as soon as we’re out.” Julito grabbed his keys and wallet from the milk crate that served as a bedside table and took a few towels from his bed. He looked around the room one more time before pushing Santi toward the door. “We’ve got to go.”

Only muffled noises could be heard in their parents’ bedroom when they ran out of the shack they’d called home for the past two years. That was a good sign. Papi had either passed out, or he’d calmed down.

They were soaking wet by the time they ran across the yard, got inside Julito’s old El Camino and locked the doors.

Julito pushed their bags behind the seat and started the truck. Omayra grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself, then used the other two to cover Santi and Julito before settling between them on the truck’s bench seat. Santi stared at the small, dilapidated ranch through the windshield, the rain, and the darkness of night. None of them said a word as they sped away from the house.

“Where are we going?” Omayra whispered several minutes later, taking Santi’s hand.

“’Uela Esperanza’s,” Julito said quietly as he navigated the dark curvy road down the mountain.

Omayra sniffled and wiped her face. “How will we know if Ma’s okay?”

“I have Sister Dominga’s telephone number,” Julito said. “Ma’ll go to the convent after mass on Sunday and wait for our call.” 

Santi rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

He thought about the conversation between himself and his mom. About the stupid Health class that had started this mess. About the moment his dad walked into the bedroom and about the conspiring looks he’d seen pass between Julito and their mom.

“Where’s Héctor?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“He’s living with Titi Migdalia in New York,” Julito said.

Omayra gasped. “But I thought he was still in juvie.”

“They reduced his sentence for good behavior. Papi had said he didn’t want Héctor in his house, and Ma didn’t want him to go back to that hell anyway, so she asked if I could help her buy a plane ticket for him, and I said yes.”

“How long has he been out?” Omayra asked. “Does Pa know?” 

“Six months or so, and no, that bastard doesn’t know,” Julito said with a smile. Santi’s eyes were closed, but he could hear the smile in his brother’s voice. “He’s working in Tío Tato’s bodega and going to school at night. He’s doing fine.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Omayra said with a laugh. “That’s a great opportunity for him. I hope he turns things around for himself.”

“When did you plan this?” Santi asked is a shaky voice. “When did Ma decide to get us out of the house?”

“Right after ’Uela Esperanza and Tío Miguel came to visit the last time. She talked to them. Made sure we’d have a safe place to live and a gym where you could start training again. She was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary, but she had to be ready in case—” Julito cleared his throat. “In case you turned out to be gay,” he finished in a careful tone. “She knew Pa would never leave you alone, so we came up with a plan.”

“Taunt Papi and let him think it was his idea to disown us and throw us out of the house?” Omayra snorted. “He’s an idiot, and Ma finally did something right. I wish she’d come with us, though.”

“We’ll figure a way to get her out,” Julito assured her. “Life will be different now. She found a way to give us a chance, guys. Let’s make it count.”

“I never said I am gay,” Santi pointed out. He opened his eyes and looked at his brother and sister, desperate to convince them that he wasn’t a pervert. “I’m not in love with another boy, and it isn’t my fault Papi’s hitting Ma.” He lowered his eyes and stared at the beaded bracelets he’d been squeezing in his hand the entire time. “This mess isn’t my fault…it can’t be my fault… It isn’t! I’m not gay.”

Julito clasped Santi’s shoulder and said, “I know, buddy. I know you wouldn’t let me down that way.” He patted him on the back a couple of times before focusing his attention on the road.

Omayra glared at Julito, and then kissed Santi on the cheek. “I’ll always love you, no matter what you do or who you are,” she whispered as she gave him an understanding smile. “Don’t forget that.”

Santi leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

He never let go of the bracelets or Omayra’s hand.



Taylor V. Donovan is a compulsive reader and author of gay romance and suspense. She is optimistically cynical about humanity and a lover of history, museums, and all things 80s. She shamelessly indulges in mind-numbing reality television, is crazy about fashion, and passionate about civil rights and equality for all.

When she’s not writing or making a living in the busiest city in the world, Taylor can be found raising her two daughters and their terribly misbehaved furry baby in their home.



May 20, 2016

New Release! The Doctor in Unit H, The Mockingbird Place #4 by Kris Cook



Maddox Butler

Some people say you can’t fall in love at 18. But I did. And the man of my dreams? Jaris Black. He was also 18. Our first year at medical school we moved in together. It was…perfect. Until…

I haven’t seen or talked to him in six years. But I’ve never stopped thinking about him. Jaris is a very successful doctor, which is no surprise to me. Still living in Unit H at Mockingbird Place. God, how I’ve missed him.

I won’t drag Jaris into the chaos that is my life. No. I won’t. But my mother who is dying has requested to see him. They were so close. Still are. I had to honor Mom’s wish. I called him and he’s arriving in an hour. Can I keep my feelings hidden from him? I need to, for his sake.









Though starting in straight erotic romance, Kris's total focus now is on gay romance. When asked why recently, his answer was "My muse finally came out of the closet. Isn't it about time? I’ve been out since I was twenty-five." A voracious reader, Kris loves many genres of fiction, but this writer's favorite books are romances that are edgy, sexy, with rich characters and unique challenges. Kris' influences include Anne Rice, JR Ward, Lexi Blake and Shayla Black. Last year, Kris married the love of his life Stephen.


Teasers, Excerpt & Giveaway! Chimera by Stephie Walls


I couldn’t be anything other than a romantic at heart — it’s my nature, it’s who I am. But this isn’t a typical story of traditional love. It isn’t a fairy tale. No happily ever after neatly tied up with a shiny bow. It’s a memoir of the reality left behind in the wake of grief — the desolation, the resurrection, and final culmination life offers to the fallen. 

This is a journey through love…the love of self, love of a friend, and sometimes love is ugly, messy —destructive.

My name is Bastian Thames…and this is my story.





For Magoo…

chimera [ki-meer-uh] (n) – a thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve

Chapter One

When Sylvie died, it left a hole in my being that seemed prodigious. I adorn my face with the plastic appearance people anticipate from me, but internally, I weep. Continuing through the monotonous motion of my daily life, I increasingly find myself lost in what my friends—well, those who remain—refer to as a fictional world: novels, authors, artists, musicians, and the illusion of relationships on social media. The more time I spend on Facebook, the more entrenched I become in the fiction that exists on the screen. I believe these “friends” are truly concerned for me; they’re what relationships are in reality. Sadly, these seem to be the only things keeping me hanging on, but the thread threatens to break daily, frayed from top to bottom. The tightly woven fabric that was once my life has deteriorated beyond recognition.

That’s the crux of my juxtaposition. My life had value, it had meaning. It was everything I had ever imagined it could be. But without Sylvie, black clouds roll through my mind, hindering my ability to think, eliminating productivity, and stifling my creativity. My art is as dead as I am. But online…online I can be anything I want to be, whatever version of myself I decide to show to the world. I don’t have to be the pathetic artist who lost his muse. I don’t have to be the sweet, sensitive man Sylvie loved. I don’t know whom I want to reinvent myself as, but the idea of being whatever still exists in my soul doesn’t appeal to me. My craft has become recreating my persona, anything to escape the pain, the desolation, and the solitude. Surely there’s art in recreating an identity. 

Most days, I find it difficult to even get out of bed. The colder it gets outside, the shorter the days are, the deeper I sink—sometimes only escaping the protection of my covers to take a piss or get something to eat or drink. Although frequently, I let those things go in favor of marinating in my misery. My laptop calls to me from my nightstand when the loneliness becomes too much to bear, the darkness too black to see through.

That recognizable blue-and-white screen brings me comfort, the newsfeed seemingly a link to real conversation, touching base with the people I’ve known for years—but it always introduces the possibility of newcomers. The “friend recommendation” is the online equivalent to a friend introducing you to someone new; at least it is in my mind. I always check out the recommendations. They’re often other painters or singers that might have known Sylvie—or people I barely recognize from high school or college. But every once in a while, some totally random person surfaces with no tie to my past. 

Those are the connections I find most interesting, most appealing. 

They also seem to be the safest, having no knowledge of the person I once was, or how all that remains of me is a fragmented shell. I have made several “friends” this way, people I would say I’m close to—even though we’ve never met and likely never will. Herein lies my fictional world, the one my real friends don’t understand and believe to be emotionally damaging to me. I’m not processing my grief…blah, blah, blah. If I hear that shit one more time, I may scream.

As soon as I log in, the familiar recommendations bombard me as if the universe is playing some cruel joke. There she is, my Sylvie…only her name is Sera Martin. She’s a perfect duplicate with the same striking green eyes, long chestnut-colored hair, high cheekbones, and luscious, pouty lips. 

I realize I haven’t inhaled or exhaled. 

I gasp and hold my breath until my lungs burn. I haven’t seen her in years. The day she died, I came home and stripped our house of any reminder—every picture, every video, every stitch of clothing, anything she loved. It all had to leave. I couldn’t bear the weight of what the world took from me. I imagined if I discarded everything, she wouldn’t haunt me, and maybe, somehow, I would manage to learn to live again if reminders of her didn’t surround me.

Yet, her loss possesses me daily.

This girl. This Sera. Could this be Mother Nature returning my Sylvie to me in a strange twist of fate? The notion there’s a doppelganger roaming the world has always been a thought I believe in. It’s possible after years of suffering, dying inside, barely hanging on, that my savior has come. Without hesitation, I click “add friend.” 

Sera responds to my request with a private message.

Sera: Wow! Are you really Bastian Thames?

Me: Yes. Have we met before?

Sera: Once, but I doubt you’d remember. It was at a gallery down on the West End where your work was being featured a couple years ago. Is this the real Bastian? Not some lurker claiming to be the famous artist?

Me: Far cry from famous, but yes, one and the same. Are you certain we met that night? I remember the opening and can assure you I would have remembered you. 

Sera: Yes, you were with your wife. She’s quite lovely. I’m not sure which was more beautiful, her or the nudes you had in the collection. That showing was the talk of the art community for months around here.

Me: That was the last opening I did. Seems like a lifetime ago.

Sera: Are you not painting anymore? I hate to admit that I lost track of your work when I went off to college but for years, I was a huge fan.

Me: Life happened. I haven’t painted in some time.

Sera: I can’t imagine you quit painting. Surely you just quit putting them out for the public.

Me: No. I haven’t so much as held a brush in five years. 

Sera: That’s a shame. Hey look, Bastian, I have to run out but I accepted your request. I hope maybe we can talk some later. Maybe you’ll let me pick your brain about a project I’m working on?

Me: Certainly. I hope to hear from you soon.

Sera: Bye

Me: Later

My mind races with possibilities. I immediately go to her profile to see what information I can garner on her before our next conversation—assuming one comes. Jesus, she’s twenty-five, went to the Rhode Island School of Design, graduated with her Masters in Fine Arts, and holy hell, she’s a sculptor. If these pictures are of her work, then she has phenomenal talent. Scouring her profile provides only surface-level information. There’s almost nothing personal. The pictures all seem to be with other artists or at galleries or in a studio. Moving to her wall, I find tons of posts by other local artists, memes about artwork, jokes…the proverbial Facebook bullshit. 

I almost quit scrolling when I see a post that grabs my attention. There’s a picture of two beautiful women, scantily clad, one bent over, the other yielding a paddle, and the words, “Someone’s been a bad girl.” Jesus Christ. There are one hundred forty-seven comments and two hundred fifty-three likes on the thread posted by a Maria Martin. 

I click on Maria’s name first, assuming it will be a sister or cousin, not expecting it to be her mother. Holy shit, whose mother posts this kind of profanity on their daughter’s Facebook wall? Making my way back to the thread, I find myself enthralled by the dialogue. 

It’s cheeky and playful but talk about insight. This one picture, one conversation, tells me scads about who she is personally, not about her work, but seemingly what she enjoys—intimately. Reading her responses to the comments ignites a fire in an area of my anatomy I thought had died with Sylvie. As my cock starts to twitch, that old, familiar heat seeps through my crotch. 

I stop myself, realizing I’m staring at dialogue—about a woman who could be my dead wife’s twin—between people I don’t know. It’s morbid, really. Backing out of the comments and Sera’s profile, then I set the computer aside. I don’t close the laptop for fear of missing a message from her. Lying back, I stare at the all-too-familiar ceiling. I know every blemish on the drywall with aching familiarity. There have been hours of loneliness and isolation. The depth of pain is so fathomless, I often wonder how I made it to the next day without feeling the cold steel in my hand, without pulling the trigger.




I've lived all over the country but have made Greenville, South Carolina my home for the last 20 of my 37 years. I have a serious addiction to anything Coach and would live on Starbucks if I could get away with it. If you follow me on Facebook you'll also find that I'm slightly enamored with Charlie Hunnam. I'm an avid reader (literary whore to be more precise) averaging around 300 novels a year. I have a penchant for great love stories, sensual poetry and am a romantic at heart. 
I currently work full-time in the Greenville area and fill my "extra" time with writing contemporary romance novels with a hint of erotica. I couldn't do it without the support of my family and friends who push me to keep going when I don't have the confidence or patience.



May 17, 2016

Teasers, Excerpt & Giveaway! Reign Again by Ellie Keys


Sometimes I wish it would rain.
Sometimes I wish it would pour
But most times
I just wish I could learn to soar
Learning to soar


I’ve spent most of my life living for others, guided by another and shown what “is best” for me. One morning, I decided I’d reached the end of my rope with the life I was leading. That was the morning I became Reign again.~Reign Amethyst Jeffries

Amazon | B&N | Kobo | I-Tunes | Goodreads




“I was looking for my clothes so I could make my exit. You didn’t leave that information in your note.”

His smile faltered when he looked at what was left of my dress that I’d been wearing the night before. The look he was sporting had me giggling because he looked like a little kid that figured out he shouldn’t roll his toy car in the street with other cars. Very specific example there, might want to get out a bit more, Reign.

“What was that last bit there? What specific example?”

His look and words had me realizing that I hadn’t just thought that, I’d actually spoken that aloud.

“Ha. Yeah, that was in reference to something that I was thinking, which I believed I’d said only in my head. Okay. We’re going to move passed that one. I need to get something from you.”

At his quirked eyebrow and questioning glance, I quickly corrected my statement.

“I mean, I need some clothes or pants. I can’t leave here with just this shirt.”

He gave me an appreciative once over and muttered something to himself. Was he actually attracted to me or just the fact that there was a half-naked woman in front of him? Hold on, or was he recalling something we did last night?

“Did we … did you and I have sex last night?”

My face must’ve reflected the sheer terror that I felt at the possibility that I did something that stupid. I’m a mother. I cannot have idiotic moments like that. The man is “fuck me until I don’t know my own name” hot, but I don’t have time for getting caught up in a moment.

“Relax, Reign. We didn’t do anything.”

My face fell. I was scrutinizing his features as I relaxed about the fact that we hadn’t done anything, but I needed to be sure.

“You’re sure? Nothing, absolutely nothing, happened between the two of us?”

His chest moved up and down as he released a chuckle then an exasperated sigh. His hands moved to his pockets as he responded.

“Reign, I assure you, nothing happened between us last night.”

The way he adamantly spoke told me that he was telling the truth. Now, I felt like a fool because I wanted to know why nothing happened. We were obviously attracted to one another. I mean I was checking him out and he was doing the same. Chewing the inside of my jaw, I thought about last night and tried to remember the details. I really wanted to know why we hadn’t done anything. Since we hadn’t, how in the hell did I end up in his shirt?

“Reign, I can see the cogs of that brain of yours working. There are several reasons why we didn’t do anything. For one, I prefer conscious women when engaging in sexual activity. Call me old fashioned that way. Two, I don’t make it a habit to bring women to this place. It is where I lay my head when I have to work. I left the party last night with you and brought you here. On my way here, I called a doctor friend of mine and she came to check you out. She’s the one that changed your clothes from the ones you got sick all over. FYI, you got mine as well. She helped you clean up and put you in that shirt. Third, she could barely get you out of the clothes you were in. You fought Marlena the entire time. Call me crazy, but I don’t fight women to bed them. I prefer a willing participant.” He smiled then shook his head before adding, “In the spirit of full disclosure, I rifled through your bag to find your phone so I would have your number to call the famous woman who passed out on me last night.”




Ellie Keys is an author of contemporary romance, paranormal romance and mystery. She spends a great deal of her time lending her unrelenting pen to the voices that have taken over her mind. The characters that readers will find in her works have a demanding nature. Ellie is thrilled to be able to share the stories from the wealth of works that she has created. She lives in Georgia with her son. Her loves outside of writing are reading a good book and losing herself in a great movie. Inspiration comes from everything around her. There is a great deal in store for lovers of romance and suspense seekers. She invites you to follow her via social media.

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